It was just me and the kids last night. After some pancakes and chocolate chip cookies, my daughter asked, "Dad, can we watch my movie?"
"Sure, babe. What is it?"
"It's Anastasia."
It's the Disney version, so fact and fiction weave together like a double helix. There's plenty of catchy tunes and wonderful imagery to keep three kiddos and one big kid fixated for about 90 minutes. A good looking male character with the voice of John Cusak and an even better looking female character with the voice of Meg Ryan. What's not to like? Oh, and there's also a dog. Yep, homerun Disney.
Here's the Disney Cliff Notes version: Anastasia is a daughter of royalty. She lives in the palace and is dearly loved by her royal father. The enemy is Rasputin, once assumed a holy man, but actually someone who hates the royal family and sells his soul to gain the means by which to kill them all. His promise to wipe out the royal family sends them fleeing for their lives. As Anastasia is about to board a train with her grandmother for safety, she slips and falls and is left behind. Her fall leaves her with amnesia (wow, that's a sentence, huh?). The grandmother longs for her princess, now lost. And the rest of the story is an adventure is rediscovering who she really is; not an unwanted orphan, but a royal daughter, the princess.
Born of royalty. Sound familiar? Feel familiar? Pursuit by a once-holy-esque-one who now wants nothing more than the destruction of the royals. Ring a bell? A fall that results in amnesia, clouding the true identity. And the rest of the story is the adventure of rediscovering that true identity and living out the birthright. The enemy still pursues, but there are friends nearby for encouragment. And One in particular who loves with a never-ending love and is willing to sacrifice all so that...
"Yeah, John, but all the facts are all wrong. Disney took liberty with the facts and skewed everything."
"Yes. But as the poets say, 'Facts often have little to do with the truth.'"
We've fallen and forgotten who we are. Amnesiacs. We are the beloved of God, that is our true identity. But the deceiver pursues us like a lion, desiring nothing more than our destruction. Let a moment or day of clarity arise and the accuser will rush in with a vengeance to steal it away. And although that struggle is not against flesh and blood, it usually comes by flesh and blood. There are usually two or three gathered along the way to en-courage us on the journey of rediscovery, finding out. They are as necessary as oxygen. And there's grandmother with the voice of Angela Landsbury or the Father with the voice of Morgan Freeman waiting, longing for reunion. And there's the One who is with us every step of the way, the true hero of the story, who has sacrificed all so that...
Oh yeah, and there's a faithful dog or cat (Br. Murray) to accompany us all the way back home. Nah, you're right, that sounds too good to be true. But then again...
A Few Simple Thoughts
"I've read of other men my age experiencing the same thing - all men, it seems - one day becoming themselves, but also their fathers. Just like with legends, men build the base of themselves with parts of their fathers, with the basic truths...and then go on from there, of necessity, to alter other things, grow in new places, and become fathers themselves - but always growing out of the basic truths, a few simple things. And when you are twenty-five or thirty, and the world's becoming smaller, and things are starting to move, finally, like a train slowly leaving the station, picking up a little power, a little speed, that is when, at first, you're lifted by the bootstraps as you're going out the door, pretending you are him, doing the right thing, doing what he would do, until in the end, by rote, you learn it, and just in time."
- Rick Bass, Winter
The last temptation is the greatest treason:
To do the right deed for the wrong reason.
- T.S. Eliot
- Rick Bass, Winter
The last temptation is the greatest treason:
To do the right deed for the wrong reason.
- T.S. Eliot
The Bachelor God
The Bachelor. One of tv's Monday night must-see shows. It's been on a few seasons and still seems to carry a captive audience. Since it began, I've probably seen it twice but my girlfriend and I have watched the last few weeks. You know - it's 9pm, the kids are finally in bed but not asleep, you click on the tube to catch some news and viola! there's The Bachelor. So, you watch. Or at least we do.
Premise, you ask? The show begins with one eligible bachelor and a room full of equally eligible young ladies. And each week, after dates and pool parties and intense conversations over candle-light, one or more of the young ladies does not receive a rose; in other words, they get sent home. The show builds to an ABCesque conclusion with only two or three ladies left and only one will get the coveted rose and ride off into the sunset with The Bachelor and live happily ever after. Or at least we hope.
I'm sitting there the other night, watching this show, and suddenly I realize: That's a prevalent picture of God. Not by folks out in the world, but by folks who profess to be closest to Him. God is the consumate, all-powerful, all-knowing, all-seeing, Bachelor. And we, humanity, are the young ladies. Although some could care less, there are some of us who desperately desire to be with The Bachelor God. And so we do and do and be and be and try and try and hope and hope to be one of the ones who gets the rose, a.k.a., ends up with God. But The Bachelor God holds all the cards and has the power to extend or with-hold the rose from us. Sometimes we think we know what he wants and so we speak or act accordingly and all seems well. However, other times we think we know what he wants, only to find out it's not so clear sometimes, and we're left reeling, wondering what kind of a deal this is.
And although you might say, "Well, I'm not so sure about that. I mean, come on, God's not capricious." O.k. But look at how we act; again, this is folks who profess to know God. We're respectful enough of one another but competition lurks just below the surface. We judge one another worthy or unworthy of the rose of God's love based on how we vote in elections, what kind of movies we watch, our stance on Harry Potter, if we have debt or not, whether our kids know scripture, and the list just goes on and on. And so we strut our stuff, hoping to win the approval of The Bachelor God, truly believing that he loves us, but somewhere, inside the back of our hearts, also believing it could go south at the end. No rose. No nothing. That we would do our best by God, well aware of our faults but also sincerely desiring him, but still not get the rose because of something about ourselves that just doesn't cut it: our looks, our family history, our views on controversial issues, our commitment to the "church"...that one day God would say, "Tom, will you accept this rose?" And Tom gets misty eyed, hugs the Lord, and says, "Oh yes!" And then Katie's left standing there without a rose and St. Peter says, "Katie, take a moment and say your goodbyes." Katie becomes overwhelmed by grief, hugs the Lord who says, "Katie, you are an amazing person and I've truly enjoyed my time with you." And then she goes to hell.
I believe The Bachelor God to be a lie. When Christ died on the cross and said, "It's finished," that secured enough roses for every created person since time began. They're laying on that silver platter in the throne room of God. Interesting, isn't it, that we believe the question God's going to ask us as we stand before him is: "Why should I let you into my heaven?" What if the question is going to be: "Shirley, will you accept this rose?" And she gets all knee-bowing and tongue-confessing and says, "Oh yes!" But then she turns around and Warren is behind her and his life has been quite a departure from her's and his stance on many things has been decidedly different and he begins to grow overwhelmed by despair. But then the Lord steps forward and says, "There are roses enough for all. Don't be afraid. Warren, will you accept your rose?" And Warren falls on his face before the Lion of God and cries, "But Lord, you know I didn't...and sometimes I...and there were months when...and..."
And then the angels of heaven gasp in astonishment as the the Lamb of God bends his knee and extends his nail-scarred hand and says, "My son, I know. I know you didn't...and sometimes you...and there were years when...and...But I love you, always have. I am jealous, but I am not fickle. I am holy, but not capricious. I am love. And mercy always triumphs. This rose has your name on it, that name I've chosen just for you. I want you to have it and be with me forever." Warren struggles to his feet, hugs the Lord, and then enters into his rest, to live happily ever after. But as he walks he continues to look over his shoulder, unable to keep his eyes off the Lord. "Who is this One?" he says. And the angels cry out, "It is the Lord, the King of Glory."
Premise, you ask? The show begins with one eligible bachelor and a room full of equally eligible young ladies. And each week, after dates and pool parties and intense conversations over candle-light, one or more of the young ladies does not receive a rose; in other words, they get sent home. The show builds to an ABCesque conclusion with only two or three ladies left and only one will get the coveted rose and ride off into the sunset with The Bachelor and live happily ever after. Or at least we hope.
I'm sitting there the other night, watching this show, and suddenly I realize: That's a prevalent picture of God. Not by folks out in the world, but by folks who profess to be closest to Him. God is the consumate, all-powerful, all-knowing, all-seeing, Bachelor. And we, humanity, are the young ladies. Although some could care less, there are some of us who desperately desire to be with The Bachelor God. And so we do and do and be and be and try and try and hope and hope to be one of the ones who gets the rose, a.k.a., ends up with God. But The Bachelor God holds all the cards and has the power to extend or with-hold the rose from us. Sometimes we think we know what he wants and so we speak or act accordingly and all seems well. However, other times we think we know what he wants, only to find out it's not so clear sometimes, and we're left reeling, wondering what kind of a deal this is.
And although you might say, "Well, I'm not so sure about that. I mean, come on, God's not capricious." O.k. But look at how we act; again, this is folks who profess to know God. We're respectful enough of one another but competition lurks just below the surface. We judge one another worthy or unworthy of the rose of God's love based on how we vote in elections, what kind of movies we watch, our stance on Harry Potter, if we have debt or not, whether our kids know scripture, and the list just goes on and on. And so we strut our stuff, hoping to win the approval of The Bachelor God, truly believing that he loves us, but somewhere, inside the back of our hearts, also believing it could go south at the end. No rose. No nothing. That we would do our best by God, well aware of our faults but also sincerely desiring him, but still not get the rose because of something about ourselves that just doesn't cut it: our looks, our family history, our views on controversial issues, our commitment to the "church"...that one day God would say, "Tom, will you accept this rose?" And Tom gets misty eyed, hugs the Lord, and says, "Oh yes!" And then Katie's left standing there without a rose and St. Peter says, "Katie, take a moment and say your goodbyes." Katie becomes overwhelmed by grief, hugs the Lord who says, "Katie, you are an amazing person and I've truly enjoyed my time with you." And then she goes to hell.
I believe The Bachelor God to be a lie. When Christ died on the cross and said, "It's finished," that secured enough roses for every created person since time began. They're laying on that silver platter in the throne room of God. Interesting, isn't it, that we believe the question God's going to ask us as we stand before him is: "Why should I let you into my heaven?" What if the question is going to be: "Shirley, will you accept this rose?" And she gets all knee-bowing and tongue-confessing and says, "Oh yes!" But then she turns around and Warren is behind her and his life has been quite a departure from her's and his stance on many things has been decidedly different and he begins to grow overwhelmed by despair. But then the Lord steps forward and says, "There are roses enough for all. Don't be afraid. Warren, will you accept your rose?" And Warren falls on his face before the Lion of God and cries, "But Lord, you know I didn't...and sometimes I...and there were months when...and..."
And then the angels of heaven gasp in astonishment as the the Lamb of God bends his knee and extends his nail-scarred hand and says, "My son, I know. I know you didn't...and sometimes you...and there were years when...and...But I love you, always have. I am jealous, but I am not fickle. I am holy, but not capricious. I am love. And mercy always triumphs. This rose has your name on it, that name I've chosen just for you. I want you to have it and be with me forever." Warren struggles to his feet, hugs the Lord, and then enters into his rest, to live happily ever after. But as he walks he continues to look over his shoulder, unable to keep his eyes off the Lord. "Who is this One?" he says. And the angels cry out, "It is the Lord, the King of Glory."
The Scarlet D
"Doubt is the ants-in-the-pants of faith."
- Frederick Buechner
I was in a conversation recently where "doubt" was the topic. Initially, everyone was very enthusiastic about talking about it and seemed to be grateful that the permission to discuss such a thing was being granted. Words and phrases like "finally" and "yes, I've felt that too" surfaced from almost everyone in the room. The consensus was that "doubt" is a part of every believer's life and we shouldn't shy away from it.
And then we shied away from it.
It was hard to detect just when it happened, but a subtle shift took place in the room. If I recall, something like, "But where is this going?" was all it took. Doubt about doubt. A conversation that was open and vibrant quickly had the life sucked out of it and talkative doubters suddenly became the nervous-nellies heading back to the shoreline. Words and phrases like "hope" and "we mustn't stray too far from our orthodoxy" quickly brought everyone back to their senses. I was disappointed.
Doubt was acceptable on a very short leash. We choose clean underwear over ants-in-the-pants every time; clear definitions and air-tight answers over "well, maybe...I'm not sure." Although I fully understand the desire for such clarity, I cannot sign off on such a stance because faith is all about the unseen, the things hoped for. I have heard "doubt" discussed as a sin in the life of a believer; the scarlet "D." But doubt may just be an indication that someone is really moving into the waters of biblical faith, where you can't touch the bottom and you can't make it work out on paper and you can't tell how it might turn out.
Far too often, we adhere to a flat-earth theory when it comes to our faith. There are acceptable boundaries, known landmarks, that define who we are and what we do. If you should venture beyond those, you'll sail right off the edge of the faith. "Well, maybe."
"To come to a doubt, and to a debatement of any religious duty, is the voice of God in our conscience. Would you know the truth? Doubt, and then you will inquire." - John Donne
"If my religion is true, it will stand up to all my questioning; there is no need to fear. But if it is not true, if it is man imposing strictures on God...then I want to be open to God, not to what man says about God. I want to be open to revelation, to new life, to new birth, to new light. Revelation. Listening. Humility." - Madeleine L'Engle
- Frederick Buechner
I was in a conversation recently where "doubt" was the topic. Initially, everyone was very enthusiastic about talking about it and seemed to be grateful that the permission to discuss such a thing was being granted. Words and phrases like "finally" and "yes, I've felt that too" surfaced from almost everyone in the room. The consensus was that "doubt" is a part of every believer's life and we shouldn't shy away from it.
And then we shied away from it.
It was hard to detect just when it happened, but a subtle shift took place in the room. If I recall, something like, "But where is this going?" was all it took. Doubt about doubt. A conversation that was open and vibrant quickly had the life sucked out of it and talkative doubters suddenly became the nervous-nellies heading back to the shoreline. Words and phrases like "hope" and "we mustn't stray too far from our orthodoxy" quickly brought everyone back to their senses. I was disappointed.
Doubt was acceptable on a very short leash. We choose clean underwear over ants-in-the-pants every time; clear definitions and air-tight answers over "well, maybe...I'm not sure." Although I fully understand the desire for such clarity, I cannot sign off on such a stance because faith is all about the unseen, the things hoped for. I have heard "doubt" discussed as a sin in the life of a believer; the scarlet "D." But doubt may just be an indication that someone is really moving into the waters of biblical faith, where you can't touch the bottom and you can't make it work out on paper and you can't tell how it might turn out.
Far too often, we adhere to a flat-earth theory when it comes to our faith. There are acceptable boundaries, known landmarks, that define who we are and what we do. If you should venture beyond those, you'll sail right off the edge of the faith. "Well, maybe."
"To come to a doubt, and to a debatement of any religious duty, is the voice of God in our conscience. Would you know the truth? Doubt, and then you will inquire." - John Donne
"If my religion is true, it will stand up to all my questioning; there is no need to fear. But if it is not true, if it is man imposing strictures on God...then I want to be open to God, not to what man says about God. I want to be open to revelation, to new life, to new birth, to new light. Revelation. Listening. Humility." - Madeleine L'Engle
As I age...
"I grow utterly absorbed, as I age, by two things: love, thorough or insufficient, and grace under duress. Only those two."
- Brian Doyle, Credo
- Brian Doyle, Credo
More?
"It is not that what is is not enough, for it is; it is that what is has been disarranged, and is crying out to be put in place."
- Madeleine L'Engle, Walking On Water
I live in a Christian subculture where "more" is the order of the day. Cries like, "Isn't there more?" abound in almost every book written and conference attended. "There's got to be more" falls from the lips of many a disgruntled church member and inhabits the lines of many of the songs we currently sing. Now, I understand "holy discontent" and wanting to know more of God; that's not what I'm talking about here. There's a discontent behind this current verbiage that doesn't feel holy at all.
Something about this rubs me wrong. I'm not exactly sure what I'm feeling, but I know I'm feeling something. I came across Madeleine's words the other day and they stopped me in my tracks. It really felt like she was articulating what I was feeling. What if what is is enough? What if the people and places and things of my life, right now, are enough? What if the discontent that I feel or experience is because the "enough" of my life has been "disarranged, and is crying out to be put in place"?
