Spiritual Experiences

So I'm driving on I-40 today on my way back to CO and I notice an exit sign for Groom, Texas. I had never heard of this place before. Immediately after the town-exit-sign, there is a big white billboard announcing the presence of the largest cross in the northern hemisphere. The billboard invites you to exit and have a most significant "spiritual experience." The photo I've attached shows you the big cross. Well, I didn't take the exit, but I did slow enough to see a parking lot full of cars and trucks and their drivers walking around the base of the big cross in a "stations" type arrangement. Although I was quite some distance away, the best I could make out is that they were having a spiritual experience.



A little further down the road, I come upon a feed lot. This photo is not the greatest, but hey - whaddya expect at 75mph? This was a fairly significant enterprise with cows everywhere and white-pipe fencing keeping them, well, fenced in. And if you weren't certain whether or not it was feed lot, then rolling down the window would confirm your intuitions. Cows walking around, bumping into each other, probably performing cow-apologies: "Hey, I didn't see you there standing there making a cowpatty. Sorry for walking right into you." "Look, no problem. The way everybody acts 'round here, you'd think it was a feed lot or something."

These two images stayed with me for miles - the northern hemisphere's largest cross and the feed lot. One promising a spiritual experience and the other promising your cows are fed. I've gotta tell you that the feed lot won out over the big cross for sheer spiritual experience. Why? Well, I believe that anything truly spiritual, as in Jesusy-spiritual, is going to have an earthy element to it - in other words, it'll be incarnational.

The big cross was all white and purty and huge. It reached up toward the heavens and towered over all the little people at it's base having a supposed spiritual experience. It reminded me of a missle, about to take off for, well...heaven, I guess. It was so out of place along the highway there. Now sure, I believe that the cross never "fits" but this thing had no desire to fit; it was totally other by design. On the other hand, the feed lot make me think about earthy things - cows, fence, hay, feed troughs, watering tanks, and manure. It fit the landscape hand-in-glove and had no aspirations of pretense. No, this was cows, a bunch of 'em, just cowing around. Seeing those cows and smelling their aroma caused me to remember my granddad, which caused me to think about my dad, and that made me tear up and thank God for his goodness toward my life. Seeing that cross didn't make me feel any of those things. I just kept wondering how high it was and who constructed it and who would get sued should it fall over and crush those folks below having spiritual experiences. The whole thing miffed me, to say the least, because it perpetuates this crazy notion of spiritual experiences always being big and transcendent and otherworldly and nice and white. I believe most spiritual experiences take place among stinkin' cows and crying babies and struggling to pay your bills and getting teary-eyed over fireworks on the fourth of July and paying over $3 for a gallon of gas and kissing your wife goodnight and sleeping in your socks during the winter months and hugging your parents good-bye after a brief visit and kids farting in the minivan, forcing you to roll down the window and then lo and behold, you smell the feed lot and thank God your kids aren't cows. That big, shiny cross didn't make me think of any of those things.

RockTalk

After two nights in a mountain cabin, doing absolutely nothing productive, Meredith and I finished up our anniversary weekend with a hike to The Crags - it's listed as one of the top 10 hikes in Colorado. She clicked this photo of me sitting atop the trail contemplating something...probably the holiness of the rocks around me. As we went back down the trail, you could hear folks in the distance. One young man's voice was clearly heard talking about the ancient practices of the Celtic people; however, he was pronouncing it "seltic" - like that basketball team from Boston. "Yes, the Seltics even honored groves of trees as sacred and holy," he said. I about laughed up a lung. And he just kept on yapping. A few minutes later, this young linguistics professor passed us, with a wife and baby in tow, still talking. The missus was intensely plodding ahead like some Indian scout, while ole' Prof had junior in one of those nifty, seltic backpacks with a lid on the top to prevent extreme exposure to the sun above pop's head. This guy had a hiking pole in each hand and an intensity on his face that made this Anglo nervous and would probably have unsettled most Selts. The poor kid was strapped or better yet, trapped, in and had no choice but to go along and listen. Professor Druid, Mama Bustamove, and Little St. Pat strode by on a mission, single-minded and determined to reach the peak and discuss Seltic mythology along the way. I can only hope that the Prof reached the peak and sat down on the same rock I was perched on, put down his poles, told mama to let down her hair, liberated his son from pack-tivity, and shut the hell up. If the people will be quiet, the very rocks will cry out of the holiness of God. That's something even the Seltics knew.

Survival Training

I finished up Elizabeth Gilbert's The Last American Man. The main character, Eustace Conway, is this magnetic personality in buckskin and beard and muscle. He has gradually purchased over 1000 acres of pristine Appalachian forest and turned it into Turtle Island - a primitive working farm and learning environment for folks of all ages. About 90% of the people who apply for apprenticeships or intern-stints drop out. About 10% hang in there. The reason for the crazy percentages? Eustace Conway. For all of his mythic masculine stature, he's also a task-master in the truest sense of the word. There is usually one way to do things and it's Eustace's way. His justification? He's earned the right to authority - his wisdom and relationship to the land has been hard-won. And he doesn't expect anything from his workers that he doesn't expect from himself. The only problem is Eustace Conway is this archetypal man; they don't make very many like him.

One of his 10%-hang-in-there, star pupils was a kid named Christian Kaltrider. How did this kid survive? I'll let him speak:
"It was my intention to learn, and that was all. Eustace would teach me something, and I'd go off and do it. I didn't spend any time talking - just listening and watching and doing what I was told. Of course, he had control over me all the time, but I didn't let that frustrate me. I told myself, 'I am letting him have this control for the purpose of my education. And he is in control only of my education, not of my identity.' That's a subtle distinction. Are you giving yourself to Eustace, or are you letting him take you? I made the decision to give myself over as a student, and that's why my experience was so different from the experiences of many others who come here...not mindless obedience, but mindful obedience."

Did you catch that "subtle" distinction? Eustace was in control of Christian's education, but not his identity. The book's a good read, but that paragraph alone is worth the price on the cover. Letting or allowing someone to have control over you for a purpose; however, that purpose is not connected in the least to identity. About 90% of the other teens, college kids, and young adults dropped out of Eustace's program because they let him define their identity. He told most of them they sucked, they started crying, and they quickly caught the next bus home.

