My son was to have a tooth pulled yesterday. We scheduled it on a day when I was off because his mom doesn't do well with the dentist scene. We showed up and the assistant told us that it would be about a twenty minute wait - they were running behind. We looked at each other and said, "O.k. We'll wait." Well, we did - for almost forty-five. Will went through every kids magazine in the racks, I read (literally) an issue of National Geographic Traveler, and we listened as some dad seated next to us read the entire text of "Beauty and the Beast" (complete with voices and sound effects) to his daughter who was also WAITING to see the dentist. I'm all for "story" but by the time the beast became a man, I was about ready to send that dad to the Magic Kingdom for some one on one with the lost boys.
I could feel my son's anxiety growing exponentially after about thirty minutes. He was trying to be brave; he really was. The assistant finally came and escorted us into the room of extraction. I experienced her as really chatty, almost too chatty, almost like the tea cup from Beauty and the Beast. The dentist was going to use gas for the major sedative and so the assistant got the mask ready to put on Will. Well, I could see real quick that the mask was the straw that broke the waiting camel's back - he went ballistic on her. It was a new-fangled mask with two tiny tubes through which the gas was vented; the kicker was that the two tiny tubes were inserted into the two tiny nostrils of my anxious son. He began to cry and I moved in to try and comfort him, but the truth is that he was finished, through, stick-a-fork-in-me done. The assistant began a chatty assault on Will, trying to tap into his male sense of pride, but the spell was cast and my son had become a beast. My responses to her moved from initial pity to downright anger as she just kept yappin' - you know that nervous, chatty crap that people do when they realize their impotence in the moment? Well, the spell began to meander over to ole' dad. I began to feel like David Banner and instead of a Disney-esque beast, I sensed my eyes turning green and I swear my jeans were getting tight around my thighs (If I've lost you there, I referring to the Incredible Hulk). I wanted to grab my son out of the chair, fling my now-ripped-to-shreds-t-shirt at the dental ASSistant, run back through the waiting room, growl at Disney dad and tell him to grow a pair, and violently burst through the adobe fire exit. I could've run through side-streets with Will on my shoulders, cursing at Escalades and knocking down every political campaign sign I could. We would then have somehow made it home, where I would have put him on the front steps and retreated to the backyard where the reverse transformation would've taken place. And my family would've discovered me, shirtless, clinging to the fence, wondering what had happened.
But that's the fairy tale. The reality is we dried our tears - we tamed males, made an appointment to try again, and politely left through the front door. We got in the van and...well, how do you try and soothe a weepy beast? I allowed myself to become the beauty. If you've read Bly, I went copper instead of being iron. "It's o.k, bud. That would've freaked me out, too. We'll try again. It'll be o.k. I love you." Slowly, ever so slowly, on the drive home, the beast began to turn back into a boy - laughing, farting, and glad to be with dad. He stepped back into boy-dom and he's good, on the exterior. But there seemed to be some residual shame to that experience. And an overall feeling of femininity. I wonder...what if my son would have seen his dad go beastly? Conjure up the ole iron John and let him roar, if just for a few seconds, at how shitty the whole episode had been handled. Not start whacking off heads with the broadsword, but just raise it and let it glisten in the noonday sun. Chances are the "tea cup" would have runneth over and we'd have been asked to leave, toothache and all. Mr. Disney would've wet his pants and scooped up Tinkerbell and got the hell out of Dodge. But maybe my son and I could have felt strong together. And maybe the spell of the tooth would have lost it's power for a moment - maybe for good. Or maybe I would've scared the scooby-doo out of my son; revealed to him a dark side he's probably never seen before, but loves to see in comic book heroes. As it was, we left limpish, trying to reassure each other that next time would be different - that we'll be stronger, braver, wilder. I hope we can. I hope I can. After all, who wants to live happily ever after? I just want to live full-blooded and awake, right here, right now. But we gotta' get that tooth out...
Perchance to Dream
The "said author" from the last post was Eugene Peterson. Peterson translated the Bible into contemporary English about fifteen years ago in the form of The Message Bible. It's good stuff - it really is. He's also written several books that I've truly enjoyed, many of them dealing with issues specific to being a pastor. You may not be a pastor (probably just cause to say, "Hallelujah!"), but you may have a pastor or know of one or make fun of one on t.v. or something.