That feels more true to me. I'm not talking about NOT seeking out new faces and places and experiences; shucks, I'm a seeker and always have been - a rover, a wanderer/wonderer. Honest seeking is a vital part of the life of faith. But the current quest for "more" that I see and hear feels dangerously close to fickle-ness, an inability to be in place or present; it's almost a stance of I'm-not-of-this-world-and-I-really-don't-want-to-be-in-it-either. It's a stance of I-don't-want-to-do-the-hard-work-required-to-rearrange-things. And maybe that's it - laziness. Laziness cloaked in the guise of "surely there's more" and when the guise is removed the real words are "surely there's more than fallen people and fallen places and..."
A little down the page, Madeleine L'Engle told me what you have to be in order to live in this disarranged world. An artist; men and women and children putting their hands to the plow of co-laboring with God in the rearrangement of the world. You might even say, "His Kingdom coming and His will being done."
God, you have surrounded me with enough this day. Grant me the courage to work toward it's rearrangement. It is crying out to be put in place, O Lord.
- Madeleine L'Engle, Walking On Water
I live in a Christian subculture where "more" is the order of the day. Cries like, "Isn't there more?" abound in almost every book written and conference attended. "There's got to be more" falls from the lips of many a disgruntled church member and inhabits the lines of many of the songs we currently sing. Now, I understand "holy discontent" and wanting to know more of God; that's not what I'm talking about here. There's a discontent behind this current verbiage that doesn't feel holy at all.
Something about this rubs me wrong. I'm not exactly sure what I'm feeling, but I know I'm feeling something. I came across Madeleine's words the other day and they stopped me in my tracks. It really felt like she was articulating what I was feeling. What if what is is enough? What if the people and places and things of my life, right now, are enough? What if the discontent that I feel or experience is because the "enough" of my life has been "disarranged, and is crying out to be put in place"?
That feels more true to me. I'm not talking about NOT seeking out new faces and places and experiences; shucks, I'm a seeker and always have been - a rover, a wanderer/wonderer. Honest seeking is a vital part of the life of faith. But the current quest for "more" that I see and hear feels dangerously close to fickle-ness, an inability to be in place or present; it's almost a stance of I'm-not-of-this-world-and-I-really-don't-want-to-be-in-it-either. It's a stance of I-don't-want-to-do-the-hard-work-required-to-rearrange-things. And maybe that's it - laziness. Laziness cloaked in the guise of "surely there's more" and when the guise is removed the real words are "surely there's more than fallen people and fallen places and..."
A little down the page, Madeleine L'Engle told me what you have to be in order to live in this disarranged world. An artist; men and women and children putting their hands to the plow of co-laboring with God in the rearrangement of the world. You might even say, "His Kingdom coming and His will being done."
God, you have surrounded me with enough this day. Grant me the courage to work toward it's rearrangement. It is crying out to be put in place, O Lord.
Saved But Lost
Yesterday, a friend (Ragamuffin Diva) reminded me of this prayer from Thomas Merton:
MY LORD GOD, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road, though I may know nothing about it. Therefore I will trust you always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.
And then yesterday afternoon, these words from another friend, a trusted heart:
Jesus, I have no idea where to go from here. But I invite you in. Bring me all the joy you have for me. Help me to see it when it comes. Help me not resign myself to surviving. Restore my joy.
Yesterday was a difficult day. Some things happened that were heavy, weighty. They left me feeling lost, helpless.
MY LORD GOD, I have no idea where I am going.
Jesus, I have no idea where to go from here.
I am grateful for the gift of friendship. And in particular, friends who share words. These two phrases accurately reflect my feelings from yesterday. And this morning. They don't "make it all better." But they do make it less lonely. Because I know others have felt this feeling, others have stared this demon, others have stood and faced the rising sun and declared, "I have no idea where I'm going." You say something like that when you're twenty and folks think it natural. You say something like that when you're forty and people get concerned; there's a rush to "make it all better" somehow. There were days, as a child, when some could "make it all better." But I'm becoming a man, and I'm putting away childish things. And sometimes, when you put away your childish things, you're left with no idea where to go. So you step out with nothing but the words of the FRIEND:
Therefore I will trust you always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.
Scary, huh?
MY LORD GOD, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road, though I may know nothing about it. Therefore I will trust you always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.
And then yesterday afternoon, these words from another friend, a trusted heart:
Jesus, I have no idea where to go from here. But I invite you in. Bring me all the joy you have for me. Help me to see it when it comes. Help me not resign myself to surviving. Restore my joy.
Yesterday was a difficult day. Some things happened that were heavy, weighty. They left me feeling lost, helpless.
MY LORD GOD, I have no idea where I am going.
Jesus, I have no idea where to go from here.
I am grateful for the gift of friendship. And in particular, friends who share words. These two phrases accurately reflect my feelings from yesterday. And this morning. They don't "make it all better." But they do make it less lonely. Because I know others have felt this feeling, others have stared this demon, others have stood and faced the rising sun and declared, "I have no idea where I'm going." You say something like that when you're twenty and folks think it natural. You say something like that when you're forty and people get concerned; there's a rush to "make it all better" somehow. There were days, as a child, when some could "make it all better." But I'm becoming a man, and I'm putting away childish things. And sometimes, when you put away your childish things, you're left with no idea where to go. So you step out with nothing but the words of the FRIEND:
Therefore I will trust you always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.
Scary, huh?
Lose the Madness
"For my own part I am pleased enough with surfaces...Such things for example as the grasp of a child's hand in your own, the flavor of an apple, the embrace of a friend or lover, the silk of a girl's thigh, the sunlight on rock and leaves, the feel of music, the bark of a tree, the abrasion of granite and sand, the plunge of clear water into a pool, the face of the wind - what else is there? What else do we need?"
- Edward Abbey, Desert Solitaire
Traffic. Traffic. Traffic.
I almost had three wrecks yesterday on my morning commute. That's down one from the usual two. The closest I came was when a lady decided not to yield to me and turned right in front of me. Both of our lights were green, but I had the right of way. Because of the flow of traffic behind me, I wound up right on her back bumper. I don't often lay on my horn, but yesterday I LAID on it. A sheepish grin in her rearview mirror and an even sheepier wave to me was her response; it felt like that "Oh my, did I just turn in front of you and almost cause a major accident that possibly could have ended your earthly existence at age 40? Oh wow, I am sorry. Silly me. Thanks. Have a good one. Ohmygod, I'm getting a text."
There's a line at the beginning of the move Legends of the Fall where the old Indian narrator talks about the colonel going over the mountains to "lose the madness." That's what I wanted to do yesterday after that incident - go somewhere over the mountains and lose this commute madness where people don't yield for anything, don't leave a car length between them and you, where she puts on makeup at 75mph and talks to someone on her cell phone at the same time, where he lights a cigarette with both hands and uses his knees to hold the steering wheel, and I could go on. Madness. God never intended a morning commute. It's stark evidence of the Fall. Folks trying frantically to get somewhere other than where they are, so they can go be someone they're really not. East of I-25. East of Eden. Banished from the garden.
I got home and told my girlfriend about it. She knows. She drives in it when forced to. I told her that one of these days, I want to be where the morning commute is walking to the edge of the driveway to pick up the paper. The only thing I'd have to yield to might be a rabbit or a fox. There would be someone right on my tail, but it'd be my dog and he doesn't wear makeup. No one would be important enough to talk to on a cell phone as I walked for the paper. I'd be alone with my thoughts, with the surfaces. The feel of an autumn chill as it finds the spaces in my red union suit; the perfect commute fashion statement. The honk of geese overhead - now there's a group that knows how to drive. The horn of a lone pickup that passes with an accompanying wave that's not sheepish but friendly. The beat of my heart. The pleasure of opening a virginal newspaper. The heat on my fingers from my coffee mug and the taste of Major Dickason's coffee going down my throat. The knowledge that where I am is right where I want to be. And the only madness is that the deer have been in the roses again. But that's easily forgiven.
- Edward Abbey, Desert Solitaire
Traffic. Traffic. Traffic.
I almost had three wrecks yesterday on my morning commute. That's down one from the usual two. The closest I came was when a lady decided not to yield to me and turned right in front of me. Both of our lights were green, but I had the right of way. Because of the flow of traffic behind me, I wound up right on her back bumper. I don't often lay on my horn, but yesterday I LAID on it. A sheepish grin in her rearview mirror and an even sheepier wave to me was her response; it felt like that "Oh my, did I just turn in front of you and almost cause a major accident that possibly could have ended your earthly existence at age 40? Oh wow, I am sorry. Silly me. Thanks. Have a good one. Ohmygod, I'm getting a text."
There's a line at the beginning of the move Legends of the Fall where the old Indian narrator talks about the colonel going over the mountains to "lose the madness." That's what I wanted to do yesterday after that incident - go somewhere over the mountains and lose this commute madness where people don't yield for anything, don't leave a car length between them and you, where she puts on makeup at 75mph and talks to someone on her cell phone at the same time, where he lights a cigarette with both hands and uses his knees to hold the steering wheel, and I could go on. Madness. God never intended a morning commute. It's stark evidence of the Fall. Folks trying frantically to get somewhere other than where they are, so they can go be someone they're really not. East of I-25. East of Eden. Banished from the garden.
I got home and told my girlfriend about it. She knows. She drives in it when forced to. I told her that one of these days, I want to be where the morning commute is walking to the edge of the driveway to pick up the paper. The only thing I'd have to yield to might be a rabbit or a fox. There would be someone right on my tail, but it'd be my dog and he doesn't wear makeup. No one would be important enough to talk to on a cell phone as I walked for the paper. I'd be alone with my thoughts, with the surfaces. The feel of an autumn chill as it finds the spaces in my red union suit; the perfect commute fashion statement. The honk of geese overhead - now there's a group that knows how to drive. The horn of a lone pickup that passes with an accompanying wave that's not sheepish but friendly. The beat of my heart. The pleasure of opening a virginal newspaper. The heat on my fingers from my coffee mug and the taste of Major Dickason's coffee going down my throat. The knowledge that where I am is right where I want to be. And the only madness is that the deer have been in the roses again. But that's easily forgiven.
Before Samson was a dog...
We're sitting around the dinner table the other night when one of our kids says something about someone named “Samson.” Being the engaged father I seldom am but dream of being, I quickly ask, “And who else do you know named Samson?” Our middle daughter responds, “Samson was the name of the dog in that movie.” It is said matter-of-factly, her siblings seem to agree, and the conversation moves on to something else. My girlfriend and I just look at each other. “Baby, we gotta do something.”
We are the parents who have gently, and at times forcefully, moved away from structures such as Sunday school, Vacation Bible School, and those after-school-memorize-a-kazillion-verses-so-you-can-put-patches-on-your-vest programs. We haven’t abandoned our faith, given up on God, or written off sermons; well, the jury’s still out on sermons. But we have stopped to think about all the programming we grew up with. And while at the stop sign, we’ve wondered if we want our children to grow up in the same fashion. We want our children to have a vibrant faith measured by heart love for Jesus instead of head -knowledge of scripture. We want them to have the heart before the course. We’ve been in too many B-Christian subculture movies where someone could quote chapter and verse blindfolded and then turn around and do something completely opposed to what they just quoted.
But how do parents like us pass along a biblical literacy to their children without it becoming rote memorization in order to get the prize? How do we help them hide the Word in their hearts but not so well that they can't remember where they put it? How can I introduce my daughter to Samson before he was a dog?
Being the creative dad I dream of but seldom am, I'm going to try a few things. I'll let you know how it goes. I'm not wringing my hands in some chicken-little "the sky is falling and my kids don't know who Samson is" moment. Anxiety is not becoming of a believer. Our kids love "God and Jesus" - they always talk about them together like that. That's cool; I feel like God and Jesus are really pretty close. We pray at mealtimes and other moments when prayer feels right. I remember praying with one of the kids when they were constipated - "Lord, help me to go" - and it was just as natural as breathing for them. If we can't ask the Lord for help when we're blocked up, then we're really in trouble. Yet I still want them to know of Samson and David and Peter, Paul, and Mary. Of Adam and his girlfriend and Noah and his zoo. Of Nathan and the healing waters of Siloam. Of young Timothy and his upset stomach. Of Elizabeth, who got her womb rocked by jumpin' John the Baptist. Of Joseph, who did the right thing and married the girl God got pregnant. These are good folk. Friends for the journey. And then there's Jesus, the lamb of God, who took away the sins of the world.
Well, John, you realize that you know all those people because you rotely memorized verses and attended VBS all those years and sat under faithful Sunday school teachers every Sunday, don't you?
Yes, I do. And I believe all those things prepared me for suchatime as this and suchakids as these. A nod to good-looking Esther seems a fitting way to sign-off.
We are the parents who have gently, and at times forcefully, moved away from structures such as Sunday school, Vacation Bible School, and those after-school-memorize-a-kazillion-verses-so-you-can-put-patches-on-your-vest programs. We haven’t abandoned our faith, given up on God, or written off sermons; well, the jury’s still out on sermons. But we have stopped to think about all the programming we grew up with. And while at the stop sign, we’ve wondered if we want our children to grow up in the same fashion. We want our children to have a vibrant faith measured by heart love for Jesus instead of head -knowledge of scripture. We want them to have the heart before the course. We’ve been in too many B-Christian subculture movies where someone could quote chapter and verse blindfolded and then turn around and do something completely opposed to what they just quoted.
But how do parents like us pass along a biblical literacy to their children without it becoming rote memorization in order to get the prize? How do we help them hide the Word in their hearts but not so well that they can't remember where they put it? How can I introduce my daughter to Samson before he was a dog?
Being the creative dad I dream of but seldom am, I'm going to try a few things. I'll let you know how it goes. I'm not wringing my hands in some chicken-little "the sky is falling and my kids don't know who Samson is" moment. Anxiety is not becoming of a believer. Our kids love "God and Jesus" - they always talk about them together like that. That's cool; I feel like God and Jesus are really pretty close. We pray at mealtimes and other moments when prayer feels right. I remember praying with one of the kids when they were constipated - "Lord, help me to go" - and it was just as natural as breathing for them. If we can't ask the Lord for help when we're blocked up, then we're really in trouble. Yet I still want them to know of Samson and David and Peter, Paul, and Mary. Of Adam and his girlfriend and Noah and his zoo. Of Nathan and the healing waters of Siloam. Of young Timothy and his upset stomach. Of Elizabeth, who got her womb rocked by jumpin' John the Baptist. Of Joseph, who did the right thing and married the girl God got pregnant. These are good folk. Friends for the journey. And then there's Jesus, the lamb of God, who took away the sins of the world.
Well, John, you realize that you know all those people because you rotely memorized verses and attended VBS all those years and sat under faithful Sunday school teachers every Sunday, don't you?
Yes, I do. And I believe all those things prepared me for suchatime as this and suchakids as these. A nod to good-looking Esther seems a fitting way to sign-off.
Back then...
I've watched a couple of episodes of Ken Burns' war documentary. PBS, one of our four channels, is running it this week. I'd read about it several weeks ago as being "something to watch." It has that distinctive Burns feel; masterful images, hauntingly appropriate music, and selah-esque pauses so you can catch your emotional breath. I highly recommend it.
One of last night's segments focused on the death of President Roosevelt. At a pivotal time in the war, the commander-in-chief died. Silver-haired people recalled how everyone, everyone, gathered around the radios to listen to the reports of his passing. Fragile veterans remembered the news reaching their units and men jumping up and attaching bayonettes to their guns and charging the enemy, saying, "This is for the Old Man!" Yet another, who was overseas at the time, looked directly at Burns' camera and said through tears, "I felt great loss." And one gregarious grandpa talked of how his parents were Republican and hated Roosevelt, but "all us kids loved him. He was the face of America."
As I've watched both nights, I've been moved to tears. We routinely speak of the loss of innocence in our country. We harken back to a time when things were simpler. At least some of us do. Some find that kind of talk silly. They believe that things were as they are now and our memories are deceiving. But as I've watched the past (funny phrase), I believe that things were different back then, people and places had an innocence to them, and yes, times were simpler. People had faith in one another, in institutions, and our leaders. Was it naive and misplaced? Maybe. But at least it was there to be naive and misplaced. I'm not sure we have "faith" at all these days, in anyone or anything. Not even ourselves. And there was a simple-ness to time. Sure, the war itself was gradually making things less simple, but the images of those people and their journals of those days have a clarity to them that I do not see and hear today. The images are not populated with a number of "things," but rather always have a lot of "people" in them. Family. Community. Friends. And the voices speak of love and loss and "the Old Man" whereas the air today is full of hate and greed and the possiblity of a woman in the house that's white. Those aren't just different words, those are different values. And our values indicate what kind of a people we are. And we're different.