Identity. Hold that tightly within yourself and you can submit yourself to horrendous indignities - dumpster diving for food or picking up roadkill for dinner (such you would experience at Eustace's place). But you can keep your "self" intact. But if you hold your identity out there for someone else to define? Well, life may be nothing more than continually catching the next bus to the next place for the next person to say, "You suck." Of course, they could say, "You're the best thing since sliced bread." But the chances are just as great they'll tell you, "You suck." If you want to roll those dice thru life, go ahead. But in that game, the house usually wins. Better to nail that identity thing down. You'll be in the top 10% of the class.

Us

June 30th, 1990 - 17 years ago...

I stood at the head of the slanted line of men in black. I was clean shaven. I had a stylish haircut, long on the top and bowl-short on the sides and back. My brother was my best man and four other friends stood behind him. We were all boys. The air was heavy, the sun shone brazenly through the church windows. We had followed the old rules: Don't see the bride on wedding day. The organ music began and her maids commenced their procession down the aisle. They finally reached their appointed marks, creating a reflection of the boys on the other side. There was one empty spot at the front of the church - we were waiting for her. Her.

The white church doors opened, just like in those movies. And then she appeared, holding her daddy's arm and smiling. I had seen the dress hanging lifeless on a hangar. But now, it was full of life, her life. That tightness grabbed my throat and the eyes pooled up with tears. I couldn't help it. She looked so incredibly beautiful. And the person she wanted to stand beside on that day was me. Me.

He led her down the aisle as I will one day lead my girls. At least I hope it works out that way. He led her one last time. From now on, he was trusting me to lead her, guide her, love her in sickness and health, for richer or poorer, 'till death did us part. He joined our hands and then sat down, he took her as far as he could. It would now be up to us. Us.

Her. Me. Us. We both said, "I do" on that Arkansas afternoon. I'm pretty sure neither one of us had the foggiest idea what we were agreeing to. How can you? It's all words on such a day. Empty words. And what we agreed to was filling those empty words up, together. And how did we fill them up? With sickness (the flu, pregnancy, crutches) and health (running 5ks and organic peanut butter), with richer (glass screen doors purchased by a tax-refund) and poorer (a wooden porch swing purchased by a tax-refund), and weekend trips to B&Bs and a son and a daughter and then one more daughter, and churches and steeples and look at all the people, with cars and vans and ski trips and the fourth of July on Arkansas lakes, with disappointments and successes, with tears and anger, with risky job-quitting and dream chasing and snow and Colorado. Those and so much more are what we filled up those empty words with. Our lives. And we're not finished yet. Her. Me. Us.

Of Boxes and Circles

"The ancient people understood that our world is a circle, but we modern people have lost sight of that...Do people live in circles today? No. They live in boxes. They wake up every morning in the box of their bedroom because a box next to them started making beeping noises to tell them it was time to get up. They eat their breakfast out of a box and then throw that box away into another box. Then they leave the box where they live and get into a box with wheels and drive to work, which is just another big box broken up into lots of little cubicle boxes where a bunch of people spend their days sitting and staring at the computer boxes in front of them. When the day is over, everyone gets into the box with wheels again and goes home to their house boxes and spends the evening staring at the television boxes for entertainment. They get their music from a box, they get their food from a box, they keep their clothing in a box, they lives their lives in a box! Does that sound like anybody you know?...Break out of the box!...You don't have to live like this because people tell you it's the only way. You're not handcuffed to your culture! This is not the way humanity lived for thousands and thousands of years, and it is not the only way you can live today!"
- Eustace Conway, in Elizabeth Gilbert's the Last American Man

I had read about this book several years ago in a review in Outside magazine. It received high marks and definitely piqued my curiosity. But something happened, probably sneezed or something, and I forgot about it. I was with the kids the other night on our weekly trip to the public library. They made their selections and offered Dad (me) a few minutes to browse. I began to scan the shelves, eyeing each title and spine. And there it was - the Last American Man by Elizabeth Gilbert.

The book tells the story of Eustace Conway - he left his comfortable suburban home at seventeen and moved into the Appalachian Mountains. And he has lived there for the last twenty years, making fire with sticks, wearing clothing he makes from animal skins, and eating what he traps or catches. Animal skins? Locust and wild honey? Sounds biblically familiar. He emerges from the woods quite often to preach his gospel to schoolchildren and one of his consistent sermons concerns boxes and circles.

Challenge: Think of the boxes in your life. How many can you come up with? Handcuffed to our culture, aren't we? Repent, repent, for the kingdom is at hand. And it's not in a box.

There Are Men Too Gentle To Live Among Wolves

I was pondering a self-descriptive line to add to my blog and the line came to me - "too gentle to live among wolves." It is from one of my favorite poems by James Kavanaugh.

There are men too gentle to live among wolves
Who prey upon them with IBM eyes
And sell their hearts and guts for martinis at noon.
There are men too gentle for a savage world
Who dream instead of snow and children and Halloween
And wonder if the leaves will change their color soon.

There are men to gentle to live among wolves
Who anoint them for burial with greedy claws
And murder them for a merchant's profit and gain.
There are men too gentle for a corporate world
Who dream instead of candied apples and ferris wheels
And pause to hear the distant whistle of a train.

There are men too gentle to live among wolves
Who devour them with eager appetite and search
For other men to prey upon and suck their childhood dry.
There are men too gentle for an accountant's world
Who dream instead of Easter eggs and fragrant grass
And search for beauty in the mystery of the sky.

There are men too gentle to live among wolves
Who toss them like a lost and wounded dove.
Such gentle men are lonely in a merchant's world,
Unless they have a gentle one to love.

The Quest

(The "Difficult Splendor" thread is going off-line for a few. But it will be back...)

I wrote my dad a note on Father's Day telling him how much I love and appreciate him. I also raised a few questions in the note - not as in "please answer these and get back with me," but rather, "these are some things I wonder about, dad."

When you were 40, in those still moments of the night, when you couldn't sleep, did you -
*Toss and turn over where the money was going to come from to pay your bills? Did you want more money?

*Wrestle with being a good father and husband? What did you use to evaluate yourself in those areas?

*Consider quitting your job and taking off after some dream? Walk away from the church and raise horses?

*Ponder whether your marriage would last? Did you look across the bed and wonder who this other person was?

*Work tirelessly at something, only to see it fail? Did you shrug it off or did it paralyze you for months?

*Feel connected to your sons? Did you want to enter their world, but didn't always know how? Did they scare you?