Mr. Peterson addressed a large audience that morning and ended the time with some q&a. I posed a question about pastors being poets and artists and wondered if he felt there was an openness to that on the part of most pastors/preachers, etc. He agreed with me that pastors should be poets, but felt like there was NOT an openness to that. And unfortunately, he felt, after many years of advocating just such a mind/heart-set, that he had not made much of an impact on pastors. As we adjourned to lunch a few minutes later, I asked him what's the best thing a pastor can be doing. His answer - "Read poetry and read novels." Of all the things this learn-ed man of 75 years could have said, but he chose the answer, "Read poetry and read novels."
Now you may be wondering, or you may not but you know a pastor who might wonder, or you may make fun of a pastor who might be wondering, "Why read poetry and novels?" Allow Peterson to speak again: "Because they teach you the language of intimacy. Most everything else is either informational or motivational; nothing wrong necessarily with those, but they are NOT the language of faith." I'm considering starting a school for pastors, or maybe a weekend retreat for preachers, where we do nothing BUT read poetry and novels. But I'm afraid most pastors might consider it a waste of time. Come to think of it, most people who have a pastor or make fun of pastors, would probably consider that a waste of time - and there's the rub. But what a dream - gathering pastors from all over the lower 48 in a lodge somewhere with huge, open decks and lots of windows and giving them headlamps and travel mugs full of Henry's Blend and passing out copies of Peace Like a River or Gilead or Plainsong or The River Why or Of Mice and Men or big bundles of Rumi, Rilke or Bly or Oliver or Keats or Whyte or Levertov. When these pastors would ask what the agenda (common word among pastors) was for the weekend, I'd say, "Just go read. Take a break and then read some more. Get some sleep and read yet again." After they'd read a little, for most pastors are fairly passive at the first, they'd probably say, "How is this going to benefit me and growing my church (another common phrase among pastors)?" And I'd say, "Well, if you read Gilead, like I told you to, then you would have come across this passage: 'This is an important thing, which I have told many people and which my father told me, and which his father told him. When you encounter another person, when you have dealings with anyone at all, it is as if a question is being put to you. So you must think, What is the Lord asking of me in this moment, in this situation?' Or maybe a little further down the page you should have read this: 'Calvin says somewhere that each of us is an actor on a stage and God is the audience. That metaphor has always interested me, because it makes us artists of our own behavior, and the reaction of God to us might be thought of as aesthetic rather than morally judgmental in the ordinary sense.'"
Most of them would probably say, "What do I do with that stuff?" And I'd begin to cry. But there might be four or three or two - or maybe just one who would begin to cry as well and as he left, he'd pick up all the copies of Gilead that the others had left on the floor, and he'd take those copies back to his congregation and they'd spend Sunday nights reading aloud to each other and learning about intimacy and themselves and God. And after they finished Gilead, he'd pull out Oliver and they'd wrestle with the angel of poetry and not let go until it has blessed them, for they didn't "want to end up simply having visited this world." And that might be a pastor you might like to have. You wouldn't make fun of him though because you'd know he was a real pastor. And that's a rare thing.
Whatcha' Need
I had the privilege of meeting an admired author yesterday. I've wanted to meet him for some time and he was in town for some meetings. A friend I know invited me to an intimate luncheon, of which said author was the guest. It was really a pleasure. He was exactly how I imagined him - quiet, listening, wise and gracious. I asked him a few questions and he readily answered them, complete with smiles and eye contact. I tried hard not to weigh down the moment with author envy or any of the other common sins of us wanna-bees. I went into the day really believing that my lunch experience would be all about this gentleman; however, it wasn't...
Our lunch table arrangement was less than desirable. The U-shape of the tables left me about four people removed from the author, sitting beside an editor I had met once before. Out of person-seated-next-to-you-courtesy, we began talking about books, writing, faith and melancholy. And what began as courtesy quickly transformed into delight. Said editor is quiet, listening, wise and as I quickly discovered, gracious. He doesn't have the name recognition of the author, but interestingly enough, he edited many of the author's books. I ended up lobbing a few questions at the author just to justify my presence at the luncheon; my real desire was to keep talking with this editor. Funny, isn't it? You wait for something for a long time, and then discover it's not about that thing but something else. I think brother Mick articulated it best: "You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you might find, you get what you need."
