Have a catch?

I remember that scene at the conclusion of the movie Field of Dreams where Ray and his dad finally get to go out and "have a catch." The impression of that scene is that mounds of healing will take place as a ball is thrown from son to dad and back again. With each connection of rawhide to glove, sins are forgiven, amends made, the past healed one throw at a time.

My son had a hard moment yesterday when something didn't go the way he wanted. I could describe it, but it's really his story and one day I feel he will make of himself a writer far beyond my skills, so I'll leave those details for him. But I can tell you mine.

After the incident, I couldn't find him. I went outside and he was milling around the garage, not quite sure what to do with his frustration, disappointment, even anger. Dear God, how many times have I not known what to do with those emotions; in fact, sometimes I still don't. He walked over to his baseball glove and said, "Dad, would you play catch with me?" Most questions in my life these days, I do not have answers for. That one, however, got a quick response. "Sure. Let's go."

We didn't wander out in a corn field and throw while the sun baked the side of a rustic barn and our golden hair swooshed in the wind and Randy Newman music filled the spaces between oak branches. No, we just walked out in the street and threw a ball back and forth while the sun slowly submitted to the majesty of the Front Range and our hair stuck out of caps we both had on and the soundtrack for our time was the voices of neighborhood children. "Here comes a fly ball." "O.k." "Now, a grounder." "Got it." "Keep your eyes on the target. When you look away, that's where your throw will go." "I'll try." "Great throw!" "Yeah, I think I'm getting better."

This metronomic grace of pitching and catching between a father and his son went on until dinner was ready. We went in and joined the rhythm of a domestic Saturday night. Later that evening, as I prayed over my son and kissed him goodnight, he said, "Dad?" "Yeah, bud?" "Thanks for playing catch with me. It helped me work out my stress. It's still there, but that helped alot." "You bet, man." Most days, I feel like I constantly miss the ball of fathering. But sometimes, I make a decent catch.

You know, we didn't talk about his disappointment as we threw the ball to each other. We didn't verbally process the incident, sit in a circle, hold hands or any of those things usually sought out as steps to working out your stuff. I started to tell him that it's not good for the sun to go down on your anger, but I didn't. Maybe it's not good for the sun to go down without fathers and sons "having a catch." For in this somewhat ancient and simple act, wounds are healed. Sins are forgiven, both of omission and commission. And our stress, whatever that looks or feels like, is worked out, if just a little. And we're able to return to home and family a little better, a little easier, a little more like the boys and men we hope to be. Maybe playing catch is an act of framing and building something, a structure for healing. And if we build it, grace will come.

I'm sure there's still some frustration residue from that incident which will find it's way into our day today. But the gloves are nearby...and the sun's just rising.

For my son

stay together
learn the flowers
go light
-Gary Snyder

I came home yesterday to find my son and a friend standing around their bicycles, talking and passing something between their hands. They saw me and hopped on their bikes (stay together) and rode down to the end of our street, a cul-de-sac, then off their bikes and up a lonely pine that grows there. I could see their feet scrambling up the low, squatty brances until they found a roosting spot (learn the flowers). There they sat and talked.

I went inside and my girlfriend and I prepared dinner. "Why don't you go call the boys in?" "O.k.," I said. I walked to the edge of the driveway and gave my best dad-to-son-call: "Will, come home." The boys heard me, scrambled down the tree, mounted their bikes, and rode home. As they dismounted, I noticed pocket knives in their hands (go light).

He told me later (stay together) that they were talking, looking at their knives, hanging out in the three. They also found a bottle of vodka with a little left in the bottom. "You guys didn't drink that stuff?" "No, dad. We threw the bottle down the hill." (learn the flowers)

Thanks, Lord, for my son and friends and bikes and pine trees with low branches and pocket knives. And vodka bottles that were thrown away, for now (go light). Amen.

Desert Spirituality

A good friend just gave me a copy of Carlos Carretto's Letters from the Desert. It's one of these spiritual classics that, unfortunately, I'd never heard of. Carlos was a prominent Catholic activist, who at age 44 was summoned by a voice that said,"Leave everything, come with me into the desert. I don't want your action any longer. I want your prayer, your love." This from the intro:

The heart of the Gospel, he believed, is to make of ourselves an oasis of love in whatever desert we might find ourselves.