*Dream about other lives you might have lived, had you made different decisions? Did you ever tell anybody about that?

*Notice your body growing older, thicker, slower? Did you look at boys in their 20s and wish to be young again?

*Need to ask questions about God and faith and providence and sin? And if so, did you ever ask them?

*Want to get in a fight - just to feel what it felt like?

*Wonder whether other women noticed you?

Yeah, I know - these questions say a lot more about me than they do my dad. However, unless he's some alien from another galaxy, there must be some common ground there, some flesh-and-blood feelings and questions that all men ask of themselves. There is a part of me that wishes I'd have been interested in these things in my teens or 20s. But there's no way that would have been possible - I hadn't lived long enough for those questions to have any substance. They would have been asked prematurely and the answers would have been a mere exchange of information. In your 30s, you're so damn busy with getting started with job, wife, children, car payments, mortgages, exercise, etc., that questions like these hover around you like flies, but you swat them away. Ole' rabbit from the Pooh series - "busy, busy, busy."

But things begin slowing somewhat in your 40s, on several levels, and you start really pondering things. At least I am. You've had enough time to disappoint some people, betray some friends, lose some things dear to your heart, switch jobs, sire some kiddos, and really start being married. In other words, you've got a context for questions like these - they are much more than just letters and words. They're questions, with the emphasis on "quest" - the search, the longing.

I guess a bottom-line here is that I want to know more of my dad, maybe in hopes of knowing more of me. Because as different as we are, we're not really that different. Mike and The Mechanics sing a favorite song of mine entitled "The Living Years." One line especially haunts me - "I wasn't there the morning when my father passed away. I didn't get to tell him, all the things I had to say." Dear God, I want some time with my dad. Not to tell him all the things I have to say, but to ask him a few questions and listen. And hopefully, learn. I wonder if he wants the same from me?

A Difficult Splendor (5)

We had wrangled over the issue of tent-or-no-tent in the our planning. There was a certain pull in all of us to just sleep out under the stars. If the weather decided on a storm or two, then so be it. But that pull was tempered by some experiences we'd had on several trips when we were supremely glad we'd brought a tent along. One night, back in Arkansas, we awoke to wind and rain off the charts. That night, a tent probably kept us alive. So, discretion being the better part of valor and all, we brought a tent along on our hike through the Grand Canyon.

Now when I say tent, I mean tent. This was no ultralight, one a half man bivy sack...no, this was a full-out shelter. We're not huge guys, but we are big guys. Remember that one night in Arkansas, when the tent saved our life? One of the guys had brought a two-man megazoid or something and although it provided a balm in gilead for us, it was by far the most uncomfortable half-night of my life. In fact, as soon as it stopped storming, I got the heck out of Dodge and slept out by the fire with the walking sticks and spiders. Based on that one experience, we decided to bring along a three/four man tent that would accomodate our frames and packs and egos. And we figured one of us would carry it one day, another the next, and so on and so forth. It was that "Bear one another's burdens and so fulfill the law of Christ" stuff.

Well, that tent quickly became a beast of burden. Our packs weighed in at around 50-60 pounds a piece and that's a heavy load. Add anything, and I mean anything, of substance to a back already weighted down with that kind of load and the pace slows considerably. My buddy (M) carried it in on the descent and about halfway down, his knees started giving him fits, so much so that we had to stop several times. My other buddy (R) and I looked at each other and knew that M needed some relief. His knees were not in great shape anyway and this was just the first day. So, we unstrapped the tent and R hitched that wagon to his star. And it wasn't too long on down the trail and R handed the burden to me.

I had trained for this trip - ran my four miles a day, used the off days for weight lifting, hydrated myself so my pee was clearer than sprite and had even dabbled in contemplative prayer. But when we strapped that tent to my pack, good-hella-mighty, it was like hoisting a draft horse on my shoulders. After my first step, the phrase "son-of-a-bitch" stumbled out of my mouth with perfect diction. My buddies looked over their shoulders and said, "Yep. That's what she is." And that's what she was the entire trip. The bitch.

Those psychologist-types tell us that if there's something big and hairy underneath your bed, then you should give it a name and in the process of naming it, you take some of it's power away to scare you or make you pee your jammies. We named that tent, but I swear it still stayed as big and hairy and heavy as ever before. It kept scaring us. And I, for one, probably peed my Ex Officio zip-off pants more than once while carrying the Bitch.

There's always something, huh? You plan and prepare and hydrate and center down in a Brother David Stendall Rast kind of way, and then you have to strap something extra on, something you didn't really prepare for. About all you can do, if you want to continue the hike, is cinch it down tight, mumble a few "son-of-a-bitch's" under your breath, and keep moving. We had to make our intended destination for the night because it was near the source of life in the Grand Canyon - water. If you start whinning about a bitch or a monkey or anything else on your back and stop every five minutes to rub your feet and prompt your comrades to say, "Well, bless you heart" - well, you won't make the campsite and you won't be able to replenish your water supply and you'll probably keel over in some rock formation and start singing hymns of the faith while the buzzards come and pick your heart out and you're foaming at the mouth like some rabid dog and your last moment of consciousness is seeing your lifelong buddies eyeing your toes like they're vienna sausages or something. No, we made the decision to carry the tent and a part of this journey was doing whatever it took to make it. I do know this - I couldn't have made it without my friends. Folks quote Philippians 4:13 all the blessed time, they put it on everything from flip calendars to screen savers. But very few people know that after ole' Paul said, "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me" - he added, "But I sure am thankful for your help as well." I believe Paul knew a thing or two about carrying a Bitch on his back. And he knew it's nice to have a brother to pass it off to when you just can't go another step.

A Difficult Splendor (4)

We each looked at each other, winked, and stepped over the edge. And then we saw them.

As we were just stepping over the edge, they were coming up the trail, about to finish their trek. There were five of them - one older guy (25-ish) and four jr. or senior high age boys. And they looked like hell. These boys looked like lost souls out of some modern day Dante flick, doing penance for a litany of sins. Hollow-eyed and weary, sweat-ringed and dragging their tails. I'm not sure what kind of trip they were completing. The older guy brought up the rear, doling out minimalist shouts of encouragement: "Come 'on, guys...almost there." The boys never responded.