I feel great loss. Burns' work keeps us from historical amnesia. It is a gift. But it must be opened.
One of last night's segments focused on the death of President Roosevelt. At a pivotal time in the war, the commander-in-chief died. Silver-haired people recalled how everyone, everyone, gathered around the radios to listen to the reports of his passing. Fragile veterans remembered the news reaching their units and men jumping up and attaching bayonettes to their guns and charging the enemy, saying, "This is for the Old Man!" Yet another, who was overseas at the time, looked directly at Burns' camera and said through tears, "I felt great loss." And one gregarious grandpa talked of how his parents were Republican and hated Roosevelt, but "all us kids loved him. He was the face of America."
As I've watched both nights, I've been moved to tears. We routinely speak of the loss of innocence in our country. We harken back to a time when things were simpler. At least some of us do. Some find that kind of talk silly. They believe that things were as they are now and our memories are deceiving. But as I've watched the past (funny phrase), I believe that things were different back then, people and places had an innocence to them, and yes, times were simpler. People had faith in one another, in institutions, and our leaders. Was it naive and misplaced? Maybe. But at least it was there to be naive and misplaced. I'm not sure we have "faith" at all these days, in anyone or anything. Not even ourselves. And there was a simple-ness to time. Sure, the war itself was gradually making things less simple, but the images of those people and their journals of those days have a clarity to them that I do not see and hear today. The images are not populated with a number of "things," but rather always have a lot of "people" in them. Family. Community. Friends. And the voices speak of love and loss and "the Old Man" whereas the air today is full of hate and greed and the possiblity of a woman in the house that's white. Those aren't just different words, those are different values. And our values indicate what kind of a people we are. And we're different.
I feel great loss. Burns' work keeps us from historical amnesia. It is a gift. But it must be opened.
Species of Silence
"I had an intuition that when you really annunciate what you want in the world you will always be greeted...with some species of silence. It may be that the silence is there so that you can hear exactly what you have asked for, and hear it more clearly so that you can get it right. If the goal is real and intensely personal, as it should be, others naturally should not be able to understand it the first time it finds its own voice. It means in a way, in a very difficult way, that you are on to something." -
David Whyte, Crossing the Unknown Sea
Do you like to be greeted with silence after you've annunciated something you want to the world? Yeah, me neither. I like for folks to fawn all over it and declare it brilliant, groundbreaking, truly inspired. But if Whyte is right, and I believe he is, then when that happens, it may be an indicator that I've not really annunciated what I want. I may be playing to a particular audience, telling folks what I know they'll fawn all over or find truly inspiring. It may, no doubt, be something I do have an affinity for or be gifted at, but it may not be what I really want. Heralding the real stuff to the world is always greeted with "some species of silence." Rats.
But the wisdom of the quote above rings through again, for this "silence" might reveal I've annunciated something "real and intensely personal." How could someone else possibly understand it? It's something foreign to them, at least at first. I love Whyte's phrase - "intensely personal." Intensely personal could be read as "odd" because it is those things, those hopes and dreams, those affinities or quirks that reveal our "differentness" from others. We all share this thing called humanity, but we're not all the same.
I wonder if the same kind of thing happens when we truly annunciate what we want to God? If the silence we often experience in prayer is not absence but allowance? An "allowing" us to hear exactly what we've asked for? An "allowing" for that prayer or desire or hope to really find its voice? Maybe some of our prayers begin as personal, but God allows the experience of silence so that they might become "intensely personal." Maybe.
If you really read the quote I began with and you really read that last paragraph, then you might respond with, "Well, Dirty Shamer, are you saying that possibly God might not understand some of the things we pray, at least at first? And that He needs time to learn us and those intensely personal things about us? Are you saying that God might not fully know us and His knowledge of us is ever unfolding as days pass? Are you crazy enough to suggest that God may have created us with some things hidden to Him and that by design He discovers new things about us along the way? Are you even remotely hinting at an open, ever-evolvingness to the God who is the same yesterday, today, and forevermore?
If I were to say those things, you'd think me odd. And probably respond with silence.
David Whyte, Crossing the Unknown Sea
Do you like to be greeted with silence after you've annunciated something you want to the world? Yeah, me neither. I like for folks to fawn all over it and declare it brilliant, groundbreaking, truly inspired. But if Whyte is right, and I believe he is, then when that happens, it may be an indicator that I've not really annunciated what I want. I may be playing to a particular audience, telling folks what I know they'll fawn all over or find truly inspiring. It may, no doubt, be something I do have an affinity for or be gifted at, but it may not be what I really want. Heralding the real stuff to the world is always greeted with "some species of silence." Rats.
But the wisdom of the quote above rings through again, for this "silence" might reveal I've annunciated something "real and intensely personal." How could someone else possibly understand it? It's something foreign to them, at least at first. I love Whyte's phrase - "intensely personal." Intensely personal could be read as "odd" because it is those things, those hopes and dreams, those affinities or quirks that reveal our "differentness" from others. We all share this thing called humanity, but we're not all the same.
I wonder if the same kind of thing happens when we truly annunciate what we want to God? If the silence we often experience in prayer is not absence but allowance? An "allowing" us to hear exactly what we've asked for? An "allowing" for that prayer or desire or hope to really find its voice? Maybe some of our prayers begin as personal, but God allows the experience of silence so that they might become "intensely personal." Maybe.
If you really read the quote I began with and you really read that last paragraph, then you might respond with, "Well, Dirty Shamer, are you saying that possibly God might not understand some of the things we pray, at least at first? And that He needs time to learn us and those intensely personal things about us? Are you saying that God might not fully know us and His knowledge of us is ever unfolding as days pass? Are you crazy enough to suggest that God may have created us with some things hidden to Him and that by design He discovers new things about us along the way? Are you even remotely hinting at an open, ever-evolvingness to the God who is the same yesterday, today, and forevermore?
If I were to say those things, you'd think me odd. And probably respond with silence.
Movie Re-view
My girlfriend and I watched Georgia Rule last night on the handy, dandy dvd player. The movie's been out for awhile now. The main characters are a grandmother, played by Jane Fonda; her daughter, played by Felicity Huffman; and her granddaughter, played by Lindsay Lohan. Somebody named Bill Zwecker said, "A film that will touch your heart!" I'm glad that it just touched Bill's heart, because it broke mine.
It's a story about broken people. And I mean broken. The rock that's dropped in the middle of the storyline is that Lohan's character, Rachel, was sexually abused by her stepfather. And the ripples go out from there. Huffman's character, Lilly, spent years in a drunken stupor after her father's death, which may have opened the door for her new husband to abuse Rachel. Fonda's character, Georgia, lived and lives such a regulated (rules) life that she couldn't or didn't reach out to her daughter after her husband's death, which may have led to Lilly's drinking, which may have led to Rachel's sexual abuse, which led to one hour and 53 minutes of these characters rippling into the lives of other people in hurtful and harmful ways.
At one point, Lilly is sitting in the floor of her childhood bedroom, sloshed to the gills after learning of Rachel's abuse. Georgia comes in the room bearing chicken soup or something non-alcoholic for her daughter. There's some dialogue about the state of affairs and then all of sudden, Lilly says, "You never could say it...that you loved me." Georgia bobs and weaves with, "well, my parents never told me," or some such justification.
Oh, so that's it - the old "you never told me you loved me" line. Critics with more critical skills than Bill Zwecker would immediately say, "How cli-shay." I did. At first. But then I became less critical. Because there's something to that - being told you're loved. Now true, there's the empty "I love you" stuff that's just something to yell before you walk out the door each day; it's got little depth to it, just words. And there's also the "I love you" dark stuff, the kind that Rachel experienced from her stepfather in the shadow of night. But somewhere inbetween those extremes of abuse (and they're both abuse), there's this phrase - I love you - which has the power to make a significant difference in our lives. And it keeps showing up in movies, whether deftly handled or horribly acted, because it's something we all hold in common, this need to hear those words. Yes, it must have actions to shore it up, and yes, those actions need to be substantive, and yes, yes, yes, yes. But it seems to all begin with hearing those words, those words that will "touch your heart!"
It's a story about broken people. And I mean broken. The rock that's dropped in the middle of the storyline is that Lohan's character, Rachel, was sexually abused by her stepfather. And the ripples go out from there. Huffman's character, Lilly, spent years in a drunken stupor after her father's death, which may have opened the door for her new husband to abuse Rachel. Fonda's character, Georgia, lived and lives such a regulated (rules) life that she couldn't or didn't reach out to her daughter after her husband's death, which may have led to Lilly's drinking, which may have led to Rachel's sexual abuse, which led to one hour and 53 minutes of these characters rippling into the lives of other people in hurtful and harmful ways.
At one point, Lilly is sitting in the floor of her childhood bedroom, sloshed to the gills after learning of Rachel's abuse. Georgia comes in the room bearing chicken soup or something non-alcoholic for her daughter. There's some dialogue about the state of affairs and then all of sudden, Lilly says, "You never could say it...that you loved me." Georgia bobs and weaves with, "well, my parents never told me," or some such justification.
Oh, so that's it - the old "you never told me you loved me" line. Critics with more critical skills than Bill Zwecker would immediately say, "How cli-shay." I did. At first. But then I became less critical. Because there's something to that - being told you're loved. Now true, there's the empty "I love you" stuff that's just something to yell before you walk out the door each day; it's got little depth to it, just words. And there's also the "I love you" dark stuff, the kind that Rachel experienced from her stepfather in the shadow of night. But somewhere inbetween those extremes of abuse (and they're both abuse), there's this phrase - I love you - which has the power to make a significant difference in our lives. And it keeps showing up in movies, whether deftly handled or horribly acted, because it's something we all hold in common, this need to hear those words. Yes, it must have actions to shore it up, and yes, those actions need to be substantive, and yes, yes, yes, yes. But it seems to all begin with hearing those words, those words that will "touch your heart!"
The Old Ones
...until I come upon one of the old giants...the ones that mandate it to be big in this country, to be big or die, but not to compromise... - Rick Bass, The Book of Yaak
My girlfriend and I drove through Rocky Mountain National Park about dusk. Anywhere at dusk suits me just fine, but being in RMNP at that wonderfully melancholy time of day is top drawer, man. We had seen several herds of elk throughout the park. It is that time when you can thrill to the sound of bugling bulls, if you've the patience to stop, look, and listen. Anyway, we exited the park and pointed the van in the direction of our cabin.
Just as we entered "town" we saw people standing along the shoulder of the road. You could hardly make them out, since dusk was quickly surrendering to the night. They were shadow people, transfixed by something in the mist. We kept driving and all of a sudden there was movement right beside the van. That little kid in that Bruce Willis movie said he saw dead people. Well, we saw live elk, running alongside our van. And then we saw him.
This old giant just steps out in front of his harem and stops. It's cool enough that we can see his elk breath coming out of his elk nostrils. I carefully inch around him as my girlfriend is snapping pictures like a woman possessed. As we come completely around him, I stop the van and he's standing directly in my rear view mirror. The fog is heavy around his haunches and he leans down with his majestic rack and trumpets into the night air: Here am I, hear me bugle. I am big. And I won't compromise.
At that moment, something inside my gut shifted and I found myself on the verge of tears. I had to ask myself what that was about. In retrospect, I believe the old giant spoke to a place deep within me, a place that is seldom stirred, a place that only responds to the mandate of be big or die, no compromise. And when that place catches a glimpse or a refrain from one of the old giants, that place responds with gut shifts or tears or joy. Maybe gut-shifting-tears-of-joy.
We drove away as the old giant stood his ground in the middle of the highway, but we could continue to hear his cry: Be big or die, no compromise...
Autumn Gold
This is me and my dad. My parents came through Estes Park this weekend on their way to some vacation time in Steamboat Springs. Stopping to see their grandchildren for a couple of days was a no-brainer. But they still like seeing my girlfriend and me too.
I've grown a little taller than my dad, just a little. But he will always be the tallest tree in my forest. You can probably tell that we both wear glasses; we both need a little help with our vision. And we like hats. I've got on a Marmot visor and what you can't see is that my dad has his cowboy hat in his hands. We both look a little wild in hats though because we've both got huge ears, always have. The better to hear you with, my dear.
We both grew upadreamin' of being a cowboy. Still do. He's a pastor and I'm a writer. But we both still dream of being a cowboy. He's wearing a shirt I gave him not long ago. A cowboy shirt. I first thought he wore it so much because he likes the cowboy snaps where buttons usually go. But I think he actually wears it so much because I gave it to him. And he likes that reason more. I bought it thinking I could wear that size, but I'm not that big yet. My chest and shoulders still have a ways to go. But he's there. So I gave it to him.
I like this picture because I believe the background represents where we both are. I'm still the green aspens, still growing, still reaching, still young. But dad is golden now. He's in a good season of enjoying some of the fruit of years of labor. Oh, he hasn't stopped laboring - trust me on that one. But he is aware of time and that time is fleeting and so he's doing some of that carpe the day stuff. Like walking out into a field so somebody can snap a picture of him and his son. And after the camera shutter snaps, he looks back into that grove of aspens and says, "It's beautiful, isn't it?" And his son says, "Yes."
Bears
Bears...appeal to a side of us that is lumbering, churlish and individual. We are touched by their anatomy because it resembles ours, by their piggishness and sleepiness and unsociability with each other, by their very aversion to having anything to do with us except for eating our garbage. - Edward Hoagland, "Bears, Bears, Bears"
Our weekend was spent in a tiny cabin in the not-so-tiny town of Estes Park, CO. Just as the sun was beginning its descent over the mountains on Saturday afternoon, we stepped outside to take some pictures by the dazzling golden Aspens. The occupant of the cabin beside us was standing outside whispering loudly, "There's a bear over there."
Here we were...in woods that many people drive a thousand miles to camp in, people who felt that if they could happen upon a bear it might make their whole summer excursion... - Ed Hoagland, "B,B,B"
And in the time it took for my childrent to scurry inside the tiny cabin, this not-really-tiny-at-all black bear comes around the corner, all lumbering and churlish and individual. It's hard to describe the shift that took place within me at that moment. Just moments before, I had been alternating between stirring the soup on the kitchen stove and playing Barbie dolls with my youngest daughter on the porch. And then SHAZAM the beast is standing on one side of my minivan and I'm standing on the other. Sure wish my first black bear encounter would've been beside a Jeep or a Hummer or a quarter horse, but the Toyota Sienna's the reality these days. But all of a sudden, things got real primal. The soup could burn for all I cared and Barbie could go check out her cleavage in the mirror because I was face to face with wilderness.
The sows stands chuffing at him, slamming their paws on the ground to scare him... - E.H, "B,B,B"
You know all that advice about making yourself tall and talking quietly and not making eye contact when you encounter a black bear? I did none of it. I stood there with camera in hand looking the creature dead in the eyes. Making next time I'll follow all those instructions, but too much technique ruins the first time, right? The first time's meant to be primal and visceral, nothing but desire. The bear chuffed and slammed the ground, just like Ed Hoagland says, in an attempt to scare us. He did. I've had my tiny hiney in a really tiny cubicle for months now and I needed the chuff scared out of me. Stir the pot, man. Rouse the troops. Send Barbie back home in her minivan to eat soup.
By October most of the bears have chosen their dens and are puttering around... - "B,B,B"
In some real sense, this may have been the last thing this black bear decided to do before tucking himself in for the winter. "Say, think I'll take a stroll over by that tiny cabin and scare the chuff outta ole' thinks-he's-a-man. See if I can wake him up a little, get the berries moving, remind him he's alive." I guess he coulda charged me, knocked me down, and eaten me right there in front of my wife and kids and parents and Barbie. But he didn't. He just scared me. Not "to death," but in the vicinity.