Wish I had a dollar for every time I've found myself seeking an oasis of love instead making of myself an oasis of love. Don't get bogged down in some semantic gnat-straining; Caretto and I both agree that it's God that makes us whatever we are. The emphasis here is on being something rather than seeking something. Being love rather than always seeking love.

Adopt that shift in perspective, what Caretto calls "the heart of the Gospel," and a job that feels like a desert is not to be resigned from, but rather watered by the love of Christ flowing through me. A marriage that resembles miles and miles of burning sands is not to be run away from, but given over to a greater love, that of Christ in me or you, the hope of glory. A church experience where you're not getting anything from the sermons or music is not a reason to seek out another local expression of worship, but...

Wow. I'm not sure I even believe all that. Or maybe I do and it scares me. Maybe I feel, deep within my 40-year-old bones, that another forty-something guy found a truth in the desert of North Africa that speaks to the core of what difference the life of a thirty-something god/man, who came to a desert world and made of his life an oasis of love, really makes in my life.

I may wear my sandals today...the forecast calls for hot, desert-like temps.

The World Needs a Man's Heart

Gretel Ehrlich once described ranchers as “midwives, hunters, nurturers, providers, and conservationists all at once. What we’ve interpreted as toughness...only masks a tenderness inside.” I thought about this yesterday as I was reading yet another "man-book" proposal; what it means to be a man, etc. We usually think of ranchers or cowboys as toughness incarnate, but Ehrlich suggests a tenderness that we've seen many times, but may have been hesitant to point out.

I've followed what has been called the men's movement for quite some time now, in both the christian and secular realms. I've read the required reading texts in both. I truly believe, as one writer says, "that the world needs a man's heart." But trying to pigeon hole that heart as tough, always and forever, troubles me. The proposal I was reading was advocating a toughness that can always take the punches, anything life throws at you. Now to be fair, this "toughness" is based on a faith in God and the requisite humility before Him - but it still had the be-tough approach in perspective. And I'm afraid that's all some folks hear. And even more afraid that it's all some men hear.

The men who have influenced my life the most have been tough and tender. I just remembered that's the name of a cleaning solution my wife uses on our counter-tops to kill off germs and such. Anyway, these men have been tough as nails. I've walked with two men out of the Grand Canyon, from the river to the rim in one day, and we were all dehydrated and hallucinating (the Virgin Mary and Pat Sajack kept appearing in the rocks), but these men kept putting one foot in front of the other. And we eventually walked over the edge of the rim back to our pickup as the Virgin and Pat waved goodbye. Toughness.

One man I know would spend every summer camping in the same place on the same lake. One summer, a few years ago, someone tried to get his lake view. It came to blows. I kid you not. He called forth his inner-pugilist and boxed the other guy's nose. His opponent did get a swing in that left a black eye on him for weeks, but he didn't get his camping spot. Black and blue badge of courage. Tough. Crazy, but tough.

But these men, all of them, have a tenderness that's just as accessible and obvious as their toughness. They don't hide it or try to work it out in counseling or anything. It's part of who they are - men. Men who can put you in your place one moment and cry at a Hallmark commerical the next. Men who can get up and go to work everyday and come home and still find the strength to play Barbies in the floor with little girls. Men who can stalk an elk for hours and then, as they stand over the kill, pause and thank God and the spirit of the elk for giving himself over so that a family can have meat in the freezer for a year. Men who are quite content using a car key for a q-tip and are just as content opening the door for ladies, not in some let-me-take-the-power-position-from-you way, but in a God-made-ladies-and-I'm-thankful-as-hell-He-did-so-I-respectfully-let-you-go-first kinda way. Men who can literally scream at the way folks drive on the I-25 and men who literally cry when the pastor says, "Who gives this woman?" and he peers into his little girl's eyes and says, "Her mom and I." Then he peers into the grooms eyes with toughness. Men who can't take everything life throws at them, so they have to ask for help or depend on other people or God or both. Men like John Walton, from that beautiful tv production by Earl Hamner. Or ole' Gus, from the Lonesome Dove scriptures. Or Wendell Berry or Sam Keen or Rick Bass or William Stafford or Father Rohr. Men like Mark and Mo and Bo and Joel and Don and Tommy and Thomas and Coyle and Richard and Huey and Randy and Ron and Rob and Cory and Xan and Steve and Sam and Todd and Shawn and Robert and John and Winn and Robert and Brennan and Fil and my dad. And Jesus. And on my better days, a man like me.