As we passed them on the trail, our eyes met each one, but never a word was exchanged. I tried to read their eyes, much like we'd read the eyes of the rim folks. Although not for certain, my gut told me these boy-eyes were saying, "Turn back now, while there's still time. Beyond this point, all hope is lost." As I said, I don't know what kind of trip these boys were on. Were these troubled teens on an introduction to nature trip? Were they pampered rich kids sent by their parents on a toughen-'em-up weekend getaway? Were they young christians, led by their youth minister, and they'd been out communing with God? On some level, it felt like they were a combination of all of the above. Young, pampered, troubled christians, led by an older guy, with an intention on toughening them up and showing them a little of God beyond skateboard parks and the food court at the mall.

As they passed us, I wonder if they could read our eyes? Could they tell that we were a little older, pampered, troubled christians, led by an unseen force on a trip through the canyon, with the intention of finding something we felt like we were missing in our lives? I kinda doubt it. The only thing they were focused on was the rim, getting back over the top to whatever life they'd left however many days ago. There are those who hike the Grand Canyon and remain unchanged. It's just a notch on the belt, something to brag about with friends back home, as in, 'Yeah, I've done the Grand." It's a trophy, of sorts. That is the attitude of the young boy. Trophies. Whether it's canyons, deer, or girls, the goal is to conquer it and put it on the wall or joke about it in the locker room. We were a little further down the man-road; we had no desire to conquer it. We wanted this place to swallow us up, conquer us, put us on the wall, or leave traces of our lives in the rocks to whisper to future travelers.

The first mile was a winding combination of chalk-like ground and the shade of pines. A few spots of challenge every now and then. But then we were greeted with a landscape straight out of the Old Testament. Rocks and heat and lizards and sand. I fully expected a hoary John the Baptist to emerge out of the rocks and exhort us to, "Repent, for the kingdom is at hand." Our upright postures quickly lowered to a hunched-over scrambling, using hand-holds to stabilize our steps; we'd gone from hiking to boulder-hopping. We immediately felt like some prophetic angel had taken a flaming sword and shoved it into our knees.

I've mentioned that the men on this trip included myself and two friends. But I've not yet spoken about the fourth member of our team, someone/thing that began as supposed friend, but quickly turned enemy. It's name was the Bitch. And it followed us our entire trip. And it gets it's own post...

A Difficult Splendor (3)

Rim people. That’s what we called them. As we walked from the truck toward the edge, there were folks standing along the North Rim. They had no intent on going over the edge; they were content to stay on the rim, look at the grandeur and snap some photos. That’s where we felt we’d been living for some time, on the metaphorical rim - in our lives as men, in our jobs, marriages, friendships…no real challenge or risk, just a placid existence, marked by the initial twinges of Thoreau’s quiet desperation. Thanks be to God, we had the wherewithal to notice those twinges for what they were…and they scared us. Let enough of that desperation that’s quiet accumulate in your heart and you wake up one morning with clogged arteries of the soul. You can be successful, hardworking, have a great family and drive a Harley on the weekends with your buddies, but beneath that…you’re hollow…nothing inside. Death’s not far behind that, literally or figuratively.

We strode in front of a few men and received nods of affirmation…and envy. In fact, one older man spoke to us with his eyes: “Please, knock me unconscious and put me in your pack…for God’s sake, take we with you.” We quickly noticed his wife and heard her eyes: “Take your pied piper backpacks and keep movin’ boys. I know my husband has wanted to cut the bloody cord for years…but it ain’t gonna’ happen. Life’s just fine…here on the rim.” And then it was as if the man’s eyes hurriedly interrupted her: “Guys, don’t listen to her eyes…”

It reminded me of something I read concerning one Native American tribe’s insistence that after a certain age, the young men must not make eye contact with the mothers or women of that tribe. There’s just too much that can pass between the female and male eyes…there’s the mothering thing, the sexual thing…stuff that can turn a man to salt, or at least, mush. When I pulled out of my driveway to make this trip, I waved to the family, but tried to avoid the eyes of my wife. Look in her eyes too long and you’ll pull the car back in the garage, get out, and say, “Aw, I can make this trip another day.” You’ve got to remind yourself they’re in God’s hands, kiss ‘em and hug ‘em good, and then drive away. You’ll be a better man, husband, and father when you return. And she knows it. She may not like it, but she knows it. If you’re a man, then you know what I mean. If you’re a woman, then you probably don’t like it…but you know it too.

Listen to Bly on this one: "Initiation asks the son to move his love energy away from the attractive mother to the relatively unattractive serpent father. All that is ashes work. When a man enters this stage he regards Descent as a holy thing, he increases his tolerance for ashes...learns to shudder, and follows the voice of the old mole below the ground." I believe, for many men, this "initiation" happens time and again throughout life; at least, the opportunity presents itself. It's a chance to go over the rim. But you have to step away from the "attractive mother"...and that's hard. You have to regard Descent (going over the rim) as a "holy thing." We had heard the old mole calling...and so we began our Descent...

A Difficult Splendor (2)

The forest road had us in the grip of Ponderosa pines. We cranked up Van Halen’s “Jump” to inspire our approach. As we avoided washouts and fallen logs, an almost sexual longing was growing inside us to break from these trees and lay eyes on what we’d come to see. And all of a sudden, we did. The pines just stopped being there. David Lee’s voice was turned down…and then off. And the cab of the pickup might as well have held three seven year olds just walking through the gates at DisneyLand. But the mice and castles here were beyond anything Walt ever had in mind.

We parked the truck beside a line of other offroad vehicles. Their model names and accompanying decals spoke volumes – Four Runner, Cherokee, Wrangler, Black Diamond, La Sportiva, Camelback. We were here. The north rim of the Grand Canyon. A place that for months had only been a line on the map was now the ground beneath our truck. We got out and just stood there, silenced and humbled. I’ve only had a few moments like that in my life - the moment my wife-to-be stepped around the corner and I saw her in her wedding gown for the first time and the moments when I cut the umbilical cords on our three kids and released them into this world. These were liminal moments - from the Latin limin, meaning threshold; something was about to be crossed, don’t proceed too quickly, savor the time, kairos. And like those other moments, this one found me wetting myself - my cheeks, not my pants.