...it bounded toward the woods like the beast of a children's fairy tale - a big rolling derriere, a big tongue for eating, and pounding feet, its body bending like a boomerang. - "B,B,B"
I would imagine that somewhere on this vast planet this weekend, someone claims to have seen an angel. A bright, luminous, radiant, winged-creature that told 'em something, like the oracle at Delphi maybe. You can have your Barbie-like angels. As for me and my house, I want the dark, black, shadowy, huffing and chuffing angels, slamming the grounds with paws instead of wings, proclaiming their disinterest in me and my tiny self. I desire to be humbled, reminded of the dust from which I came. The Bible talks about people being "sore afraid" when they came into contact with angels. Not much to be afraid of if you see a 12-foot Barbie, strumming a harp. Maybe all those folks saw big rolling derrieres and big tongues and pounding feet and they forgot to talk at a normal volume and make themselves big and avoid direct eye contact. They had a visitation from a real angel. And so have I.
Accept the Cookies
The child doesn't have to struggle to get himself in a good position for having a relationship with God; he doesn't have to craft ingenious ways of explaining his position to Jesus; he doesn't have to create a pretty face for himself; he doesn't have to achieve any state of spiritual feeling or intellectual understanding. All he has to do is happily accept the cookies, the gift of the kingdom.
The quote above is another one from Brennan Manning's Ragamuffin Gospel, just so you know. I've taken the time this week to write a little on an experience of several years ago that was beautiful and painful at the same time. It was a church experience, I was a pastor there (one of two), and we left a year to the day after arriving. I've no desire to place blame on anyone; my intent is to be a witness.
The Manning quote is fun to read and it looks nice if you print if off and put it on the fridge. But if you try and live it, well, that's something entirely different. And if you try and preach it, well, well, well.
One example, o.k.? The Lord's Supper. Communion. Whatever you call it and however frequently you observe it. The issue is cleanliness before Communion. The N.T. text talks of examining yourself before coming to the Lord's Table. I grew up in a tradition that stressed this. I preached for years and stressed this. And our last church experience stressed this to the point of absurdity, just as I was beginning to not stress it. Feel a possible tension?
It plays out like this. You take some time before the bread and the cup come your way and you examine your heart to see if there's any sin there and then you confess that or those sins. It's essentially "don't come to the dinner table until you've washed your hands." Nothing wrong with that. But the subtle undercurrent is that you cannot come until you're completely clean, completely confessed, no sins lurking, either of commission or omission. I've sat in services where the pastor had us "down in prayer" for almost twenty minutes, making sure we were all scrubbed and spotless before coming to the table. And the emphasis shifted from an offering of God's grace to an emphasis on what a total schmuck I am. If I don't feel really, really bad about myself, then I haven't examined properly. And if I can't come up with anything to confess, well, keep waiting and searching and examining because something evil resides beneath the surface, just give it time. Twenty minutes ought to do. I don't believe that anymore. In fact, I believe it to be a distortion of the gospel. Not that I'm a schmuck. I am. A ragamuffin, whatever you want to call me. The emphasis, however, is on the Father and His extraordinary love for me.
I don't have to do anything before I come to the table. I don't have to scroll through all my shortcomings and "get them right." I don't have to scrub and scrub until the hands are spotless before I touch the body of Christ, broken for me. I don't have to have this peaceful, easy feeling that since I'm all clean, now the blood of Christ, spilled for me, can truly get where it needs to go. Nope. All I have to do is accept the cookies. Take. Eat.
And the whole issue of not being able to partake of the Lord's Table if you're not a member or haven't signed a covenant card? Father forgive us for our struggling and ingenious crafting and make-up applying and achievement mentality. You serve the cookies up hot and fresh from the oven and we putz around doing goofy stuff until they're cold and hard. Like our hearts. A child doesn't think twice about accepting a cookie. We don't want to be children, huh, Lord? We'd rather be Your peers rather than Your children. We think we like being grownups. But we don't, Lord. We hate it. And we hate ourselves. We hate that we can't take the cookies and run. We've thrown the childish out with the childlike. And that's left us old.
The quote above is another one from Brennan Manning's Ragamuffin Gospel, just so you know. I've taken the time this week to write a little on an experience of several years ago that was beautiful and painful at the same time. It was a church experience, I was a pastor there (one of two), and we left a year to the day after arriving. I've no desire to place blame on anyone; my intent is to be a witness.
The Manning quote is fun to read and it looks nice if you print if off and put it on the fridge. But if you try and live it, well, that's something entirely different. And if you try and preach it, well, well, well.
One example, o.k.? The Lord's Supper. Communion. Whatever you call it and however frequently you observe it. The issue is cleanliness before Communion. The N.T. text talks of examining yourself before coming to the Lord's Table. I grew up in a tradition that stressed this. I preached for years and stressed this. And our last church experience stressed this to the point of absurdity, just as I was beginning to not stress it. Feel a possible tension?
It plays out like this. You take some time before the bread and the cup come your way and you examine your heart to see if there's any sin there and then you confess that or those sins. It's essentially "don't come to the dinner table until you've washed your hands." Nothing wrong with that. But the subtle undercurrent is that you cannot come until you're completely clean, completely confessed, no sins lurking, either of commission or omission. I've sat in services where the pastor had us "down in prayer" for almost twenty minutes, making sure we were all scrubbed and spotless before coming to the table. And the emphasis shifted from an offering of God's grace to an emphasis on what a total schmuck I am. If I don't feel really, really bad about myself, then I haven't examined properly. And if I can't come up with anything to confess, well, keep waiting and searching and examining because something evil resides beneath the surface, just give it time. Twenty minutes ought to do. I don't believe that anymore. In fact, I believe it to be a distortion of the gospel. Not that I'm a schmuck. I am. A ragamuffin, whatever you want to call me. The emphasis, however, is on the Father and His extraordinary love for me.
I don't have to do anything before I come to the table. I don't have to scroll through all my shortcomings and "get them right." I don't have to scrub and scrub until the hands are spotless before I touch the body of Christ, broken for me. I don't have to have this peaceful, easy feeling that since I'm all clean, now the blood of Christ, spilled for me, can truly get where it needs to go. Nope. All I have to do is accept the cookies. Take. Eat.
And the whole issue of not being able to partake of the Lord's Table if you're not a member or haven't signed a covenant card? Father forgive us for our struggling and ingenious crafting and make-up applying and achievement mentality. You serve the cookies up hot and fresh from the oven and we putz around doing goofy stuff until they're cold and hard. Like our hearts. A child doesn't think twice about accepting a cookie. We don't want to be children, huh, Lord? We'd rather be Your peers rather than Your children. We think we like being grownups. But we don't, Lord. We hate it. And we hate ourselves. We hate that we can't take the cookies and run. We've thrown the childish out with the childlike. And that's left us old.
More Uprising
When a man or woman is truly honest (not just working at it) it is virtually impossible to insult them personally. There is nothing there to insult. Those who were truly ready for the kingdom were just such people. Their inner poverty of spirit and rigorous honesty had set them free.
- Brennan Manning, The Ragamuffin Gospel
Honesty. It's one of those words we talk about, kinda like "community." But there's talking about honesty (working at it) and then there's being honest, rigorously honest. What we found in our last ministry experience is actually what we've found in most ministry experiences; there is a ceiling of honesty that people will tolerate, but don't bust a hole in the ceiling. There is acceptable honesty that we'll all, well, most of us, participate in, but don't go beyond the borders - don't visit the land of rigorous honesty.
The opposite of rigorous honesty is posing. I first heard that word from author John Eldredge. He contends that most men are posers. We pose as good husbands, good fathers, got-it-together pastors, upstanding citizens, etc. However, the reality is we're not so good husbands or fathers, we're pastors who many times don't believe what we preach, and we're selfish citizens at best and we gladly stand up for more selfishness. We're posers. And you can insult us personally and it can knock us on our backs for weeks or months, such is the fragile ice of our posing.
Women pose too. It is not gender specific. Got-it-together moms, fashion divas, hard charging executives in a business suit, etc.
I don't want you think I'm not a poser, for I am. I do it daily. But there are moments of rigorous honesty in my life that I pray are multiplying and gradually taking over this life I live. But remember, there is a border to the honesty we'll tolerate in many church settings. And to cross it is dangerous. Freeing, but dangerous. For you will experience friendly fire, shots from those you have called "friend." It's not pretty. Freeing, but not pretty.
Rigorous honesty does not bode well in places where "every day with Jesus is sweeter than the day before." Because some days aren't sweeter. They're sour with disappointment and sadness. Rigorous honesty finds little air to breathe in rooms where "we'll work 'till Jesus comes." Because some days or weeks or months were meant to be sabbaths. Rigorous honesty can find God's truth in R rated films. That doesn't fly in those of the Thomas Kinkaide persuasion. Rigorous honesty finds little affirmation in minds where the Bible is the fourth member of the Trinity. I once called the Bible a "springboard" that propels me into my life, here on this earth, this "one wild and precious life" God has given me. A gentleman, whose "gentleness" was really a pose, called me the devil for saying that. Once somebody in a church calls you "the devil", your reputation starts to lag a little. Especially if you're the pastor.
Rigorous honesty is freeing. But it has to begin with yourself. If I'm not rigorously honest with myself, there's no way I'll ever be that way with you. It seems the issue is fear. To paraphrase the oft-quoted somebody: If I tell you who I really am, there's a chance you may not like me. Because I'm all I've got. That's fair. I know that fear. But I do not believe God desires us to live in fear.
The LORD loves those who hate evil,
he preserves the lives of his saints
and delivers them from the hand of the wicked.
- Brennan Manning, The Ragamuffin Gospel
Honesty. It's one of those words we talk about, kinda like "community." But there's talking about honesty (working at it) and then there's being honest, rigorously honest. What we found in our last ministry experience is actually what we've found in most ministry experiences; there is a ceiling of honesty that people will tolerate, but don't bust a hole in the ceiling. There is acceptable honesty that we'll all, well, most of us, participate in, but don't go beyond the borders - don't visit the land of rigorous honesty.
The opposite of rigorous honesty is posing. I first heard that word from author John Eldredge. He contends that most men are posers. We pose as good husbands, good fathers, got-it-together pastors, upstanding citizens, etc. However, the reality is we're not so good husbands or fathers, we're pastors who many times don't believe what we preach, and we're selfish citizens at best and we gladly stand up for more selfishness. We're posers. And you can insult us personally and it can knock us on our backs for weeks or months, such is the fragile ice of our posing.
Women pose too. It is not gender specific. Got-it-together moms, fashion divas, hard charging executives in a business suit, etc.
I don't want you think I'm not a poser, for I am. I do it daily. But there are moments of rigorous honesty in my life that I pray are multiplying and gradually taking over this life I live. But remember, there is a border to the honesty we'll tolerate in many church settings. And to cross it is dangerous. Freeing, but dangerous. For you will experience friendly fire, shots from those you have called "friend." It's not pretty. Freeing, but not pretty.
Rigorous honesty does not bode well in places where "every day with Jesus is sweeter than the day before." Because some days aren't sweeter. They're sour with disappointment and sadness. Rigorous honesty finds little air to breathe in rooms where "we'll work 'till Jesus comes." Because some days or weeks or months were meant to be sabbaths. Rigorous honesty can find God's truth in R rated films. That doesn't fly in those of the Thomas Kinkaide persuasion. Rigorous honesty finds little affirmation in minds where the Bible is the fourth member of the Trinity. I once called the Bible a "springboard" that propels me into my life, here on this earth, this "one wild and precious life" God has given me. A gentleman, whose "gentleness" was really a pose, called me the devil for saying that. Once somebody in a church calls you "the devil", your reputation starts to lag a little. Especially if you're the pastor.
Rigorous honesty is freeing. But it has to begin with yourself. If I'm not rigorously honest with myself, there's no way I'll ever be that way with you. It seems the issue is fear. To paraphrase the oft-quoted somebody: If I tell you who I really am, there's a chance you may not like me. Because I'm all I've got. That's fair. I know that fear. But I do not believe God desires us to live in fear.
The LORD loves those who hate evil,
he preserves the lives of his saints
and delivers them from the hand of the wicked.
Uprising
Well, I realized why I had been thinking about Job and pain and loss and your image of God and so on and so forth. Right about this time, four years ago, my family and I came out to CO to work with a friend and a church and almost one year to the day later, my family and I moved on from that friend and that church. I've written about that experience here before and no doubt will continue to do so; it was something that truly changed our lives. If pain and beauty are the only two things that can pierce the soul, then we got a double-piercing. Pain and beauty at the same time.
There was this overwhelming beauty to the Front Range of Colorado, the geographical section of the state where all of a sudden, mountains pop up out of the plains. There are further ranges further west, but the Front Range is where it all begins. These mountains bless us literally and metaphorically, for they represent the place where much began. There will be further ranges, further west (metaphorically), but this is where much began.
Years and years and years ago, plates began shifting beneath the earth's surface and combined with heat and gravitational pull, these mountains jutted out of the flat earth. The breaking of long established surfaces must have been dramatic and violent. Trees, rocks, rivers - it was all at the mercy of the uprising. But the master artist was creating. What looked like chaos was not. The soul of the plains was being pierced.
And that is how we feel. Things had been shifting beneath the surface for years for me and combined with passion and the gravity of God's hands, a new landscape began to emerge. Long established surfaces were broken. Job patterns, friendships, the denomination of my childhood, reputation - it all seemed at the mercy of the uprising. It was both dramatic and violent. Things were torn asunder. T.S. Eliot's prayer - Lord, teach me to care and not to care became the mantra. There are things in this life worth caring about and the number of those is precious and few. The rest of the things in this life are distractions, lesser gods competing for our time and attention. To live at the beck and call of "the many" is idolatry. And idols seldom die without a fight, an uprising. The prophets of Baal can be a formidable presence (think Elijah). At some point in that tectonic shift of the soul, a stand must be made - "as for me and my house." It is painful and tearfilled and lonely. Awfully lonely. Don't let anyone tell you differently. If someone tells you about it in heroic shades, rest assured, they've not been there. They may have read or dreamt about mountains, but they were not there at their birth.
There was this overwhelming beauty to the Front Range of Colorado, the geographical section of the state where all of a sudden, mountains pop up out of the plains. There are further ranges further west, but the Front Range is where it all begins. These mountains bless us literally and metaphorically, for they represent the place where much began. There will be further ranges, further west (metaphorically), but this is where much began.
Years and years and years ago, plates began shifting beneath the earth's surface and combined with heat and gravitational pull, these mountains jutted out of the flat earth. The breaking of long established surfaces must have been dramatic and violent. Trees, rocks, rivers - it was all at the mercy of the uprising. But the master artist was creating. What looked like chaos was not. The soul of the plains was being pierced.
And that is how we feel. Things had been shifting beneath the surface for years for me and combined with passion and the gravity of God's hands, a new landscape began to emerge. Long established surfaces were broken. Job patterns, friendships, the denomination of my childhood, reputation - it all seemed at the mercy of the uprising. It was both dramatic and violent. Things were torn asunder. T.S. Eliot's prayer - Lord, teach me to care and not to care became the mantra. There are things in this life worth caring about and the number of those is precious and few. The rest of the things in this life are distractions, lesser gods competing for our time and attention. To live at the beck and call of "the many" is idolatry. And idols seldom die without a fight, an uprising. The prophets of Baal can be a formidable presence (think Elijah). At some point in that tectonic shift of the soul, a stand must be made - "as for me and my house." It is painful and tearfilled and lonely. Awfully lonely. Don't let anyone tell you differently. If someone tells you about it in heroic shades, rest assured, they've not been there. They may have read or dreamt about mountains, but they were not there at their birth.
Good Job
Been thinking about Job today; not sure why, but I have. This blameless and upright God-fearer lost just about everything he had - children, sheep, servants, home, and finally his health. He didn't lose his wife, though, and she approached him as he sat there in the ash heap, scraping himself with a piece of broken pottery, and said, "Are you still holding on to your integrity? Curse God and die!" So much for spousal support.
Job didn't curse God and die. There are forty-two chapters in the O.T. that tell the story of what he did and didn't do. The bottom line is that he stayed faithful and "the LORD blessed the latter part of Job's life more than the first."
Those two options, cursing God or staying faithful, seem to be the extreme choices when satan is granted permission to release hell in our lives. Some folks immediately curse God. There's not much love lost between them anyway and it's essentially driving the last nail in the coffin. And then some folks stay faithful. They persevere alongside bitter spouses, have daily conversations with well-meaning-but-just-plum-stupid friends, and they live to see the blessings.