We're men of our convictions, call us wrong, call us right. But we bring our better angels to everything. You may not like where we're going, but you know where we stand. Hate us if you want to, love us if you can. With thanks to T. Keith for those lyrics.

Memory

Two weeks ago now, my brother and his family made the pilgrimage out of CO to visit. We spent a few days around town and then headed for the mountains - Grand Lake, to be specific. It was a great week with a lot of memories made. Memory. Now that's a word, eh?

I heard a Jewish rabbi last week speak on memory. He stressed the point that anger keeps memory at arms length. If I'm angry, I can't remember, and if I can't remember, then I'm not grateful; a kind of cycle that works against remembrance. Based on personal experience and some reading I've done, I firmly believe that most anger in men is really sadness. One of the poets (I cannot remember his name, but I'm really not angry about it) said "you think him cold, when he is really sad" or something very close to that.

Not much to be sad about when you're in Grand Lake, CO for the week with your family and your brother and his; therefore, not alot to be angry about; therefore, lost in the dance of memory. I remember all of us squeezing into one vehicle just before dusk and heading out to see if we could spot a moose. We didn't. But on the way back into town, somebody got carsick and did what kids do when they get carsick. I had happened to throw my ultra-cool Patagonia running top in the car before we left. It was the closest thing to my wife when our youngest got sick, so in order to save the car's interior, she grabbed my shirt. It would have been a long car-ride back to TX for my brother and co. if the interior of their car had been bathed in kidthrowup. I spent the rest of the evening running my ultra-cool running top through the washing machine. Everybody laughed about it. Even me. My brother and I laughed about it quite a bit. I'll gladly trade running a little less ultra-cool for the memory of my brother and I laughing on a porch as night crept over a grand lake and aspens quaked nearby.

Maybe when our kids are older, they'll decide to get together for the summer with their cousins. And they'll sit on a porch somewhere, maybe in the mountains. And they'll say, "Hey, do you remember uncle John's pretty-boy running shirt getting hosed that night in Grand Lake?" And my youngest will say, "Yeah, I did it!" And they'll all laugh and possibly even cry a little and say, "Man, that's a great memory. Didn't we have a good time?" And they'll all say, "Yes."

By that time, I may be in assisted living quarters or something, possibly sitting in a wheelchair out on a screened-in-porch with photographs of mountains on the wall. Maybe my mind will be all but gone. But at the exact moment when those beautiful, grown children on a porch in the mountains say, "Yes," there will be a quaking of the aspen tree planted in my heart. And memory will be stirred across the miles and the old man in the wheelchair that I may be will stand and face the western skies and cry out in a most lucid voice, "Yes. I was there. I remember too." And some silly twenty-year-old assisting nurse will walk by and say, "Mr. Blase, sit back down now. Everything's o.k." And I'll defiantly refuse and keep standing, if just for a little while. Standing for me. Standing for my brother. Standing for our wives. Standing for our children. Standing for a running shirt's early demise. Standing for the absence of anger and sadness. Standing because I remember. The little nurse will walk up to me and take my hand and say, "Your wife has had her bath. She's waiting for you back in your room." And I'll sit in the chair and she'll push me back to my room. I could have rolled myself, but I don't remember the way...

The beginning of loss...