The trick is being able to realize this in the moment and be graced by an editor or who or whatever else the moment is really about. I could have spent the rest of the day ticked off because I got a crappy seat by an editor, for Pete's sake. But thanks to the Grace that keeps this world, my heart happened to be open that afternoon - open enough to see what...or who was right beside me. I think brother Merton articulated this best: "My chief care...my one desire and my one joy should be to know: 'Here is the thing that God has willed for me. In this His love is found, and in accepting this I can give back His love to Him and give myself with it to Him.'"
Our lunch table arrangement was less than desirable. The U-shape of the tables left me about four people removed from the author, sitting beside an editor I had met once before. Out of person-seated-next-to-you-courtesy, we began talking about books, writing, faith and melancholy. And what began as courtesy quickly transformed into delight. Said editor is quiet, listening, wise and as I quickly discovered, gracious. He doesn't have the name recognition of the author, but interestingly enough, he edited many of the author's books. I ended up lobbing a few questions at the author just to justify my presence at the luncheon; my real desire was to keep talking with this editor. Funny, isn't it? You wait for something for a long time, and then discover it's not about that thing but something else. I think brother Mick articulated it best: "You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you might find, you get what you need."
The trick is being able to realize this in the moment and be graced by an editor or who or whatever else the moment is really about. I could have spent the rest of the day ticked off because I got a crappy seat by an editor, for Pete's sake. But thanks to the Grace that keeps this world, my heart happened to be open that afternoon - open enough to see what...or who was right beside me. I think brother Merton articulated this best: "My chief care...my one desire and my one joy should be to know: 'Here is the thing that God has willed for me. In this His love is found, and in accepting this I can give back His love to Him and give myself with it to Him.'"
Yeti Sighting
Our family just returned from a week of recreating ourselves in Estes Park, CO. It is easily one of our favorite spots in the state. This is a photo of my son, Will, and the oft-elusive mountain Yeti (me). Much is captured in this photo: our smiles (common fare when we're in the mountains), beautiful backdrops (this one is Sprague Lake in Rocky Mtn. Natl. Park), shorts and fleece (warm days and nipply nights), and being close to family (the Yeti sprang from behind a Ponderosa Pine and grabbed Will, eliciting a smile from a 9-year old boy that's worth it's weight in gold). We had a good week and hope to live there some day...seriously.
There's nothing like coming over the rise and seeing Estes Park sitting quietly down in the valley, with Longs Peak before you and the Stanley Hotel (remember The Shining?) off to your left. Or peeking out before sunrise and seeing elk grazing beside your minivan. Or eating ice cream cones every evening after dinner for four days straight; not small, mannerly cones mind you, but large, mountainous scoops of chocolate in a sugar cone that drip all over your fingers so you have to wipe them on your shirt or pants. Or leisurely simmering in the morning with a cup of Seattle's Best and the novel Gilead (two thumbs way up) and wool socks. Or hiking with three kids a mile and a half route up to Alberta Falls and hopefully helping them to see that to experience beauty, sometimes you've got to hike for it or fight for it or suck it up, buttercup. Or buying your wife a turquoise cross for your 16th wedding anniversary and seeing her wear it around her neck and truly realizing her love affair with this western place of rock and snow and turquoise and moose. And Yeti.
Million-Dollar Question
I was given a tract today at work; some guy just handed it to me as he passed. I guess he thought I looked reprobate or something. Although I hope not, you may have seen this one - it is in the form of a million dollar bill, plenty of zeros and Ronald Reagan's picture on it. Flip it over and the backside has these words around the perimeter: "The million dollar question: Will you go to Heaven? Here's a quick test. Have you ever told a lie, stolen anything, or used God's name in vain? Jesus said, 'Whoever looks at a woman to lust for her has already committed adultery with her in his heart'...Please repent (turn from sin) today and trust Jesus, and God will grant you everlasting life. Then read your Bible daily and obey it.'"
It was funny because after I read the million dollar question and the million dollar answer, I immediately went and devoured two Wisconsin brats baptized in hot mustard, fudged the truth to a co-worker, and had a lustful thought. Or two.