But the rest of the folks, and this is the larger of all the numbers, don't curse God and they don't stay faithful. They become indifferent and keep on living. Better said, we become indifferent and keep on living.
We tell God that evidently nothing we do or say has any bearing on His divine perogatives. We'll just keep getting up and doing the doo and trying to muddle through somehow and when He calls our number, we'll pass on over into whatever's next and face it just the way we faced things while here on earth - alone. It's as if He twists our arms so far back that we give in, cry "UNCLE" and spend the rest of our days a shell of a man or woman, living a life of quiet desperation. Oh, we're not mad or vengeful or bitter or sad or anything of those words. What we are is numb. And we may have been better off cursing God and dying. At least it would have been a blooded response.
In the overall scheme of things, it seems like God would much rather have a stay-faithful person or a curse-God person over a whatever,You're-going-to-do-what-You-want-anyway person. He'd be so much more pleased with a teach-Sunday-school-to-teenagers-your-whole-life person or the I'll-never-step-foot-in-this-place-again person instead of the person who sits in the pew every Sunday, smiling at the ceiling while the choir sings, dropping the tithe in the bucket when it's passed, all the while thinking, "These poor nice suckers." You see, you can stay faithful and die like Job - "old and full of years" - or you can resign your life completely and live for a long time - "old and full of crap."
If you can't pull off the Jobian-stay-faithful thing, it might not be such a bad idea to curse God and die. I'm quite certain God can handle it. And what if I said I really don't think you'd be cursing God, but your image of God? And once that's cursed or dies, then you can move into who or what God really is? Or at least a little more than you had before? But it takes great courage to curse your image of God and let it die. And your spouse and friends and sheep and servants are rarely supportive.
Job didn't curse God and die. There are forty-two chapters in the O.T. that tell the story of what he did and didn't do. The bottom line is that he stayed faithful and "the LORD blessed the latter part of Job's life more than the first."
Those two options, cursing God or staying faithful, seem to be the extreme choices when satan is granted permission to release hell in our lives. Some folks immediately curse God. There's not much love lost between them anyway and it's essentially driving the last nail in the coffin. And then some folks stay faithful. They persevere alongside bitter spouses, have daily conversations with well-meaning-but-just-plum-stupid friends, and they live to see the blessings.
But the rest of the folks, and this is the larger of all the numbers, don't curse God and they don't stay faithful. They become indifferent and keep on living. Better said, we become indifferent and keep on living.
We tell God that evidently nothing we do or say has any bearing on His divine perogatives. We'll just keep getting up and doing the doo and trying to muddle through somehow and when He calls our number, we'll pass on over into whatever's next and face it just the way we faced things while here on earth - alone. It's as if He twists our arms so far back that we give in, cry "UNCLE" and spend the rest of our days a shell of a man or woman, living a life of quiet desperation. Oh, we're not mad or vengeful or bitter or sad or anything of those words. What we are is numb. And we may have been better off cursing God and dying. At least it would have been a blooded response.
In the overall scheme of things, it seems like God would much rather have a stay-faithful person or a curse-God person over a whatever,You're-going-to-do-what-You-want-anyway person. He'd be so much more pleased with a teach-Sunday-school-to-teenagers-your-whole-life person or the I'll-never-step-foot-in-this-place-again person instead of the person who sits in the pew every Sunday, smiling at the ceiling while the choir sings, dropping the tithe in the bucket when it's passed, all the while thinking, "These poor nice suckers." You see, you can stay faithful and die like Job - "old and full of years" - or you can resign your life completely and live for a long time - "old and full of crap."
If you can't pull off the Jobian-stay-faithful thing, it might not be such a bad idea to curse God and die. I'm quite certain God can handle it. And what if I said I really don't think you'd be cursing God, but your image of God? And once that's cursed or dies, then you can move into who or what God really is? Or at least a little more than you had before? But it takes great courage to curse your image of God and let it die. And your spouse and friends and sheep and servants are rarely supportive.
Way Too Close
We live too close to our neighbors. Way too close. One day we hope to live on a place with some land around it. I'd like to be able to walk around in my fundawear outside or pee off my deck if I was so inclined or do that crazy Kevin Costner Dances With Wolves Dance out around a big fire out behind the house if the urge struck me. Or just sit and not be able to look inside someone's back sliding glass door. One day. Some day.
When you live in close proximity to neighbors you hear stuff. Way too much stuff. One of the many things we hear from some of our neighbors is their dogs. Two little Shit-zoos (I know the breed is spelled incorrectly, but it's the only form of violence I can extend toward the little buggers right now) who are "let out" regularly throughout the day. And when they're "let out," which is right behind our back fence, they do nothing but yip at each other until they're "let in." This is not the baying of a hound or the excitement of a beagle; no, this is a Shitzooean yip fest for twenty to thirty minutes.
We received a letter last week from the management group for our housing division. Subject? Repeated complaints of barking dogs. Now we have not formally complained, but evidently enough people have to warrant a letter being sent out. But you know the effectiveness of letters, right? A whole lotta nothing. I sat down at the dinner table last night, with the windows open to the brisk CO breezes, to ask everybody around our round table, "Well, tell me about your day?" And what to my wondering ears should appear? Barkapalooza. My girlfriend and I sit down later that evening to catch the forecast for the weekend and just at the moment our weather guru is about to tell us the temps - Yipee-tie-yay. Snuggled up beside the same girlfriend last night because Sept. nights in CO are made for snuggling, getting ready to whisper in her ear the attributes of her beauty and how I dream of peeing off the deck one day and suddenly the crisp, cool silence is broken by the sound of two little oriental of origin peckerwoods. This led to using words my mother told me never to say.
I'm not sure what the solution is, if there even is one. We live too close to our neighbors. Way too close. Of course, I guess I could just go ahead and start living out some of my dreams - walking around outside in my loincloth, relieving myself in broad daylight when I gotta go, and dancing native-like around a cracklin' fire until the wee hours of the morning. Maybe I will. But that would probably prompt a letter from the management group of our housing division. But you know the effectiveness of letters, right?
When you live in close proximity to neighbors you hear stuff. Way too much stuff. One of the many things we hear from some of our neighbors is their dogs. Two little Shit-zoos (I know the breed is spelled incorrectly, but it's the only form of violence I can extend toward the little buggers right now) who are "let out" regularly throughout the day. And when they're "let out," which is right behind our back fence, they do nothing but yip at each other until they're "let in." This is not the baying of a hound or the excitement of a beagle; no, this is a Shitzooean yip fest for twenty to thirty minutes.
We received a letter last week from the management group for our housing division. Subject? Repeated complaints of barking dogs. Now we have not formally complained, but evidently enough people have to warrant a letter being sent out. But you know the effectiveness of letters, right? A whole lotta nothing. I sat down at the dinner table last night, with the windows open to the brisk CO breezes, to ask everybody around our round table, "Well, tell me about your day?" And what to my wondering ears should appear? Barkapalooza. My girlfriend and I sit down later that evening to catch the forecast for the weekend and just at the moment our weather guru is about to tell us the temps - Yipee-tie-yay. Snuggled up beside the same girlfriend last night because Sept. nights in CO are made for snuggling, getting ready to whisper in her ear the attributes of her beauty and how I dream of peeing off the deck one day and suddenly the crisp, cool silence is broken by the sound of two little oriental of origin peckerwoods. This led to using words my mother told me never to say.
I'm not sure what the solution is, if there even is one. We live too close to our neighbors. Way too close. Of course, I guess I could just go ahead and start living out some of my dreams - walking around outside in my loincloth, relieving myself in broad daylight when I gotta go, and dancing native-like around a cracklin' fire until the wee hours of the morning. Maybe I will. But that would probably prompt a letter from the management group of our housing division. But you know the effectiveness of letters, right?
Learning Prepositions
We spent almost two hours last night doing homework. I say we because my girlfriend and I were as involved in these assignments as our two oldest kids. I mentioned the amount of homework they're bringing home and she said their teachers had indicated it would be this way; they are preparing them for the harsh realities of middle school.
I've got very mixed feelings about that. Our kids spend almost seven hours a day at school and then bring work home that, some nights, takes up another two hours. And that is preparing them for the harsh realities of middle school?
Well, John, you're just ticked because you had to help them last night and it took up your time.
Maybe. That's fair. But that's not all of it. Our kids love to go out in the backyard and play together. They swing, have light saber fights, roll around in the grass, dig big trenches in our yard for dad to twist his ankle in. That after dinner time, dusk, is a perfect backdrop for our children. The beauty of their faces set against a salmon-red sunset and the shadowy Raspberry mountains behind our home. It's downright gorgeous. But two hours of homework does not allow the sun to naturally set on my shoulders of my children. They are huddled over paper and erasers and the harsh reality of a flourescent light bulb.
Well, homeschool 'em, you big sissy. Stop whining about public schools and do your own thing.
We've thought about it and still do. But I'm not altogether unhappy with their public school experience. We believe they have great teachers and the social component is very important and any opportunity to go somewhere wearing a backpack is not all bad. But I believe once they walk out that door in the afternoon and head home, they should be free. Released from school. Free to go home. To that place where you can lay in the floor and watch cartoons and eat pretzels. A place where you can go outside and reintroduce yourself to your brother or sisters after having been apart for the day. A place that holds the opportunity of hunkering down in the grass and just thinking about stuff. Or getting together and pulling all the legs off a grasshopper. Or lining up beside each other and seeing how far you can spit. Or just swinging, swinging, swinging as the day closes her eyes for the night.
I've no problem with our kids being prepared for the harsh realities of middle school, or life for that matter. But I do not want it to be at the expense of experiencing the things we live life for. Their experience these last few weeks has been that life is all about work, productivity, all day long.
Well, skinny-philosopher-guy-with-kids-that-are-mean-to-grasshoppers, that's the reality of this world.
Yes, but we are to live in this world, but not of it. I want my children to learn the difference those prepositions make in our lives.
I've got very mixed feelings about that. Our kids spend almost seven hours a day at school and then bring work home that, some nights, takes up another two hours. And that is preparing them for the harsh realities of middle school?
Well, John, you're just ticked because you had to help them last night and it took up your time.
Maybe. That's fair. But that's not all of it. Our kids love to go out in the backyard and play together. They swing, have light saber fights, roll around in the grass, dig big trenches in our yard for dad to twist his ankle in. That after dinner time, dusk, is a perfect backdrop for our children. The beauty of their faces set against a salmon-red sunset and the shadowy Raspberry mountains behind our home. It's downright gorgeous. But two hours of homework does not allow the sun to naturally set on my shoulders of my children. They are huddled over paper and erasers and the harsh reality of a flourescent light bulb.
Well, homeschool 'em, you big sissy. Stop whining about public schools and do your own thing.
We've thought about it and still do. But I'm not altogether unhappy with their public school experience. We believe they have great teachers and the social component is very important and any opportunity to go somewhere wearing a backpack is not all bad. But I believe once they walk out that door in the afternoon and head home, they should be free. Released from school. Free to go home. To that place where you can lay in the floor and watch cartoons and eat pretzels. A place where you can go outside and reintroduce yourself to your brother or sisters after having been apart for the day. A place that holds the opportunity of hunkering down in the grass and just thinking about stuff. Or getting together and pulling all the legs off a grasshopper. Or lining up beside each other and seeing how far you can spit. Or just swinging, swinging, swinging as the day closes her eyes for the night.
I've no problem with our kids being prepared for the harsh realities of middle school, or life for that matter. But I do not want it to be at the expense of experiencing the things we live life for. Their experience these last few weeks has been that life is all about work, productivity, all day long.
Well, skinny-philosopher-guy-with-kids-that-are-mean-to-grasshoppers, that's the reality of this world.
Yes, but we are to live in this world, but not of it. I want my children to learn the difference those prepositions make in our lives.
Wrinkled
Madeleine L'Engle died last week. A good friend notified me of her passing. Several years ago, I happened upon her book Walking On Water: Reflections on Faith & Art. Although she is probably best known for A Wrinkle in Time, it is this "faith & art" book that is my favorite.
"Not long ago a college senior asked if she could talk to me about being a Christian writer. If she wanted to write Christian fiction, how was she to go about it?
I told her that if she is truly and deeply a Christian, what she writes is going to be Christian, whether she mentions Jesus or not. And if she is not, in the most profound sense, Christian, then what she writes is not going to be Christian, no matter how many times she invokes the name of the Lord." (pp. 121-122)
For some of us, that kind of thinking throws a wrinkle in things. We mention Jesus in conversation or insist on our music invoking the name of the Lord and tend to believe those things indicate we are Christian. Jesus becomes this seal of approval. If you hear or see his name, it's Christian. If you don't, it's not. That kind of thinking has all the veracity of saying that the lady with the fish sticker on the back of her van is a Christian, while she whips in front of me and flips me the swollen middle finger in the rearview mirror. Sorry, that fish don't swim.
"...in the most profound sense, Christian..."
That's what I desire my life to be - profoundly Christian; "truly and deeply." Something deep enough for the "fish" to swim in.
"Not long ago a college senior asked if she could talk to me about being a Christian writer. If she wanted to write Christian fiction, how was she to go about it?
I told her that if she is truly and deeply a Christian, what she writes is going to be Christian, whether she mentions Jesus or not. And if she is not, in the most profound sense, Christian, then what she writes is not going to be Christian, no matter how many times she invokes the name of the Lord." (pp. 121-122)
For some of us, that kind of thinking throws a wrinkle in things. We mention Jesus in conversation or insist on our music invoking the name of the Lord and tend to believe those things indicate we are Christian. Jesus becomes this seal of approval. If you hear or see his name, it's Christian. If you don't, it's not. That kind of thinking has all the veracity of saying that the lady with the fish sticker on the back of her van is a Christian, while she whips in front of me and flips me the swollen middle finger in the rearview mirror. Sorry, that fish don't swim.
"...in the most profound sense, Christian..."
That's what I desire my life to be - profoundly Christian; "truly and deeply." Something deep enough for the "fish" to swim in.
Legends
Some people hear their own inner voices with great clearness and they live by what they hear.
Such people become crazy, or they become legends....
So begins the film adaptation of Jim Harrison's novella Legends of the Fall. I have long been drawn to this film. When I bring it up in "favorite movie" conversations, people either say "I loved it" or "I didn't get it." There seems to be no middle ground. I loved it from the first time I saw it; I'm only now beginning to get it.
The story (and Harrison's novella is a wonderful read) concerns the lives of Colonel Ludlow and his three sons: Alfred, Tristan, and Samuel. Alfred is the brooding, first born; Tristan is the wild, middle child; and Samuel is the virginal, youngest son. I've watched it for years as the story of three men; however, I've recently begun to see it as the story of one man, everyman. I'll hit the highlights here. For those of you familiar with the film or story, you'll know what I'm talking about. For those of you who are not familiar, I hope it will compel you to at least see the film.
Against the convictions of their father, the three sons go off to war and after only a short period of time, young Samuel is killed. And in a very real way, the rest of the story deals with the conflicts and tensions between the two brothers that remain.
At some point and time, and it's usually a very distinct moment, every man's "Samuel" dies. The young, innocent boyish part of us encounters the world as it is, harsh and unyielding, and the innocence ends. Maybe it's a cutting word from our fathers, an apron-string-strangling from our mothers, a sexual wound at the hands of a trusted person, a father or mother walking away in divorce...the possibilities are endless. But you know deep within yourself that the innocence is over. Everything is different now. And who remains is Alfred and Tristan.
You're left with the duty-bound, rule-keeping Alfred within yourself and you're also left with the devil-may-care, feral Tristan part of you. You may not agree with that, but I'll stake a claim there. Every man I've ever met has those two brothers within; one may overpower the other in personality or appearance, but they're both in there. I know they're both in me. And we spend the rest of our lives trying to discern what to do with these two. We move into the stability of wife and children and are awakened one night by the lonely cry of a coyote and find ourselves turned toward the wall, weeping for some unknown but recognizable feeling. Maybe we walk away from family and friends and all that is familiar and dive into wilderness, only to soon find ourselves pining for a woman's touch, the laughter of children, and a roof over our heads. We do all we can to stay in line at work, knowing full well the weight of the responsibilites we carry, at the same time trying to hold on to some measure of individuality in a world that, regardless of what commercials say, rewards conformity. We have tatoos beneath our Ralph Lauren shirts.