For sin had made its entrance long before the serpent spoke, long before the woman and the man had set their teeth to the pale, stringy flesh, which was, it turns out, also quite without flavor. Rather, sin had come in the midst of an evening stroll, when the woman had reached to take the man's hand and he withheld it...
Scott Cairns, "The Entrance of Sin"

I heard this poet give a reading last week. He did a fabulous job. This poem, in particular, seemed to catch my attention as he read. Yes, there was this fruity moment of transgression where the man and woman disobeyed the express intent of God. However, WHAT IF ("what if" - a very important aspect of midrash - the Jewish reading of the scriptures) "sin" was there before the apple, or whatever type of fruit it was? What if sin first slithered across the world with dew still on it in a stolen moment, when "the woman had reached out to take the man's hand and he withheld it"? That would make the apple moment just the next logical progression in a pattern of turning your back on beauty, allowing yourself to be separated from another and The Other.

As I think about the sin in my life, this seems to ring true. There are specific actions or words that one could classify as "sin-full," but they are usually a result of some prior turning away, either from God, someone, or even myself. Withholding. And a taste of withholding leaves you wanting more, and a little more, and so on and so on. And eventually, I find myself in a position to speak harsh words or entertain violent thoughts or indulge in self-hatred; these are but the fruits of a tree called death.

The poem concludes with these lines:
The beginning of loss was this: every time some manner of beauty was offered and declined,
the subsequent isolation each conceived was irresistible.

Dear God, how many times is beauty offered to me and I decline? How many opportunities are there in a day when someone makes eye contact with me, searching for someone just to notice them? How many moments when those I love most reach out to me and I pull away, not having time or the desire or both? How many seconds tick away when my children say, "Dad, play with us" and I withhhold myself from them because of work or weariness? How many fractions of moments of facets of seconds when my wife seeks to share her heart with me and I go quiet, declining her beauty and the possibility of communion? Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I have withheld my love, my affections, my touch, my attention, my forgiveness, my smile, my affirmation...myself.

We keep focusing on the fruit, when the problem is with the root. So, my two or three gathered at the Shame, when beauty is offered to you this week, don't decline. Don't withhold. Don't turn away. Resist the irresistible seed of isolation. For once the seed is planted and watered, sin comes forth. And death and hell follows. We have focused so much on saying "no" to the things of this world, that we've declined to say "yes" to the beauty of this world. Repent and turn while there's still time.

Like a country song...

I just returned from a week in Santa Fe, NM, where I attended the Glen Workshop. It's an artists conf. put on by Image magazine - big faith and arts shindig at St. John's College. I submitted a fiction piece and had it workshopped by other fiction writers and our teacher for the week, a fiction writing prof from LSU. They liked my work and my prof said it read like a country song. Dang.

Thursday afternoon, I headed out to Christ in the Desert monastery to tour the place and hopefully, to sit with the monks in one of their services. My compadre, Rich, had been there for a week not long ago, so he was the perfect tour guide. We arrived a little early and so we had time to enter the chapel before service time. The crucifix (shown above) was on the stark wall and I spent a good deal of time reflecting on it. The monks came in a little later (Sext) and each bowed before the cross and took their seats. Some did so very respectfully, while others seemed annoyed to have to stop what they were doing to "come to church." I liked that. If they'd all come in there with angelic smiles on their faces and took their sweet monkish time bowing before the Lord, I would have felt less than, like these were otherworldly creatures, they in their monk's habits and I in my cowboy boots. But no, they are men, as I am; men full of charity and humility and impatience and greed and lust, as I am. We stopped in the middle of that day and focused on this man of sorrows and what he means to our lives, whether in the desert or in the suburbs. We paused and cried out to him for strength and courage in the face of noontide demons. We took a few moments from the normal rhythm of work and fiction writing and aligned ourselves with saints all over the world and even over time (I believe) and added our voices to the chorus of others saying the psalms of King David.

A young nervous moving monk rose and rapidly rang the bell, ending the service. He seemed particularly eager to get back to whatever or wherever. At first, I thought he might have been in his cell, translating scripture, pouring over Romans or something, but then I thought, maybe he had to pee. Maybe he sat through Sext, focusing on the Lord and saying the prayers, but beneath those routine movements lay his real prayer: "God of heaven and earth, the earth is full of your glory and my bladder is full as well. Forgive me for I am about to be on ringing that bell like ducks on a junebug. But Lord, I gotta go." I liked that thought. It kinda sounded like a country song.

God in the InBox

"Miracles do happen."