Months earlier the decision had been made – let’s do the Grand Canyon. We applied for the appropriate permits and began doing trail research, befriending the stair-master, and rechecking our life insurance. We had been friends for almost ten years and many of those had been filled with annual backpacking trips. We started off as novices, buying gear we didn’t need (zero degree bags in Arkansas) and living the polar opposite of the go-light principle (packs full of glass jars of Smuckers jelly). Snapshots from some of our first forays into the wild would reveal guys renting tents, not setting them up before the trip, and then learning to set them up during equivalents of the biblical flood; cotton clothes left like breadcrumbs along the trail because they were soaked and five times heavier than usual (forgive us, gods of leave no trace); and crossing mad hatter swollen rivers up to our chests while repeating the 23rd Psalm and whimpering, “Mama.” Golden days, man. Golden days.

On some subconscious level, I’m sure we were aware that our lives were about to change in some dramatic ways and we needed the EPIC trip; the one you tell you kids about at the dinner table and weep over in the wee small hours of the morning. We wanted to be alone, so we chose the north rim as our entrance point. We had no desire to hike the Bright Angel trail alongside folks in flip-flops with plaid shorts. We wanted solitude, risk, challenge; somewhere and something to taunt us with, “So you boys think you can stay on for eight seconds?”

I had been reading Edward Abbey for years and my copy of Desert Solitaire was ragged and torn. I could imagine the Grand Canyon being just the thing ole' Cactus Ed would’ve encouraged me to do, after he’d ExLaxed my beans, pushed me off a cliff or put a rattler in my sleeping bag or something. I can almost hear him preaching the gospel of…

“Cutting the bloody cord…the delirious exhilaration of independence, a rebirth backward in time and into primeval liberty, into freedom in the most simple, literal, primitive meaning of the word, the only meaning that really counts.”

That’s what we needed and wanted; at least it’s what I wanted. Cut the bloody cord.

At the time, I was the senior pastor of a Southern Baptist church. Senior at the age of thirty-three; yeah, I’m afraid I was made a king too soon. You can do it, and some guys do, but the problem is not many people trust you when you’re that age. I betcha’ Jesus had that same frustration. We had television broadcasts, screens, lights, cameras, the show and the crowd. We were the place to be in town. We had stopped wearing suits and ties and brought in drums and Braveheart clips. But Jesus was right; you can gain the whole show, yet lose your soul, not to mention your mind. I had been there almost three years and realized that someone on the chessboard couldn’t move – the king. Checkmate.

In that particular church culture, folks loved for you to talk about being “born again.” In fact, most of ‘em wanted me to talk about it even more than I did. But any talk of being reborn bloodily backwards into liberty and who-hee! there was sure to be a hush in the sanctuary as hose-n-hair ladies blushed and their husbands called an emergency committee meeting immediately after the service. The church fathers would firmly prescribe a pastoral Sabbath: “Look, Pastor, you need to de-stress, take some time off and then come back refreshed. And orthodox. Please.” Now don’t hear bashing in those words; the person who didn’t fit in the picture anymore was me, not them. I hadn’t screamed Abbey’s words aloud from the pulpit, but I’d sure felt them for months in my blood constricting wing tips. And so I figured I'd beat them to the punch; I decided to encourage myself to take a pastoral Sabbath...and I accepted my invitation. Stress, says Sam Keen, is a good indicator you’re living someone else’s life. Dear God, did I need to de-stress. A week in the Grand Canyon? Count me in! When I left I planned on "coming" back, but I knew, even then, I'd never be able to "go" back to the castle. Cut the bloody cord, indeed!

A Difficult Splendor (1)

Pilgrims take pilgrimages. Mecca. Jerusalem. Rome. These are mythic places that for centuries have been the destination of many a traveler. Their very names evoke something of the sacred. Pilgrims know that the phrase “the journey is as important as the destination” is far more than some New Age mantra; it is truth. It is a chance to be swallowed up by something bigger and more grand than yourself. Somewhat like Jonah experienced in the belly of the whale. And while you’re on it (or in it) profound changes occur. Hopefully you put away some childish things and rediscover some of the childlike. And then all of a sudden, you’re spewed back onto the dry land of normalcy to live the rest of your life with the taste of the sea on your lips and the imprint of the whale on your heart.
What is the American equivalent of Mecca? Jerusalem? Rome? My vote goes to the Grand Canyon. While a few might see it as an oversized hole in the ground, many more view it as a place of breathtaking beauty and grandeur; please remove your hiking boots, you’re on holy ground. I have read of people seeing it for the first time and being moved to tears or even kneeling to kiss the ground. I am blessed to have several best friends in my life. Two of them, and me, took a week in October of 2002 to meet the challenge of intentionally descending into the belly of the whale and having it spit us out four days later. We had tackled trails and hills before, but nothing as daunting as the Grand.
Many things were going on in our individual lives at the time. So, on some level, we knew this was a life pilgrimage; at least we do now. You see, we had to take this journey, an intentional stepping-out-of-time in order to still our hearts to find its rhythm, quiet our minds to decide what we believe and care for our souls because no one else would. We each needed to wrestle with some angels by a river somewhere and not let go until they blessed us. Or wounded us. We needed to be swallowed up by something larger than our lives. Something Grand. Somewhere Grand.
We emerged four days later. To the outside observer, we looked pretty much the same. But to someone who would take the time to pause, smell, and feel, we were radically different men than when we descended. We left some things in the canyon. We also picked some things up. When we stepped back up over the rim, some things had the clarity of the Arizona sky; I've never seen blue like that before. And some things were just beginning to struggle for life; seeds had been planted deep below. We limped back to the pickup with new names.
The title of this beginning-post is “A Difficult Splendor.” If “splendor” is a stumbling word for you, then substitute the word “grace.” There is a splendor to our lives now that did not come easy. No, it’s not some arrogant splendor. Many days it feels more like a burden than a gift. We awoke one day in our thirties and forties in a dark wood and we took the road less traveled, right over the edge. And it’s made all the difference. I may bump into my friends’ stories but I won’t tell them, except where they intersect my own. There’s enough daylight left for them to tell their stories and they’re much better weavers than me anyway. I'll conclude this one with a few words from Buechner; he sums it up well.

When we are on a journey, what is real is not so much the role we play, the mask we wear, in the place that we are leaving, and not even the roles we will soon be called on to play when we get to the place where we are going. Instead, what becomes increasingly real as we travel along is something much closer to the actual face that lies behind all the masks and that gives a kind of relative unity to all the different parts that our life demands that we play. In other words, travel can be a very unmasking experience, bringing us suddenly face to face with ourselves - as when we are gazing out of a train window at the endless line of telegraph poles whipping by, and we find that part of what we are looking at is our own reflection.
And it can be unmasking in another way too, I think, because when we are moving through that no-man’s land, that everyman’s land, between worlds, there is no one around to hold us to any particular form of conduct or even to look to us to behave in a way consistent with the way that we have usually behaved in the past. And the result of this is that to an extraordinary extent we are free to do whatever we like, and the result of this is that what you do is apt to be a more accurate definition than usual of who you really are.
-Frederick Buechner, The Magnificent Defeat

Some folks...