It is hard to tell of happiness. Time goes by and we feel safe too soon.
Maybe we climb Mt. Hood or ride cross-country with buddies on Harleys and return home with "it" out of our system. We come back like those City Slickers, having "found our smile." Things go well for a season, we're satisfied and happy, we coach soccer and lead Bible studies, and then one day the sleeping bear rouses and we realize it wasn't enough, not even close. We begin acting strange and talking even stranger and those close to us keep asking if we're "o.k." and we inwardly cry out, "O.k. was never my goal." Our marriages assume a "cranky elegance" (Harrison's words) and our parenting is spotty at best. We try and stay under the radar at work, always wondering if anyone can really "see" us. Some of us are visibly repulsed by men who've sold out to the Man, who have no sense of wildness in their lives. Yet we envy their vacation homes in the Tetons or their Bavarian motorcycles in the garage. Others spend the entire time in their vacation home in the Tetons checking email or figuring out how to sell the BMW motorcycle because it hasn't been ridden in years. And we hate that about ourselves. Absolutely hate it.
I won't follow the whole thread here, but the brothers also fight over a woman, Susannah. Interestingly enough, Susannah cannot have children, she cannot bring forth life. She is this lush, wonderland of a woman, yet both brothers do not find in her what they seek. She eventually takes her own life. And then there's the father, Colonel Ludlow. And One Stab, the old Indian who mentors the boys as they grow up. And one cannot forget the landscape, the mountains of Montana, a home by a stream where the Colonel hoped "to lose the madness." Yet it followed him. As it does us.
I don't want to dissect the film too much; dissecting something always leads to its death. But I'll tell you, men, this one's a deep vein. Watch it or read it and see what you think. My caution is I believe you'll see yourself. Or maybe that's why I want you to see it. Or read it. Naming those inner voices within ourselves is the first step. Listening to and living by them follows. I'm not talking about listening to a parent or your pastor or some elected official. I'm talking about stilling yourself enough to listen to what or who is inside. If you do that, there's a good chance you'll become crazy. But there's a slim chance you might become a legend...
It was a good death.
Such people become crazy, or they become legends....
So begins the film adaptation of Jim Harrison's novella Legends of the Fall. I have long been drawn to this film. When I bring it up in "favorite movie" conversations, people either say "I loved it" or "I didn't get it." There seems to be no middle ground. I loved it from the first time I saw it; I'm only now beginning to get it.
The story (and Harrison's novella is a wonderful read) concerns the lives of Colonel Ludlow and his three sons: Alfred, Tristan, and Samuel. Alfred is the brooding, first born; Tristan is the wild, middle child; and Samuel is the virginal, youngest son. I've watched it for years as the story of three men; however, I've recently begun to see it as the story of one man, everyman. I'll hit the highlights here. For those of you familiar with the film or story, you'll know what I'm talking about. For those of you who are not familiar, I hope it will compel you to at least see the film.
Against the convictions of their father, the three sons go off to war and after only a short period of time, young Samuel is killed. And in a very real way, the rest of the story deals with the conflicts and tensions between the two brothers that remain.
At some point and time, and it's usually a very distinct moment, every man's "Samuel" dies. The young, innocent boyish part of us encounters the world as it is, harsh and unyielding, and the innocence ends. Maybe it's a cutting word from our fathers, an apron-string-strangling from our mothers, a sexual wound at the hands of a trusted person, a father or mother walking away in divorce...the possibilities are endless. But you know deep within yourself that the innocence is over. Everything is different now. And who remains is Alfred and Tristan.
You're left with the duty-bound, rule-keeping Alfred within yourself and you're also left with the devil-may-care, feral Tristan part of you. You may not agree with that, but I'll stake a claim there. Every man I've ever met has those two brothers within; one may overpower the other in personality or appearance, but they're both in there. I know they're both in me. And we spend the rest of our lives trying to discern what to do with these two. We move into the stability of wife and children and are awakened one night by the lonely cry of a coyote and find ourselves turned toward the wall, weeping for some unknown but recognizable feeling. Maybe we walk away from family and friends and all that is familiar and dive into wilderness, only to soon find ourselves pining for a woman's touch, the laughter of children, and a roof over our heads. We do all we can to stay in line at work, knowing full well the weight of the responsibilites we carry, at the same time trying to hold on to some measure of individuality in a world that, regardless of what commercials say, rewards conformity. We have tatoos beneath our Ralph Lauren shirts.
It is hard to tell of happiness. Time goes by and we feel safe too soon.
Maybe we climb Mt. Hood or ride cross-country with buddies on Harleys and return home with "it" out of our system. We come back like those City Slickers, having "found our smile." Things go well for a season, we're satisfied and happy, we coach soccer and lead Bible studies, and then one day the sleeping bear rouses and we realize it wasn't enough, not even close. We begin acting strange and talking even stranger and those close to us keep asking if we're "o.k." and we inwardly cry out, "O.k. was never my goal." Our marriages assume a "cranky elegance" (Harrison's words) and our parenting is spotty at best. We try and stay under the radar at work, always wondering if anyone can really "see" us. Some of us are visibly repulsed by men who've sold out to the Man, who have no sense of wildness in their lives. Yet we envy their vacation homes in the Tetons or their Bavarian motorcycles in the garage. Others spend the entire time in their vacation home in the Tetons checking email or figuring out how to sell the BMW motorcycle because it hasn't been ridden in years. And we hate that about ourselves. Absolutely hate it.
I won't follow the whole thread here, but the brothers also fight over a woman, Susannah. Interestingly enough, Susannah cannot have children, she cannot bring forth life. She is this lush, wonderland of a woman, yet both brothers do not find in her what they seek. She eventually takes her own life. And then there's the father, Colonel Ludlow. And One Stab, the old Indian who mentors the boys as they grow up. And one cannot forget the landscape, the mountains of Montana, a home by a stream where the Colonel hoped "to lose the madness." Yet it followed him. As it does us.
I don't want to dissect the film too much; dissecting something always leads to its death. But I'll tell you, men, this one's a deep vein. Watch it or read it and see what you think. My caution is I believe you'll see yourself. Or maybe that's why I want you to see it. Or read it. Naming those inner voices within ourselves is the first step. Listening to and living by them follows. I'm not talking about listening to a parent or your pastor or some elected official. I'm talking about stilling yourself enough to listen to what or who is inside. If you do that, there's a good chance you'll become crazy. But there's a slim chance you might become a legend...
It was a good death.
Morning - 6 September 07
So pay attention to what is in front of you
and what is hidden will be revealed. Day 6 - Gospel
"The conquerers and looters refused to participate in a reciprocal and balanced exchange with life. They were unable to receive the best gifts of land, not gold or pearls or ownership, but a welcome acceptance of what is offered...These actions, all of them, must be what Bushman people mean when they say a person is far-hearted. This far-hearted kind of thinking is one we are especially prone to now..."
- Linda Hogan, Dwellings
"Twice in my life, not once, I have heard the wild wood duck call her hatchlings down from the tree nest. God is lavish."
- Mary Oliver, Long Life
"He talked on, said how the Reverend Biddle talked of Creation as though it had been a mere seven-day investment, like putting up a barn, a task with a beginning, middle, and a definite end. Not so. 'Look out there,' he said in a voice that suddenly demanded attention . 'Creation is forever. Not made, boy, but being made, always. Does that sound silly, an old man's madness?..'"
- Harry Middleton, The Earth is Enough
So pay attention to what is in front of you
and what is hidden will be revealed.
and what is hidden will be revealed. Day 6 - Gospel
"The conquerers and looters refused to participate in a reciprocal and balanced exchange with life. They were unable to receive the best gifts of land, not gold or pearls or ownership, but a welcome acceptance of what is offered...These actions, all of them, must be what Bushman people mean when they say a person is far-hearted. This far-hearted kind of thinking is one we are especially prone to now..."
- Linda Hogan, Dwellings
"Twice in my life, not once, I have heard the wild wood duck call her hatchlings down from the tree nest. God is lavish."
- Mary Oliver, Long Life
"He talked on, said how the Reverend Biddle talked of Creation as though it had been a mere seven-day investment, like putting up a barn, a task with a beginning, middle, and a definite end. Not so. 'Look out there,' he said in a voice that suddenly demanded attention . 'Creation is forever. Not made, boy, but being made, always. Does that sound silly, an old man's madness?..'"
- Harry Middleton, The Earth is Enough
So pay attention to what is in front of you
and what is hidden will be revealed.
Loving the Dark
There's another disadvantage to the use of the flashlight: like many other mechanical gadgts it tends to separate a man from the world around him. If I switch it on my eyes adapt to it and I can see only the small pool of light which it makes in front of me; I am isolated. Leaving the flashlight in my pocket where it belongs, I remain a part of the environment I walk through and my vision though limited has no sharp or definite boundary.
-Ed Abbey, Desert Solitaire
I left the house this morning about 5:30 to run. It's still dark at 5:30, although it's getting a little lighter each day. This morning's sky was coal black and liberally sprinkled with stars. Big, beautiful, shiny stars. I'm just about to embark on the trail and what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a shooting star. The arc of this thing was huge. I did make a wish, but I won't tell you what it was. I did tell God though.
I've been doing this pre-dawn running for several weeks now. And I love it. For the most part, I can't see a thing. I don't know if there's ogres laying in wait for me or piles of steaming horse manure strategically placed in my path. Folks really do ride horses on this trail. I'm not sure about the orgre thing. But I've got to tell you, my senses are on full alert. Something practically ran across my feet the other morning (I think it was a rabbit) and my heart rate went through the roof. Of course, little petey rabbit encountering my size 12s no doubt set in motion a pre-dawn cardiac arrest as soon as he got clear of the trail.
And even though I can't see, I can see. Sounds strange, but Cactus Ed's quote above reflects my experience. When a car's headlights or the halo of suburbia hits my eyes, I'm blinded; totally isolated, save for those lights. But with the lights off, I'm a part of the trail, a part of the darkness. I'm humbly a part of something much larger than myself.
Jesus said something about men loving the darkness rather than the light. What if Jesus was being cryptic there? What if Jesus knew, and I'm certain He did due to the whole "created everything" status He holds, that some light blinds you and some darkness allows you to really see? What if Jesus meant that we love that artificial light, that stuff we create on our own or conjure up somehow, that illuminates but also isolates, which is a darkness of the worst kind? What if Jesus was hoping that we'd spend a little time in the pre-dawn hours occasionally and truly exegete what He was saying? Allow ourselves to be limited but unlimited at the same time? Experience some of that "cool-of-the-day" walking like Adam and Eve?
There is a darkness that gifts you with sight. And there is a light that cripples you with blindness. About halfway through my run, there's one of those Narnia lamp-posts that's my turnaround landmark. Just as I was turning around, guess what I saw? Another shooting star. I kid you not. But I almost missed this one because I had that light in my eyes. The lamp allowed me to see where I was going, but the shooting star allowed me to see what was going on. There is a difference, my friends.
But I have cut myself off completely from the greater world...the desert and the night are pushed back - I can no longer participate in them or observe; I have exchanged a great and unbounded world for a small, comparatively meager one. - Ed Abbey
I have faith in the night...
-Ed Abbey, Desert Solitaire
I left the house this morning about 5:30 to run. It's still dark at 5:30, although it's getting a little lighter each day. This morning's sky was coal black and liberally sprinkled with stars. Big, beautiful, shiny stars. I'm just about to embark on the trail and what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a shooting star. The arc of this thing was huge. I did make a wish, but I won't tell you what it was. I did tell God though.
I've been doing this pre-dawn running for several weeks now. And I love it. For the most part, I can't see a thing. I don't know if there's ogres laying in wait for me or piles of steaming horse manure strategically placed in my path. Folks really do ride horses on this trail. I'm not sure about the orgre thing. But I've got to tell you, my senses are on full alert. Something practically ran across my feet the other morning (I think it was a rabbit) and my heart rate went through the roof. Of course, little petey rabbit encountering my size 12s no doubt set in motion a pre-dawn cardiac arrest as soon as he got clear of the trail.
And even though I can't see, I can see. Sounds strange, but Cactus Ed's quote above reflects my experience. When a car's headlights or the halo of suburbia hits my eyes, I'm blinded; totally isolated, save for those lights. But with the lights off, I'm a part of the trail, a part of the darkness. I'm humbly a part of something much larger than myself.
Jesus said something about men loving the darkness rather than the light. What if Jesus was being cryptic there? What if Jesus knew, and I'm certain He did due to the whole "created everything" status He holds, that some light blinds you and some darkness allows you to really see? What if Jesus meant that we love that artificial light, that stuff we create on our own or conjure up somehow, that illuminates but also isolates, which is a darkness of the worst kind? What if Jesus was hoping that we'd spend a little time in the pre-dawn hours occasionally and truly exegete what He was saying? Allow ourselves to be limited but unlimited at the same time? Experience some of that "cool-of-the-day" walking like Adam and Eve?
There is a darkness that gifts you with sight. And there is a light that cripples you with blindness. About halfway through my run, there's one of those Narnia lamp-posts that's my turnaround landmark. Just as I was turning around, guess what I saw? Another shooting star. I kid you not. But I almost missed this one because I had that light in my eyes. The lamp allowed me to see where I was going, but the shooting star allowed me to see what was going on. There is a difference, my friends.
But I have cut myself off completely from the greater world...the desert and the night are pushed back - I can no longer participate in them or observe; I have exchanged a great and unbounded world for a small, comparatively meager one. - Ed Abbey
I have faith in the night...
Tell them...
Tell them the things that you have seen and heard.
That the blind can see and the lame can walk;
that the deaf can hear and the lepers are cleansed;
and the poor have heard the good news;
that the dead have come back to life.
O.k.
I have a good friend who couldn't quite see what the future held; blind, if you will. But this week a job offer came in and he's taking it and excited about it. It will mean moving somewhere closer to home. He sees the Lord's hand in this.
Another friend has been trying to get custody of his boys for a long time. He's been lame without them, hobbled, couldn't walk the true walk of a father. Something happened last week and he's now got custody for a pre-determined time and most folks are telling him, "If you've got 'em for that long, you've got 'em." He's walking tall, casting a close shadow on his sons.
Yet another has been trying desperately to listen for the Spirit in relation to job/work issues. Just yesterday he heard boatloads of affirmation from his peers and their sincere desires to make sure he stays around. His time and effort and loyalty to the company have not been in vain. It's as if the scales fell from his ears.
Still another has been working with metaphorical lepers lately, people on the outside due to their "conditions." He's been involved in the cleansing process. It's an ongoing thing, but there has been some clean-up. It's still a long journey for them, but he's wants to see them clean. Slowly, the sores are going away.
And I know some people who felt like their efforts lately have led to nothing but death. Maybe not flat-line death, but definitely close. But a couple of days in the sunshine last week and their hearts have been renewed and they've partnered with an up and coming voice who brings life to people with his message. There's a good pulse there now.
And me? the poor have heard the good news.
Tell them the things that you have seen and heard.
O.k., Lord. I did.
Now go,
Go in peace.
Go and let your light shine.
That the blind can see and the lame can walk;
that the deaf can hear and the lepers are cleansed;
and the poor have heard the good news;
that the dead have come back to life.
O.k.
I have a good friend who couldn't quite see what the future held; blind, if you will. But this week a job offer came in and he's taking it and excited about it. It will mean moving somewhere closer to home. He sees the Lord's hand in this.
Another friend has been trying to get custody of his boys for a long time. He's been lame without them, hobbled, couldn't walk the true walk of a father. Something happened last week and he's now got custody for a pre-determined time and most folks are telling him, "If you've got 'em for that long, you've got 'em." He's walking tall, casting a close shadow on his sons.
Yet another has been trying desperately to listen for the Spirit in relation to job/work issues. Just yesterday he heard boatloads of affirmation from his peers and their sincere desires to make sure he stays around. His time and effort and loyalty to the company have not been in vain. It's as if the scales fell from his ears.
Still another has been working with metaphorical lepers lately, people on the outside due to their "conditions." He's been involved in the cleansing process. It's an ongoing thing, but there has been some clean-up. It's still a long journey for them, but he's wants to see them clean. Slowly, the sores are going away.