Opening line of an email I received this morning. It was a correspondence from a wonderful friend who does a horrible job at writing. I am usually the initiator and he responds, but this time, this day, a miracle happened - and he wrote first. It was truly a gift to hear from him. I miss him so. If you don't really appreciate the use of the word "miracle" for this experience, then fine. I understand the need to keep the word pure. But this time, this day, I'm o.k. calling his note miraculous.

I guess the miraculous thing about it is that he was thinking about me. He's halfway around the world on a vision-quest of sorts. Much has and is going on in his life, his work, his marriage. There is much he has to sort through and wrestle with and figure out and talk over before he comes "home." So, for me to cross his mind and then for him to act on that prompting by writing a note? Miracle.

God's got a lot going on too. He's all over the world, and in it, and through it. Much is going on. Wars and rumors of wars. President Bush has got colon tests. The Harry Potter book is out. Missionaries held hostage over there. School'll be starting soon. My vision of God is not one of a nervous Nellie, though; wringing his eternal hands in anxiety over all that's to be done. I really believe he's in charge - pulling the wagon (E. Peterson). But in all of that, he's thinking about me. What is man (John) that you are mindful of him? It's a day that I feel very small in the scheme of things; humbled, if you will. But God has me on his mind. I've wondered lately if he remembered me. And he sees me. It's felt like his face has been hidden a little. And he knows. And he cares. He prompted me with that truth by way of a friend's email this morning. I'm not planning on walking on water today, but I'll leave the house shortly walking on air. The medium for the miracle concerns me not. Just that it happens. Today, this is my story, this is my song.

OUR Father...

Our Father who is always near, Emmanuel - God with us,
Hallowed/Holy/Healing is Your name.
Your kingdom come, Your will be done
Here on earth, in our lives, in my life, as in heaven.
Give us bread for the day. And the eyes to see it and the courage to take and eat.
Forgive us our sins as we forgive those who have, are, and will sin against us.
Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from the one who seeks to steal, kill, and destroy.
Your's is the kingdom and the power and the glory, forever and ever.
Amen.

If you've ever wondered what you were signing up for in this thing called the Christian life, well, there it is. The Lord's Prayer. The disciples said, "Lord, teach us to pray," which really means, "Lord, teach us to live." And Jesus responds with these words. I believe Jesus said, "Huddle up, boys. Here's what the journey into God is. This doesn't cover all the details of the trip, but it gives you a framework for what "following Me" is going to look like. Can you pray it? Can you live it?"

The very first word in Jesus’ prayer is OUR - that little three letter word that always filled that lower spot on the right-hand side of the grammar grid we learned in school. There is me, my, and mine and then there is we, us and our. The kingdom life is an invitation to a journey among plurals – OUR.

Jesus has no interest in a single man; he wants men and women and boys and girls and uncles and cousins and engineers and dental assistants and Harry Potter fans and people who still love the Dixie Chicks. His choosing of the disciples is illustrative of this. He needed Peter, who would display rock-like faith, the kind you build churches on. He also displayed a cowardice that would have to later be redeemed by taking up the bucket and feeding the sheep. Jesus wanted John, who would one day care for the heart-broken mother of God. But a sweet, almost feminine John this was not; no, he and his brother were known as "sons of thunder" for a reason. Jesus desired Thomas, whose eyes would see the wounds and hand would touch the pierced side of the risen Lord. Thomas, usually looked down on as a "doubter" but who actually stood with a courage most of us covet: "Show me." You cannot get past the first word in Christ’s prayer without being clearly notified that the Christian life is an our/we/us adventure. Any view to the contrary reveals that we may be praying a prayer, but it’s not the Lord’s; we may be living some version of religion, but it’s not the Christ-life. And it won't be a group of sinless, smiling folks singing praise choruses. No, it'll look more like the vanload in Little Miss Sunshine.

True, there are some moments when we'll make solo jaunts. And those are necessary. But the journey is we/us/our...