"That's why it doesn't often happen to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real, you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand." - The Velveteen Rabbit

"There is no greater love than this - that a man would lay down his life for his friends. You are my friends...the world will hate you...They will do all these things to you as my disciples because they do not know the one who sent me." - Jesus
John 15 (Phillips)

There will always be people who just don't understand. That sentence is hard to type because I realize it sounds awfully close to boasting and swaggering. But I type it anyway. I sat with a wise friend yesterday who said, "John, some folks just don't understand...they haven't heard the voice of love...the voice of greater love." I am thankful for this friend.

I've been wrestling with some feelings lately and I've really been trying to listen to what God has for me in those emotions. My friend's words gave some needed clarity to this angst. I've been bumping into people who just don't understand. I've felt ugly in their eyes. My life and faith these days looks, well...shabby. I feel like my hair is being loved off, figuratively speaking. In my case, I've let it grow, literally speaking. And that represents a wildness I feel God has called me to. But some folks don't like it. My eyes are dropping out. God is teaching me, forcing me somedays, to see with the eyes of my heart. And my friends, that's a different kind of seeing...or listening...same thing really. I'm loose in the joints. Kurt Vonnegut said people don't come to church to hear preachments; they come to daydream about God. You gotta be loose to daydream. None of this feels very good, but I realize it's the path of becoming Real. If that sounds boasty and swaggery, it's not meant to. Trust me, I haven't been swaggering around the last week or so; it's felt more like crawling.

The one whose love is greater is beckoning me further and further into Real. He calls me "friend" and "child" and "beloved." He also calls me "John" - which means "beloved" so that works out lovely. This may be the last post of this velveteen thread; maybe, maybe not. I've needed to be reminded by friends who understand and people who don't, that Real is letting JESUS love you for a long, long time. And that it hurts...sometimes. And that there will be days when I'll feel ugly in the eyes of others. And it's o.k. to feel that, but I must return to the truth that "these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly." Boast and Swagger Christianity (BaSC) isn't going anywhere; it's been around for a long, long time. Some folks just don't understand. But maybe, just maybe some of those folks might one day chase a rabbit, a hairy, droopy-eyed, loose-jointed, shabby-as-all-get-out rabbit. And if they do, I pray my tracks will point them to Greater Love...the one who has loved us for a long, long time. The one who makes us REAL.

It takes a long time...

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"
"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doens't often happen to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby." - The Velveteen Rabbit

"You must go on growing in me and I will grow in you...When a woman gives birth to a child, she certainly knows pain when her time comes. Yet as soon as she has given birth to the child, she no longer remembers her agony for joy that a man has been born into the world. Now you are going through pain, but I shall see you again and your hearts will thrill with joy - the joy that no one can take away from you - and on that day you will not ask me any questions." - Jesus
John 15 and 16 (Phillips)

Becoming Real takes a long time. I read an advertisement in our paper yesterday for a new church start up. A sermon series was being promoted and this was the tagline: Find your life's purpose in 30 days. 30 days? Wow. Now I'm sure that the series was four Sundays worth of scripture and reflections on focusing in on purpose and passion and other "p" words. But the way we frame thoughts like this...30 days? It speaks to our resistance to "a long time."

Boast and Swagger Christianity (BaSC) is wound up. Now there's a statement. It's diametrically opposed to "bit by bit." And I believe this one is subtle.

I was driving home last night from a gathering of friends. I feel at odds with someone who was there and I sat quietly through the entire time, not offering anything; basically, shut down. There is some anger there, but as we know, anger just means you've been hurt. As I drove home, it was amazing how the voices of "John, you should really be past this kind of thinking/behavior by now...I mean, come on, you've been doing this Jesus-thing for thirty-something years...you really should..." I hate that voice.

Allow me to be the poster child for "it takes a long time." BasC is, many times, a reaction to SHAME. That old shame pops us and says, "By now, you really should be..." You know what? I'm becoming. A work in progress. An old chunk of coal that's gonna be a diamond someday. All that stuff that country music has figured out quite well. I think it was Kierkegaard who said, "And now, by the grace of God, I will become what I am." Soren would have made a heck of a country singer. BaSC believes we've got it all figured out and we should be able to get it right and when the apostle Paul says, "I have not arrived," BaSC just smiles and keeps reading.

This Jesus-stuff is going to take a long time. Letting him love me, letting people around me love me, realizing that pain and hurt is a part of this path...that takes a while. Like waiting on a baby. Rilke said, "Gestation...everything is gestation." And Jesus, in John 15/16, says the same thing and equates the end result with the word JOY. Put Jesus and the Skin Horse together and you have JOY being defined as having your hair loved off, droopy eyes, loose joints, and an overall shabbiness to your life.

Bit by bit Christianity in a world full of express check out lines, no wait emergency rooms, instant messaging, lightning fast DSL, drive through dinner in a box...and finding your life's purpose in 30 days. "It doesn't often happen to people who break easily or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept." Following Jesus takes a courage this world knows nothing of...

Does it hurt?

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.
"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful."
- The Velveteen Rabbit

If you belonged to the world, the world would love its own. But because you do not belong to the world and I have chosen you out of it, the world will hate you...If they have persecuted me, they will persecute you as well...I am telling you this now so that your faith in me may not be shaken. They will excommunicate you from their synagogues. Yes, the time is coming when a man who kills you will think he is thereby serving God! - Jesus
John 15-16 (Phillips)

Boast and Swagger Christianity (BaSC) has a hard time admitting that sometimes...it hurts. This seems to find expression in one of two ways: 1) either it hurts but I'm going to act like it doesn't (denial) or 2) there is a way to avoid the hurt, so if I find that it hurts, then I don't have enough faith, didn't pray adequately over it, or I've stepped outside the anointing or something (some twisted form of sado-triumphalism). Take your pick and you have the same result - someone smiling and swaggering through life, while dying inside.