And I know some people who felt like their efforts lately have led to nothing but death. Maybe not flat-line death, but definitely close. But a couple of days in the sunshine last week and their hearts have been renewed and they've partnered with an up and coming voice who brings life to people with his message. There's a good pulse there now.
And me? the poor have heard the good news.
Tell them the things that you have seen and heard.
O.k., Lord. I did.
Now go,
Go in peace.
Go and let your light shine.
Namaste
Namaste - "The part of the living God that lives and breathes in me bows down in reverence before the part of the living God that lives and breathes in you" - Namaste
I have a friend who signs all his letters with this word - namaste. One of our favorite tv shows, LOST, has a very minor character who always signs off, "Namaste." I can remember being arrested by this word the first time I heard it, such was its beauty. It's pronounced NAHM-AH-STAY. It has that eastern religious sound to it, a word wrapped in the saffron robes of monks, punctuated by the sound of a bell. Namaste.
But words mean things, right? And this one means something significant. If I were to namaste you, I would clasp my hands in front of me, much like a child's prayer posture, and then gently bow to you. I would not attempt to keep eye contact; I would "bow down." And in the bowing, the Holy in me would be reverencing or honoring the Holy in you. It's a gesture that is full of humility. And I like that.
We were watching a television show last night with the kids where one of the actors turned up their noses. The kids, sponges that they are, caught it and mimicked it for us. Essentially, they did the snoot. The snoot says that there is apparently nothing in you of value, at least for the moment, and obviously there is much of value in me, so the best thing I can do is distance myself from you and I'll start by raising my eyes to the skies while closing them and showing you the expanse of my nostrils. I snoot you. There's a harshness when you pronounce the word, as if it's wrapped in the fashion of ego, punctuated by the weight of an attitude. There's no humility in that word. I hate it.
And while I'd love to tell you that namaste is my middle name, it's not. It is something I pray for, but it is usually not who I am. I am snoot. And unless I'm really off here, we are snoot. Now this is much more than all of us joining hands and singing, "We are the world" or something. This is much more than "agreeing to disagree" - whatever that means. This is an act of the will; I decide to greet and goodbye you with humility. In a way that can be seen, I will bow to the image of our Creator that resides in you. I don't see alot of that, do you? I see a lot of exasperated snoots and the always popular swollen middle finger, but not much bowing.
I read somewhere that our best guess for the cave where Jesus was born has an entrance that requires namaste. It's so small you have to get down, almost on your knees, to enter. The sermonic application point is obvious: as we approach the birthplace of the King, we do so humbly, on our kness, bringing our gifts, pa-rum-pa-pa-pum. We don't have any problem doing that, it makes sense. Or does it? Jesus does not reside in a hollowed out cave somewhere in the middle east. He dwells in the human hearts walking toward us, working around us, driving behind us, and sleeping beside us.
Father, forgive me my snoots as I forgive those who have snooted against me. Make me namaste. Amen.
Dedicated to Brother Murray
I have a friend who signs all his letters with this word - namaste. One of our favorite tv shows, LOST, has a very minor character who always signs off, "Namaste." I can remember being arrested by this word the first time I heard it, such was its beauty. It's pronounced NAHM-AH-STAY. It has that eastern religious sound to it, a word wrapped in the saffron robes of monks, punctuated by the sound of a bell. Namaste.
But words mean things, right? And this one means something significant. If I were to namaste you, I would clasp my hands in front of me, much like a child's prayer posture, and then gently bow to you. I would not attempt to keep eye contact; I would "bow down." And in the bowing, the Holy in me would be reverencing or honoring the Holy in you. It's a gesture that is full of humility. And I like that.
We were watching a television show last night with the kids where one of the actors turned up their noses. The kids, sponges that they are, caught it and mimicked it for us. Essentially, they did the snoot. The snoot says that there is apparently nothing in you of value, at least for the moment, and obviously there is much of value in me, so the best thing I can do is distance myself from you and I'll start by raising my eyes to the skies while closing them and showing you the expanse of my nostrils. I snoot you. There's a harshness when you pronounce the word, as if it's wrapped in the fashion of ego, punctuated by the weight of an attitude. There's no humility in that word. I hate it.
And while I'd love to tell you that namaste is my middle name, it's not. It is something I pray for, but it is usually not who I am. I am snoot. And unless I'm really off here, we are snoot. Now this is much more than all of us joining hands and singing, "We are the world" or something. This is much more than "agreeing to disagree" - whatever that means. This is an act of the will; I decide to greet and goodbye you with humility. In a way that can be seen, I will bow to the image of our Creator that resides in you. I don't see alot of that, do you? I see a lot of exasperated snoots and the always popular swollen middle finger, but not much bowing.
I read somewhere that our best guess for the cave where Jesus was born has an entrance that requires namaste. It's so small you have to get down, almost on your knees, to enter. The sermonic application point is obvious: as we approach the birthplace of the King, we do so humbly, on our kness, bringing our gifts, pa-rum-pa-pa-pum. We don't have any problem doing that, it makes sense. Or does it? Jesus does not reside in a hollowed out cave somewhere in the middle east. He dwells in the human hearts walking toward us, working around us, driving behind us, and sleeping beside us.
Father, forgive me my snoots as I forgive those who have snooted against me. Make me namaste. Amen.
Dedicated to Brother Murray
This and That
"There is such terrible darkness within me, as if everything were dead. It has been like this more or less from the time I started the work." - Mother Teresa, 1953
Rev. Brian Kolodiejchuk is the director of the Mother Teresa Center and the driving force behind the efforts to canonize her. He's also publishing a collection of her letters that reveal a different Teresa than we've known. At times she refers to Jesus as "the Absent One" and her own smile "a mask." The good reverend argues that the depth of her spiritual sufferings increases her saintliness.
My dad told me about this over the weekend and Sunday's paper had a second page article on it. Dad had read my post on "The Way Things Are" and basically said, "John, you're not alone. Check out Mother Teresa."
"If there be God - please forgive me. When I try to raise my thoughts to Heaven, there is such convincing emptiness that those very thoughts return like sharp knives and hurt my very soul...How painful this unknown pain - I have no faith."
Evidently, her dying wish was that these letters be destroyed, a wish that was not granted. Revelations like these throw a confusing light on the people we hold in high esteem. We thought they were this, but we find out they were that. The truth seems to be that we can be this and that, a "bundle of paradoxes," as Brennan Manning would say.
I believe "this" and "that" scares us though. We still hold up consistency as a paragon of the virtues. So-and-so always acts this way or candidate X always votes that way. Emerson said that a vain consistency is the hobgobblin of little minds. And maybe that's what our culture is - a bunch of little minds, always trying to be either this or that, when we all know, deep inside ourselves or deep within our private journals, that we're both. And maybe that's a good definition of a saint; someone who's a little of this and a little of that.
Rev. Brian Kolodiejchuk is the director of the Mother Teresa Center and the driving force behind the efforts to canonize her. He's also publishing a collection of her letters that reveal a different Teresa than we've known. At times she refers to Jesus as "the Absent One" and her own smile "a mask." The good reverend argues that the depth of her spiritual sufferings increases her saintliness.
My dad told me about this over the weekend and Sunday's paper had a second page article on it. Dad had read my post on "The Way Things Are" and basically said, "John, you're not alone. Check out Mother Teresa."
"If there be God - please forgive me. When I try to raise my thoughts to Heaven, there is such convincing emptiness that those very thoughts return like sharp knives and hurt my very soul...How painful this unknown pain - I have no faith."
Evidently, her dying wish was that these letters be destroyed, a wish that was not granted. Revelations like these throw a confusing light on the people we hold in high esteem. We thought they were this, but we find out they were that. The truth seems to be that we can be this and that, a "bundle of paradoxes," as Brennan Manning would say.
I believe "this" and "that" scares us though. We still hold up consistency as a paragon of the virtues. So-and-so always acts this way or candidate X always votes that way. Emerson said that a vain consistency is the hobgobblin of little minds. And maybe that's what our culture is - a bunch of little minds, always trying to be either this or that, when we all know, deep inside ourselves or deep within our private journals, that we're both. And maybe that's a good definition of a saint; someone who's a little of this and a little of that.
A Post With No Name
"I told him that I was not of any particular religion. So tired of churches I could roar, is what I wanted to say." -
Rick Bass, Winter
So I’m driving back from lunch and the urge for a little AM hits me. I love AM radio. Especially the easy listening stations. The one here in town plays everything from Peter, Paul and Mary to Glen Campbell. But at this particular moment, they were playing the old Abbot and Costello “Who’s On First” routine. You’ve heard that one, right? Classic comedy. I found myself laughing right along with the crowd.
The more I listened, the more the broadcast began to resonate with a conversation I had over lunch. A true friend and I were discussing church, preaching, community; you know, all that stuff. He had mentioned a congregation that had taken intentional steps to become a missional church. However, full-on into the shift, the lead pastor scrapped the whole thing. “Forget this missional thing. It’s as much of a program as the one were trying to escape from.” Smart guy.
Missional. Purpose-driven. Authentic. Organic. Multi-site. Ancient-future.
Who’s the real church? Missional. But what’s the real church? Organic. I thought organic referred to cereal. Nope, it’s the church. So where’s the real church? Oh, multi-site, definitely. Is it missional? Maybe. Well, when’s the real church? Ancient-future. Organically? No, that’s what the church is. And why’s the real church? Authentic, man. Authentic. In a multi-site kind of way? Heavens no, that’s where the church is. Well then, how’s the real church? Purpose-driven. Are you sure? Authentically. (Cue the laughter from the new monastics)
I may be alone in this, but I don’t give a flying fig newton anymore about those designations. I’m so tired of them. We keep grasping after the straws of the next thing, which we frame as the “real thing” in order to not be labeled as consumers or something, and we end up sounding like the Abbot and Costello routine. We just keep going round and round and round. We’re biblically convinced we know who’s on first, but we don’t. And the audience out there (if they’re even still listening) is bent over laughing. At us, not with us.
We’ve got folks hell-bent on justice and mercy endeavors, quilting the globe with relief projects and mission trips. We’ve got people filling the Joel-dome every Sunday to find out about their best life. Now. Some meet in houses and try and live out the Acts 5 model. And many discover, to their chagrin, that the Acts 6 model always soon follows. Are the red letters of Jesus the real stuff? Or, as Rich Mullins said, will we be surprised to one day find that the red and the black should have been underlined?
I'm pretty sure my friend and I had CHURCH the other day over the lunch hour. The two of us, sitting in a booth at a wonderful mexican place, sharing our lives over incredible chips and salsa. We started the meal with a prayer. Affirmed a few things. Questioned a few more things. Confessed a little. And capped it off by extending the peace of the Lord to one another.
Was the salsa organic? Nope. Was it authentic? Yes, yes it was.
Rick Bass, Winter
So I’m driving back from lunch and the urge for a little AM hits me. I love AM radio. Especially the easy listening stations. The one here in town plays everything from Peter, Paul and Mary to Glen Campbell. But at this particular moment, they were playing the old Abbot and Costello “Who’s On First” routine. You’ve heard that one, right? Classic comedy. I found myself laughing right along with the crowd.
The more I listened, the more the broadcast began to resonate with a conversation I had over lunch. A true friend and I were discussing church, preaching, community; you know, all that stuff. He had mentioned a congregation that had taken intentional steps to become a missional church. However, full-on into the shift, the lead pastor scrapped the whole thing. “Forget this missional thing. It’s as much of a program as the one were trying to escape from.” Smart guy.
Missional. Purpose-driven. Authentic. Organic. Multi-site. Ancient-future.
Who’s the real church? Missional. But what’s the real church? Organic. I thought organic referred to cereal. Nope, it’s the church. So where’s the real church? Oh, multi-site, definitely. Is it missional? Maybe. Well, when’s the real church? Ancient-future. Organically? No, that’s what the church is. And why’s the real church? Authentic, man. Authentic. In a multi-site kind of way? Heavens no, that’s where the church is. Well then, how’s the real church? Purpose-driven. Are you sure? Authentically. (Cue the laughter from the new monastics)
I may be alone in this, but I don’t give a flying fig newton anymore about those designations. I’m so tired of them. We keep grasping after the straws of the next thing, which we frame as the “real thing” in order to not be labeled as consumers or something, and we end up sounding like the Abbot and Costello routine. We just keep going round and round and round. We’re biblically convinced we know who’s on first, but we don’t. And the audience out there (if they’re even still listening) is bent over laughing. At us, not with us.
We’ve got folks hell-bent on justice and mercy endeavors, quilting the globe with relief projects and mission trips. We’ve got people filling the Joel-dome every Sunday to find out about their best life. Now. Some meet in houses and try and live out the Acts 5 model. And many discover, to their chagrin, that the Acts 6 model always soon follows. Are the red letters of Jesus the real stuff? Or, as Rich Mullins said, will we be surprised to one day find that the red and the black should have been underlined?
I'm pretty sure my friend and I had CHURCH the other day over the lunch hour. The two of us, sitting in a booth at a wonderful mexican place, sharing our lives over incredible chips and salsa. We started the meal with a prayer. Affirmed a few things. Questioned a few more things. Confessed a little. And capped it off by extending the peace of the Lord to one another.
Was the salsa organic? Nope. Was it authentic? Yes, yes it was.
The Way Things Are
I’d been thinking about an exercise a good friend told me about. He encouraged me to draw a picture of “the way things are” – an attempt to render what my life really feels like right now. Not what I think I want it to feel like or what others may think it's like; no, the way things are. I got my picture yesterday a.m.
I went for a run about 5:30 out on the trail. I immediately noticed the wind at my back. Nice. Establish a good pace and let the wind carry you on. I usually run to a turn around point and then, obviously, turn around. Not nice. As I turned, it was like suddenly being harnessed to a covered wagon full of women and children and supplies and a dog with a bum leg. And then it hit me. The way things are.
That’s what I’ve been feeling most of the summer and even today; running into a headwind. I have a strong desire to finish, but my legs and lungs and heart are screaming for me to stop. Yesterday, I tried everything I could think of to try and finish. I tried to zen-run and focus on my breathing, tried singing some songs (put one foot in front of the other and soon you'll be walking out the door), even tried whipping up some anger to boost me the last leg (thought about televangelists and such). Try, try, try. About half a mile from the house, I had to stop and walk, I couldn’t finish running. It was just too much. I hate that, feels like failure. I had even prayed, about 100 yards prior to that stopping moment, asking for some assistance. Jesus, please help me. But it didn’t work. I wasn't praying for a personal best or anything, just the strength to finish.
On the commute in to work, I put in an Ennio Morricone disc. One of those wise people that everybody quotes says that only pain and beauty can transform us. I was hoping that some of his haunting music would crack me open; I had noticed a hardening ever since the run. Actually, for days. I listened to the music from the films The Mission and Once Upon a Time in the West. And the rock cracked. And water gushed forth. I began to weep.
Weeping for how damn hard it is some days or weeks or months and how heavy the weight feels and how much it hurts and how sincerely I want to finish. Weeping for how hard I try and put on a happy face and steel myself against the way things are and answer, "Fine. How are you?" when people greet me. Weeping for words like Jesus and please and help and how empty they sometimes feel.
I’m not sure anymore about the prayers of a righteous man availing much. I know, I know - the Word says, but those words are losing all their letters by the time they reach my heart and lungs and legs. It seems all I've got right now are the tears of a marginally righteous man. I don't write this for your pity - ohmygod, John's losing heart or man, you're depressed - you should see somebody. I write this to say this is the way things are, for me, for now. I'm walking. I've cracked a little. I'm weeping. Maybe that avails for something. Not much, but something.
I went for a run about 5:30 out on the trail. I immediately noticed the wind at my back. Nice. Establish a good pace and let the wind carry you on. I usually run to a turn around point and then, obviously, turn around. Not nice. As I turned, it was like suddenly being harnessed to a covered wagon full of women and children and supplies and a dog with a bum leg. And then it hit me. The way things are.