Thoughts

I contacted a mentor of mine the other day. We hadn't talked in over a year. He responded and informed me that he lost his wife to ovarian cancer three months ago. She was 58. She had been sick for some time and about a year ago, they began asking God to let her live until this spring so she could see her daughter graduate from college. This humble, strong, godly, loving mother missed her little girl's graduation by a month. Instead of accepting her diploma and running into her mother's arms, this young lady clutched a photograph of "mom." A picture may be worth a thousand words, but it doesn't hold a candle to a hug from the one who birthed you into this world.

My mentor friend has been writing through his grief. I read some of his notes today and was deeply moved by the depth of his emotional honesty in the presence of God and the assembled witnesses. Some of his friends are concerned about him. They're wondering if he's really doing o.k. And they're unsettled by some of his questions and feelings. He just misses the rose of his heart like the dickens.

I've been reading a host of book proposals these days. Many of them have to do with the church. How the church is screwed up. How the church is consumer driven. How the church has hijacked Jesus and missed his core message, substituting it with some kind of something else. How Western Christians are self-absorbed and shallow. Most of these accusations are fair. I'm not the biggest fan of church these days either. But I find myself put off by these proposals. Maybe I'm getting older and crankier. Maybe. But it seems to me that the work of helping one another be born, grow, live and die is the stuff that life is made of. And when some of that "stuff" goes south, as in a 58-year-old mom missing her daughter's college graduation, we're there to sit and listen and cry and groan and pray and hope and trust and cry a little more. And not be unsettled by questions or doubts or if someone is o.k. If I can find someone to do that with, I'm not sure I give a flying fig whether they're consumer driven or not. Or if they've got all their theological ducks in a row or not. Or if they're a little self-absorbed. Just a little.

The point is that the church is screwed up, always has been. It's made up of flesh and blood who live in a screwed up world. Flesh and blood who keep coming together on some level to look to the skies for The Day; the time when he will come again and reunite daughters who graduated and mothers who died. And sons and fathers and friends and mentors. And he will wipe away all tears. The shallow ones and the deep ones. And on that day we will see him as he is. We see through a glass darkly now; we've always hijacked the holy one. But on that day, the brilliance of his glory will set us aright. Until then, we groan. And go on to graduate school with mom's photo in our hands. And go to bed alone on a mattress made for two. And wait for him.

Multiple Conversion Personality

"The last experience of God is frequently the greatest obstacle to the next experience of God. We make an absolute out of it and use it to strengthen our ego, to self-aggrandize and self-congratulate. Then, of course, nothing more happens. That's why Jesus repeats the admonition to conversion. We need to be converted again and again. We aren't born again. We are born again and again and again." - Richard Rohr

I grew up in a faith tradition that stressed the doctrine of "once saved, always saved." The core of that doctrine emphasizes the trusting stance that Jesus' grip on me is stronger than my grip on him. But I now see this doctrine as possibly being an impediment to my spiritual growth. "Impediment" - good grief, who uses that word? I now see this as possibly screwing up my journey to God. If I've done it once, then I'm good - right? Or could I need to be, as Rohr suggests, saved again?

I also grew up in a tradition that stressed the rehearsal of one's testimony, that place and time when you met the Lord. And, if you were a reprobate prior to that, you would share the pit out of which Jesus pulled you. I was six when Jesus whispered my name. Wetting my pants every once in a while was my only vice. I still believe holding onto that spot and minute to be a beneficial thing; a landmark of sorts. However, I also now see it as keeping God boxed into whatever form it was when I first experienced him. If I'm always trying to get back that lovin' feeling, I'm cutting myself off from the other feelings that God wants to introduce or convert me to. How about that suffering feeling? Or that liberated feeling? There's always that gratitude feeling and that hot-blooded feeling and that scared-to-death feeling...

I used to look down on folks who were constantly going down the aisle and getting saved again. And again. And again. Couldn't they get it right, just believe and move on? I'm sorry for those feelings. I now wonder if those multiple-conversion-personalities might not have had it right? Maybe they kept bumping into new experiences of or with God and they wanted everyone to know about it. I used to think their testimonies shallow and flighty. I now see that they were really deep and wide. Deep and wide. Unless you're born again...