Jesus, and the Skin Horse, both of whom are always truthful, remind us that sometimes...it's going to hurt. Skin Horse says it in a velveteeny kind of way; Jesus, however, comes right out in his Messiah-self and says, "They're gonna hate you." And not only are they going to hate you, they'll persecute you, excommunicate you, and they might even try and kill you. Not that it's surprising or anything, but the THEY in John's verses refers to...well, who else would throw you out of the synagogue? Yep, you got it - religious, church-going, tithing, moral majority, synagogue-key-holding, fully-devoted-followers BaSC.

We act sometimes like THE WORLD is this big, scary, adulterous booger-bear we've got to watch out for. My friends, I don't think the world cares. The one's who'll hurt you are those with all the trappings of the faith..but alas, they've gotten the course before the heart. Sometimes...following Jesus...hurts. And I mean really hurts. Why can't we accept that? BaSC holds that if I can just keep all my relationships a-tip-toe, follow God's plan for my finances, raise my kids like spiritual champions, keep the needs of my wife in the front of my mind, be in my place on Sunday, give toward the new building or the new charity-for-the-year, and volunteer to bake the communion bread, then surely goodness and mercy, I ought to be able to avoid the pain of life. The rub comes when I've done all those things, kept the letter of the law, if you will, and I still get hurt...or my wife does, or my kids do, or my friend gets cancer or loses his job or loses her marriage or loses his church. Then what do you do? That's right - either "praise the blues away" or ask that million dollar question: Who sinned here, this man or his parents?

Sometimes...following Jesus...HURTS. Instead of Christ calling for the bride one of these days and finding her spotless and varicose-vein free and everything where it should be (like that pomegranated-gal in Song of Songs), I believe that the bride will come dragging down the aisle, breathless, limping, bloodied, bruised, and beaten. She'll (we'll) barely have the strength to stand on our own, but the Father will be waiting at the entry way to let us take his strong, right arm and escort us toward the Son. The bride will have persevered to the end, the bride will have long-suffered, she'll (we'll) have been persecuted because they persecuted him...the bride may look more like those folks walking around after the Battle of Agincourt than the lovely Julia Roberts.

Sometimes...following Jesus...HURTS. Sometimes, you parents will disown you; father will turn against son and mother against daughter. Sometimes, your best friend will betray you. Sometimes, you'll train up your child in the way he or she should go, and when they're old, they won't give a rat's rear about the faith of their fathers or mothers. Sometimes, your pastor will start wondering about your theology and the books you've been reading and he'll tell two friends, who'll tell two friends, and so on, and so on. Sometimes, you'll ask, seek, knock, and then ask, seek, and knock again, only to hear the chirping of crickets, see the blessing on others' lives, and get the door slammed in your face. Sometimes...following Jesus...HURTS. But these are not signs of faithlessness, or fickleness, or a willingness to have your ears tickled, or incorrect prayer-form, or any of the common BaSC responses to pain in our lives. No, these just may be signs of our belovededness...and the reality that we're becoming more and more REAL with each passing day. Why can't we just say it hurts sometimes? What can't we cry with one another and say, "Dammit - this doesn't make a lick of sense"? Why do we prefer porcelain or sterling-silver-plated crosses...to the old rugged one?

What is REAL?

"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day..."Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"
"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real." - The Velveteen Rabbit

"and every man who really loves me will himself be loved by my Father, and I too will love him and make myself known to him." - John 14 (Phillips)

It seems to me that Boast and Swagger Christianity (BaSC) is all about having "things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle." Maybe that's being a part of the next big thing or the next big buzz or being a part of a cutting-edge church plant or leading a group of the new monastics or having your books published by some underground, emergent group or being the leader of a huge denomination or being the up-and-coming voice for the new generation or doing apologetics in the worst sense of the word (using the Word as a sword, instead of a light) or having attended all the conferences put on by "whoever" and now "getting it" or doing house church and sharing common meals or being a liturgical-ancient-future person who loves candles and despises praise choruses or having fish decals on your car or ONLY listening to contemporary Christian radio or being a part of a 24/7 ministry or........the list goes on and on and on. The idea being that there's something about how I'm made or what I'm doing that makes me real, or valid, or Christian, or something.

The wisdom of Skin Horse surfaces here and reminds us that being REAL is a thing that happens to you; you don't make it happen. And this "thing" that happens to you is being loved by a child, or a parent, or a friend, or a spouse, or Jesus, for a long, long time...and then you become Real.

I believe that being REAL is letting Jesus love you for a long, long time. Not because of what you're doing for him, or what you're involved in, or for any other reason. And that, my two-or-three gathered-together readers, is why we prefer BaSc. To think that someone, especially Jesus for that matter, could or would love us just for being us is, well...unbelievable. What if it were true that the only thing Jesus wanted was to love you in this life and the next? What if he didn't want you to start churches, engage in door-to-door witnessing, write books, attend conferences, or go the church on Sundays (and Wednesday nights, for some of you)? All those things are fine and dandy and he wouldn't mind if you did them...but what if you didn't have to?
What if he just wants to love you?

Now let me throw a banana peel on the floor. What if Jesus just wants to love you and he wants to love you through other people? What if being REAL means letting other people love you for a long, long time? Do we really let our spouses love us? Do we really let our children love us? How about our friends? Parents? To really let flesh and blood love us is something we don't do very well...especially us biblely-types. John's gospel tells us that Jesus wants to make himself known to us. How does Jesus usually make himself known to you? So far, in my life, it's been by way of...people. You see, we do pretty well at loving others...but what about letting others love us? That means opening ourselves up, letting people in, allowing them to get close, sharing our hearts with them. Everyone talks about wanting that these days, but that is a narrow way...and few find it.

A Gentle Response to Boast and Swagger Christianity

Alcoholics Anonymous has a saying about getting sick and tired of being sick and tired...I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired. And so I feel I must speak. My comments are specific to what I see as passing for faith these days. I say "passes" because it seems to get by; like getting Cs instead of As.

The prevailing picture of faith nowadays seems to be Boast and Swagger. Now you might immediately think I'm talking about some power-tied, Republican, James Dobsonesque version of following Jesus; I am, but I'm not. I see it just as much in the "left" as in the "right" these days. Just who or what is this snake in the grass I'm trying to draw attention to? I'll start small and hope this post grows.