That’s what I’ve been feeling most of the summer and even today; running into a headwind. I have a strong desire to finish, but my legs and lungs and heart are screaming for me to stop. Yesterday, I tried everything I could think of to try and finish. I tried to zen-run and focus on my breathing, tried singing some songs (put one foot in front of the other and soon you'll be walking out the door), even tried whipping up some anger to boost me the last leg (thought about televangelists and such). Try, try, try. About half a mile from the house, I had to stop and walk, I couldn’t finish running. It was just too much. I hate that, feels like failure. I had even prayed, about 100 yards prior to that stopping moment, asking for some assistance. Jesus, please help me. But it didn’t work. I wasn't praying for a personal best or anything, just the strength to finish.
On the commute in to work, I put in an Ennio Morricone disc. One of those wise people that everybody quotes says that only pain and beauty can transform us. I was hoping that some of his haunting music would crack me open; I had noticed a hardening ever since the run. Actually, for days. I listened to the music from the films The Mission and Once Upon a Time in the West. And the rock cracked. And water gushed forth. I began to weep.
Weeping for how damn hard it is some days or weeks or months and how heavy the weight feels and how much it hurts and how sincerely I want to finish. Weeping for how hard I try and put on a happy face and steel myself against the way things are and answer, "Fine. How are you?" when people greet me. Weeping for words like Jesus and please and help and how empty they sometimes feel.
I’m not sure anymore about the prayers of a righteous man availing much. I know, I know - the Word says, but those words are losing all their letters by the time they reach my heart and lungs and legs. It seems all I've got right now are the tears of a marginally righteous man. I don't write this for your pity - ohmygod, John's losing heart or man, you're depressed - you should see somebody. I write this to say this is the way things are, for me, for now. I'm walking. I've cracked a little. I'm weeping. Maybe that avails for something. Not much, but something.
Who's In Your Six?
A writer is careful what they read, because what they read is what they will know, and what they know is what they will write. - Annie Dillard
We are not what we eat, we are what we read. - Robert Benson
I've done something randomly that I am now going to pursue more carefully. I'm going to try and read everything a particular author has written. If there's a chance we are what we read, then this is what I want to be. My goal right now is to read through the works of six writers.
SIX:
Robert Benson - Robert writes books that are small, but intensely deep. He knows and lives the rhythms of prayer.
Rick Bass - Bass first wooed me with his book Winter; he is a man who truly loves the land and all the creatures that walk upon it. And he grew up in Texas.
Robert Capon - An Episcopal priest who consistently knocks me over with words regarding the grace of God. He espouses a sacramental theology. And so do I.
Kent Haruf - His novels Plainsong and Eventide are two of my most prized books. He writes about small towns and trouble and redemption.
Annie Dillard - I first read Pilgrim at Tinker Creek over fifteen years ago. I realize she's the only female in the list, but if you're going to invite a lady, for pete's sake invite Annie.
Wallace Stegner - Someone called him a "secular saint." I call him probably the best writer I know. Angle of Repose sat on a shelf in my parent's home as a decorative, lightblue hardback, alongside other lightblue hardbacks. One day it said, "Take, eat." And I did. Lord, what a meal. I never gave it back to my mom and if she wants it, she'll have to pry my cold, dead fingers from it.
There they are, my six. They have already nourished me in many and varied ways, but I now want to be intentional about my diet. How about you?
We are not what we eat, we are what we read. - Robert Benson
I've done something randomly that I am now going to pursue more carefully. I'm going to try and read everything a particular author has written. If there's a chance we are what we read, then this is what I want to be. My goal right now is to read through the works of six writers.
SIX:
Robert Benson - Robert writes books that are small, but intensely deep. He knows and lives the rhythms of prayer.
Rick Bass - Bass first wooed me with his book Winter; he is a man who truly loves the land and all the creatures that walk upon it. And he grew up in Texas.
Robert Capon - An Episcopal priest who consistently knocks me over with words regarding the grace of God. He espouses a sacramental theology. And so do I.
Kent Haruf - His novels Plainsong and Eventide are two of my most prized books. He writes about small towns and trouble and redemption.
Annie Dillard - I first read Pilgrim at Tinker Creek over fifteen years ago. I realize she's the only female in the list, but if you're going to invite a lady, for pete's sake invite Annie.
Wallace Stegner - Someone called him a "secular saint." I call him probably the best writer I know. Angle of Repose sat on a shelf in my parent's home as a decorative, lightblue hardback, alongside other lightblue hardbacks. One day it said, "Take, eat." And I did. Lord, what a meal. I never gave it back to my mom and if she wants it, she'll have to pry my cold, dead fingers from it.
There they are, my six. They have already nourished me in many and varied ways, but I now want to be intentional about my diet. How about you?
Getting to know me
We're back from a weekend of tent camping with friends. Friday afternoon found us driving toward The Crags, an area on the backside of Pikes Peak that is one of the most popular hikes in CO. There's a fairly primitive campground surrounding the trailhead and we secured two fairly primitive campsites there. Our friends have four girls, we've got two girls and a boy-morphing-quickly-into-something-larger, so that makes four adults and seven kids. The oldest was me (40) and the youngest was our friends' little one (3).
I've read these spiritual gurus who say that the best way to really get to know someone (build community) is to go camping with them for the weekend. Here are a couple of things our friends learned about me and my family.
When it comes to building a fire, I ain't no purist. Now if the sun is shining and blue birds are whistling dixie on the branches, then yep, I'll gather little twigs and dried grasses and squat down and basically give mouth to mouth to those first few embers, coaxing them into a roaring dance of heat. But, if it's been raining all afternoon and all I had for lunch was a couple of packs of those round peanut butter-n-cracker combos and it's way after 5pm (eating time) and I'm needing to start a fire? Well, if your grandma's favorite apron has one of those flammable tags on it, I'll fight her for it. I'll use whatever is available to get the fire going. There are times when doing it right gives way to getting it done; not always, but sometimes. Our friends now know this about me. And they seemed to be o.k. with it.
The other thing they learned about us is our taste in fine lit-tra-ture. They discovered this after dinner the first night, when my youngest daughter said, "Daddy, let's read the Stephen King book." I've been reading King's memoir on the craft of writing, On Writing, and I took a few after-dinner-moments last week to share several edited excerpts with the kids. I thought they were utterly hilarious and my kids (and girlfriend) agreed. Stuff about babysitters and farting and eating way too many eggs and yarking all over the floor; you know, highbrow reading like that. Later that evening, the other dad and I were walking down the hill to track a moose or check our email or something, and he said, "John, I don't know that I've ever heard a kid ask to have Stephen King read to them after dinner." "Well man, that's us."
We really had a great time and when we got ready to leave, the consensus was, "Let's do this again soon." So I guess we passed the community-building test. I do wonder, though, if in the stillness of their tent Saturday night, an exchange like this didn't take place between our friends: "You know, I bet Stephen King would use anything, ANYTHING, to get a fire started. Doesn't that make you a little nervous?" "Yeah. Let's be real nice to John. I'll be glad to get home."
I've read these spiritual gurus who say that the best way to really get to know someone (build community) is to go camping with them for the weekend. Here are a couple of things our friends learned about me and my family.
When it comes to building a fire, I ain't no purist. Now if the sun is shining and blue birds are whistling dixie on the branches, then yep, I'll gather little twigs and dried grasses and squat down and basically give mouth to mouth to those first few embers, coaxing them into a roaring dance of heat. But, if it's been raining all afternoon and all I had for lunch was a couple of packs of those round peanut butter-n-cracker combos and it's way after 5pm (eating time) and I'm needing to start a fire? Well, if your grandma's favorite apron has one of those flammable tags on it, I'll fight her for it. I'll use whatever is available to get the fire going. There are times when doing it right gives way to getting it done; not always, but sometimes. Our friends now know this about me. And they seemed to be o.k. with it.
The other thing they learned about us is our taste in fine lit-tra-ture. They discovered this after dinner the first night, when my youngest daughter said, "Daddy, let's read the Stephen King book." I've been reading King's memoir on the craft of writing, On Writing, and I took a few after-dinner-moments last week to share several edited excerpts with the kids. I thought they were utterly hilarious and my kids (and girlfriend) agreed. Stuff about babysitters and farting and eating way too many eggs and yarking all over the floor; you know, highbrow reading like that. Later that evening, the other dad and I were walking down the hill to track a moose or check our email or something, and he said, "John, I don't know that I've ever heard a kid ask to have Stephen King read to them after dinner." "Well man, that's us."
We really had a great time and when we got ready to leave, the consensus was, "Let's do this again soon." So I guess we passed the community-building test. I do wonder, though, if in the stillness of their tent Saturday night, an exchange like this didn't take place between our friends: "You know, I bet Stephen King would use anything, ANYTHING, to get a fire started. Doesn't that make you a little nervous?" "Yeah. Let's be real nice to John. I'll be glad to get home."
Leap Day
Just four weeks ago, they were knee-deep in summer. Today, they start back to school.
Big kids, that's what I've got. No longer do they drink from sippy-cups or sit in a car seat or watch Clifford. Well, sometimes they still watch the big red dog. Now they listen to Hannah Montana and play gamecube and laugh at adult humor. Whew! Too fast, too soon. I think they're ready for this day, but I'm not. But I'm partly to blame.
The doctor let me cut the umbilical cord on all our kids. I released them into this world. Blake has some words that always went through my head as I was handed the scissors: My mother groaned, my father wept. Into the dangerous world I leapt. I wouldn't trade that experience for anything and I always encourage expectant fathers to do the same.
I'm going in to work a little late this morning; my cutting skills are needed again. They needed to be released from the warm womb of summer, set free into the rhythm of the school year. Their mother will groan. It's hard this year as well, because our youngest starts kindergarten. And she's the last one. Their father will weep. I'm not sure if it'll hit me there on the playground or not. If it does, I'm just gonna cry, masculine etiquette be damned. They will be leaping into the dangerous world yet again and I want to be there when they jump. You see, I'm partly to blame.
Is it a dangerous world? Yeah, it is. We still sit in the floor and play Uno, but there are registered sex offenders in our area. We still kiss and hug everybody before bed, do the tickle monster some nights too. But there are also men and women dying daily in Iraq and Old Navy blue jean commericals that have nothing to do with blue jeans. They'll spend recess on the swings many days, but they'll have friends who think they're too big to swing and want to do other things during recess.
God of backpacks and lockers and new tennis shoes and first days of school, please watch over my children this day. They are leaping into it once again. I believe You go before them in all things, from language skills to lunch. It is a dangerous world you've created, Lord. No doubt. But it's also a beautiful world. Maybe You felt this way when Adam and Eve leapt into the land east of Eden; Your kids, going off to school. As You stood there, hands blood wet from cutting them loose, I wonder if You wept? I wonder if You felt partly to blame?
No Path
Guide our feet into the paths of peace, that having done Your will this day, we may, when night comes, rejoice and give You thanks....
Oh, be careful little feet where you go....
Are there "paths of peace" or are there paths and we are to walk them peacefully? Are there specific places where little feet should or shouldn't go or are little feet to go where they go with care? And what if you wear a size 12?
These prayers, these songs, can be approached in different ways. If you'll really look, the normal approach seems to hold a thread of fatalism in it. If I miss the path of peace or get off of it, for some reason, and go somewhere that little feet should not go, then when night comes, I will not be able to rejoice and give thanks. If I take a wrong turn, then I'm really screwed. And if, for some reason, I don't quickly realign myself to "the" path, I could spend the rest of the day compounding my folly, and the Father up above, Who is looking down in love, would be quite frustrated with me and I would lay me down to sleep both joyless and thankless.
"A path is something that can be followed, it takes you somewhere. 'Linear.' What should a path stand against? 'No path.' Off the path, off the trail. So what's off the path? In a sense, everything else is off the path. The relentless complexity of the world is off to the side of the trail. For hunters and herders trails weren't always so useful. For a forager, the path is not where you walk for long. Wild herbs, camas bulbs, quail, dye plants, are away from the path." - Gary Snyder, The Practice of the Wild
As these size 12s go out into this day, O Lord, keep me aware that my feet and their steps proceed from my heart, as do my thoughts and words and hopes and dreams. Grant me courage of heart, so that my feet may follow the flight of Your Spirit, the Wild Goose, who often veers off the prescribed paths. Remind me that my life was not fashioned to be prosaic (getting somewhere in a straight line), but poetic (circuitous, off the path, off the trail). I want to experience the "relentless complexity of the world" this day, so that when night comes, I will lay me down to sleep breathlessly wide-eyed, pockets full of herbs and bulbs, my size 12s mudcaked by the back door, rejoicing and giving thanks to You, O Lord, not so much a Father-up-above, as a Father-just-a-little-ahead, urging me deeper and deeper into Your wilds.
Who We Are
"I know Christians. They are the people who swallow God."
- a Hindu man to Ed Farrell (Living Prayer by Robert Benson)
The most important aspect of worship for me these days is communion. I could probably skip the music portion and be o.k. And sermons? Well, that's another post. But communion? The Lord's Table? The Great Thanksgiving? These days, that's what keeps me coming back.
I had a difficult time "getting into" worship yesterday. True, I was tired and distracted, but it was tough nonetheless. In fact, when I got up to make my way to the front of the church for communion, I felt heavy, solid, rock-like. But the second I cupped my hands together and extended them to receive the body of Christ, broken for me, I felt light, permeable, fluid. And as I stepped to the left and approached the chalice server and she said, "John, this is the blood of Christ, shed for you," I remembered why I woke up, got myself and the family ready, and drove twenty minutes downtown to attend church. Communion. It always leaves me undone. As it should.
As I returned to my seat, I looked at the long line of people, standing, waiting to swallow God. A beautiful mother with her newborn, a family with seven kids, a couple in their fifties, college students wearing what college students wear, a white haired lady shuffling her feet. Maybe they're like me. Music? Take it or leave it. Sermons? Sometimes. But communion? That's why they keep coming back. And they're willing to patiently stand and wait in line for their piece of God.
I read a lot of people who constantly criticize our consumerist society and the consumerist church, in particular. "Well, people just come to church these days for what they can get out of it, what they can consume." Some of that's fair. But some of it's too easy - cheap shots. We've always been consumers and we always will be consumers. The question is, "What are we consuming?" I firmly believe that life begets life. And I desire life. So do I come as a consumer on a Sunday morning? You bet your sweet cheeks. I want to consume that which truly satisfies, that which melts my frozen heart, that which leaves me undone. And I believe that's why we all keep coming back. Too often, we live the week nibbling on the world's crackers and we're hungry, starving. Sunday morning, we show up as meat and blood consumers. We want life. That's who we are. Christians. The people who swallow God.
- a Hindu man to Ed Farrell (Living Prayer by Robert Benson)
The most important aspect of worship for me these days is communion. I could probably skip the music portion and be o.k. And sermons? Well, that's another post. But communion? The Lord's Table? The Great Thanksgiving? These days, that's what keeps me coming back.
I had a difficult time "getting into" worship yesterday. True, I was tired and distracted, but it was tough nonetheless. In fact, when I got up to make my way to the front of the church for communion, I felt heavy, solid, rock-like. But the second I cupped my hands together and extended them to receive the body of Christ, broken for me, I felt light, permeable, fluid. And as I stepped to the left and approached the chalice server and she said, "John, this is the blood of Christ, shed for you," I remembered why I woke up, got myself and the family ready, and drove twenty minutes downtown to attend church. Communion. It always leaves me undone. As it should.
As I returned to my seat, I looked at the long line of people, standing, waiting to swallow God. A beautiful mother with her newborn, a family with seven kids, a couple in their fifties, college students wearing what college students wear, a white haired lady shuffling her feet. Maybe they're like me. Music? Take it or leave it. Sermons? Sometimes. But communion? That's why they keep coming back. And they're willing to patiently stand and wait in line for their piece of God.
I read a lot of people who constantly criticize our consumerist society and the consumerist church, in particular. "Well, people just come to church these days for what they can get out of it, what they can consume." Some of that's fair. But some of it's too easy - cheap shots. We've always been consumers and we always will be consumers. The question is, "What are we consuming?" I firmly believe that life begets life. And I desire life. So do I come as a consumer on a Sunday morning? You bet your sweet cheeks. I want to consume that which truly satisfies, that which melts my frozen heart, that which leaves me undone. And I believe that's why we all keep coming back. Too often, we live the week nibbling on the world's crackers and we're hungry, starving. Sunday morning, we show up as meat and blood consumers. We want life. That's who we are. Christians. The people who swallow God.
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