Where I've Been and What I've Seen

I just returned from the International Christian Retailing Show (ICRS) in Atlanta, GA. It's an annual event where the entire spectrum of christian wares are peddled. Everything from the latest book by that grinning preacher from Houston to socks and ties with Hebrew writing on them to something called "the oil of gladness" in Alice-in-Wonderland bottles. I kept thinking that Jesus would storm in at any moment, knock all the oil of gladness onto the floor, and cry out, "A house of prayer is what my Father had in mind!" But Jesus never showed. Maybe he was waiting for me to do it.

I don't ever want to poopoo on something that Jesus might use to awaken someone to the beautiful light of grace. But venues like that make me nervous; something about that just isn't right.

I did have two wonderful experiences which actually took place before the ICRS began. Sunday afternoon was spent listening to and riding back to the airport with Brennan Manning. The ragamuffin did a stellar job of taking oil-of-gladness theology and pouring it down the drain. If you've never heard Brennan speak, you've missed out. He hands out grace, pure and simple. And you can either drink it down straight or cross your arms and huff. The room I was in drank it down straight. After the event, I escorted him back to the airport in a limo - with the Lord as my witness, a limo. A coupla' boys that Jesus loves to pieces, riding in a big shiny grace tank complete with leather seats and surround sound, just soaking in the mercy.

Later that evening, I shared a meal with Robert Benson. I had seen where Robert was going to do some signing at the ICRS and so I wrote and invited him to dinner. He wrote back and said, "Love to." And so we did. I immediately felt affection for this man due to his wiry beard and pony-tailed hair. It just got better from there. We talked of books and food and kids and Buechner and lovely wives and idiots who think they can write books on raising children. We dined at the South City Kitchen in Atlanta. If you ever have the opportunity to eat there, please do. It was splendid. I'm pretty sure Robert and I were suckled by the same she-wolf and separated soon after birth. It's good to be reunited to family.

The other experience I'll share happened on the last day of the ICRS. I don't know that it was wonderful, but it definitely made me stop and think. We were meeting in the Georgia Convention Center. As I walked into the building on Wednesday, I immediately noticed people who did not look like ICRS-ers. ICRS-ers, well, let me describe the men at least. The males either had on suits and ties (with Hebrew writing on them) or they had on those starched camp shirts, untucked and accompanied by pleated khakis with nifty leather shoes. Conformity with a capital C. The people I saw on Wednesday did not conform to those dress codes. These men, women and children had on all the trappings of the Middle East. Oh, there were a few suits to be seen, but most everyone had on beautiful robes and headwear. Their skin was that dark-olive skin like Jesus must've had. Their hair and eyes and eyebrows above were crayola-black. And they were everywhere.

I stopped at the info desk and said, "Just out of curiosity, what event are all these people here for?" The nice info-lady said, "They're here for a celebration of the Muslim faith. You're about the 5000th person to ask me." As I continued to walk cross-stream to those about to celebrate the Muslim faith, I looked to see if anybody with an untucked camp shirt whose hair was sprinkled with the oil of gladness was stopping to talk to these beautiful Muslim people. I didn't see any encounters of such a close kind. The ICRS-ers just kept walking one direction and the Muslim people just kept walking the other, exchanging nothing more than glances. I wasn't hoping to find anybody sharing the four spiritual laws; in fact, I was praying nobody was doing that. But I hoped to find at least one who was saying, "hello" or "hey, be sure and eat at the South City Kitchen while you're here." Since Jesus hadn't emerged on the show floor to kick over the tables, maybe he had walked upstairs and was sitting in the common area. And maybe he was watching all of us Christians walk right past the Muslims and was wondering why that was so awkward for us. And maybe he was crying because we wouldn't stop and speak or at least grin and wave. All that Jesus-stuff down the escalators created to bring glory to his name and share the good news with the nations and when the nations (at least one) showed up, we had nothing but silence. And ties with Hebrew writing on them. And smiley preachers from Texas. And bottles of gladness with spill proof caps. Then again, maybe I never saw Jesus on the floor of the ICRS because he hadn't arrived yet. He came in on Wednesday for the Muslim celebration of faith. Then again, maybe my scripture socks are too tight. I'm sure a little oil of gladness will loosen them right up, eh?

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"...