Boast and Swagger Christianity (BaSC)...makes following Jesus, what I call being REAL, difficult. I fully believe that being a disciple of Jesus, or a follower-of-the-Way, is hard...but it need not be difficult. BaSC says there is something I can do to make myself acceptable in the eyes of God. I know, I know...the BaSC horse has been beaten to death in the recent past...folks desperately running through the streets at night, carrying lanterns, breathlessly screaming no more legalism; we're free in Christ! But what started out as a filled-with-fear-and-wonder sprint has quickly slowed to a...boast and swagger - Hey, look at us...we're free in Christ...sure wish you could 'get it'...maybe you will one day...maybe.

These words from The Velveteen Rabbit - "He was wise, for he had seen a long succession of mechanical toys arrive to boast and swagger, and by-and-by break their mainsprings and pass away, and he knew that they were only toys, and would never turn into anything else."

The quote above describes Skin Horse. I'm going to try and be Skin Horse for awhile. I'm not wise, but I have seen a long succession of church folk, faith folk, faithy-church folk, and churchy-faith folk...and I've seen much boasting and swaggering over the years...but I don't and haven't seen much REAL. As this post continues, I'll draw some from John's gospel as well as the story mentioned earlier, The Velveteen Rabbit. Maybe you're sick and tired of being sick and tired too? Or maybe you just want something that's real...really real, not kinda real? Or maybe you know what I'm talking about, that Boast and Swagger stuff? And you know in your gut that it's not why Jesus did his thing, but it just seems so big and pervasive and popular. Well, come along with me and maybe we'll figure some stuff out along the way. But no boasting and swaggering allowed; the plan is to saunter - "to walk about in a leisurely manner."

Gifts of the Magi

I had appointments yesterday with three authors; some brainstorming regarding book ideas. As I drove away from the last meeting, the sensation was strong that the time spent with them was about much more than books. They brought gifts with them from afar...

Wise-man #1 reminded me how important it is to have like-minded people around you. This is not assembling a bunch of folks who think exactly the way you do; rather, it's working with and being with people who hold a certain common ground of soul. We can waste an inordinate amount of time in relationships and projects due to the reality that the like-minded aspect is missing. This was a golden gift.

Wise-man #2 reminded me of the importance of narrative. He works with students and is always watching, especially in group settings, for what keeps their heads up and alert and what causes them to immediately look for something else to do. He said, "If somebody's telling a story...they've got 'em." 'Once upon a time" still has this pied-piper power on us all. This gift had the aroma of frankincense.

Wise-man #3 reminded me that staying true to your own Jesus path will inevitably bring you into conflict with other people. We want to believe that listening to the voice of Christ will bring about a big group of folks, holding hands and humming "we shall overcome"...I'm not so sure. It's amazing how many times the phrase "and a division arose because of him" surfaces in the gospels. Listening to and then following the whispers of Jesus is not for the faint of heart - "men will hate you...and throw you out of the synagogue." A myrrh-like gift, this was.

These older souls, wise-men, postmodern magi, brought these gifts to me. I wasn't the christ-child or anything; however, I did feel like a child while with them. And I watched as "they departed into their own country another way"...

A most important work

"For what are men better than sheep or goats that nourish a blind life within the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer both for themselves and those who call them friend?"
- Tennyson, The Passing of Arthur

Last week was a doozy of a week. We had something every night of the week, I had crazy days at work, one of the girls dropped Meredith's digi-cam and broke it, we paid some bills and don't have much left over...it was a doozy. And while much of it was the regular stuff that many weeks are made of, there were certain aspects of the week that felt like outright opposition. Now I don't know what you think about that kind of talk, but 'round here, we believe there's a crafty, old sonofabitch who wants to steal, kill, and destroy...or if those three don't seem to work, he works hard to get you to lose heart...which may just be about the worst thing to happen to any of us. Anyway, several times last week, we felt like the accuser had us in the crosshairs...and while we didn't lose heart, we definitely felt it slipping through our fingers.

Fast forward to Sunday morning, as in yesterday. We walk through the heavy wooden doors of our church and the lady greeting the multitudes says to us, "I prayed for you this week." I hadn't even kicked the dust off my boots and she says, "I prayed for you this week." I listened to her greet the folks behind us and she didn't tell anybody else that she'd prayed for them...just us. About half an hour later, we're passing the peace at halftime (we're Anglicans) and one of the older ladies in our congregation walks up and says, "I don't know why, but I prayed for you this week." Now the script says you're supposed to say, "Peace be with you" during that time, but I was really glad she decided to punt the script and give me those words: "I prayed for you this week...don't know why, but I did." That was some of the best peace I'd been passed in a while.

God bless old Alfred Lord Tennyson, reminding us that the work of prayer may just be the most important thing we do in this life. Not publishing books. Not preaching participatory sermons. Not cutting a huge check for the homeless shelter to pay their rent. Not coming up with an answer to my neighbor's question about the origins of God. Not getting a spray-on tan or looking good in my butt jeans. Not getting an acceptance letter in the mail in response to my article submission. Not changing the oil in my car, the filter on my AC, and the light bulbs in the closet. Tennyson says that if we don't lift our hands in prayer for ourselves and one another, then we're no better than the sheep or the goats. We bibley-types tend to consider ourselves the sheep, in the sheep/goat division that Jesus talks about in the testament that's new. Tennyson seems to overlook those categories entirely and say, "Hey, call yourself a sheep, a goat, a shoap, or a geep; if you say you know God and you're not praying for one another, then you're really lost...as in "a blind life within the brain." I think Jesus read that in Tennyson and said, "Wow, Alfred Lord...now that's good."

When the fit was hitting the shan last week, I'm so thankful that two old ladies saw fit to lift holy hands in prayer for the Blases. They didn't know what all was going on, but they did faithfully follow a prompt from the one alongside us and remember our names to the Father, the Father who art in heaven. I don't remember what we sang Sunday morning; probably some songs with the word "praise" and "desperate" in them. I don't remember what the sermon was about; I vaguely recall some familiar phrases were repeated loudly several times and people felt compelled to say "amen" and "yes, Lord." What I do remember was a phrase...wonderful words of life spoken to a family of beggars (that's us); a phrase that lifted an ordinary morning above the routine and filled it with grace: "I prayed for you...don't know why, but I did." Those prayers from two lovely old saints may have been just the thing that kept us from losing heart. And living to type another day.

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?

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...

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…

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…

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...

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

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.

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.

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...

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?

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.

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.

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.

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!

(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.