I wonder...is that really the million dollar question? "Will you go to Heaven?" David Whyte has a poem that begins with these lines: "I don't care if there is one god or many gods; I want to know if you belong or if you feel abandoned." ****You could get bogged down in that first phrase about one god or many gods...but I'd lobby hard against that one - you'd miss the forest... The question that follows is priceless; in my opinion, quite possibly worth a million dollars or more: Do you belong or do you feel abandoned? Do you belong? Or do you feel abandoned?
The poet is pushing us to look at a deeper question, one that cannot be printed around the perimeter of a gospel tract, but rather one that hides in the shadows of our hearts: Do you belong or do you feel abandoned? Is there a gut-level sense of belonging to this dark and bloody planet, welcomed by its grace and beauty, or do I live my life as one completely abandoned by all there is, adrift on a sea, always unmoored. Do I live with a feeling of being needed by this world, that somehow I matter to the humus I walk on, that my life counts, or I've a role to play in God's drama? Or am I a stranger to all that is; in Goethe's words, "a troubled guest"? Will I die one day (hopefully headed to heaven) with grief printed around the perimeter of my soul because this world is a place of breathtaking beauty or will I breathe my last lamenting the fact that "I had only visited" (Mary Oliver)?
I don't have a problem with the answers to the man's tract; but I do believe he's asking the wrong questions. And asking the wrong questions in this life will keep you "moving" (GO to heaven), but they won't allow you to stay for awhile, otherwise known as "belonging." Tract-man handed me his answers and "moved on" - I guess someone could say, "John, you were touched by an angel." Then again, I may have been handed a nicely apportioned tract from a well-meaning man who feels abandoned in this world; therefore, he has nothing to look forward to but the next - "brushed by a stranger." I wished he would've stayed awhile, sat down and visited with me, incarnated himself, belonged to the moment. I would've shared my brats and my shortcomings. But he didn't and I believe that kind of living is taking the Lord's name in vain. Maybe someday he'll repent (turn from sin), shed his shoes and realize he's on holy ground. But then again, maybe he'll just keep moving, handing out tracts, repeating the answers...and that'll be a goddamn shame. Do you belong? Or do you feel abandoned?
The Thin Blue Bird
I was listening to the poet David Whyte the other day talking of how thin the line is sometimes between this world and the next. The nuances of his talk hinted at just how quickly things can change...
I was helping my mother-in-law today in our yard. She is a gardener extraordinaire, whilst I am better suited for a patio home. Anyway, we were moving rocks - not smooth, river stones, but big, mountainous stones with heft and spiders living underneath them. I had muscled three of them on my own from the backyard to the front, keeping them close to my body, utilizing lifting skills I learned working as a grunt years ago at UPS. We debated on bringing the fourth around, something about landscaping being done in odd groupings instead of even. I insisted, feeling the pump of blood in my arms from the previous three and loving that feeling. This fourth stone was evidently the mother of the other three - rocker mater. I shifted it around, cleaning off all the spiders, and tried to lift it. Pretty damn heavy; too heavy, in fact, for the trek around to the front yard. I borrowed my kids' red wagon and got that momma up in the bed and began the pull to the flowerbed. All was well until I lifted it out (still all was well) and placed it beside the other three. In a split second of a nanosecond, the rocker mater shifted slightly and my middle finger, the "bird" got caught between a rock and a harder place. I pulled it out quicker than a duck on a junebug - but I had crossed that thin line between this world and the next, if only for a moment, and the rest of my day was changed. The bird turned every hue of blue in the 64 Crayola box and then began to swell and bleed. I had to sit down because I feared I might faint. That would have been a helluva sight - long haired hippy man asleep in the flower bed with his size 12 boots sticking out, looking like the dead Witch of the West, while the little Oz people (my kids) look on in wonder saying, "Mom, Dad's sticking the bad finger at us and saying badder words."
The rest of my day was one finger off. From typing (God save me from "d's") to buttoning Levis (where are those pull-on velour pants?) - I realized just how quickly things can change. How fingers can become swollen birds in the twinkling of an eye and a kid can step off a curb and be hit by a car. How a doctor can say, "Six months - tops" and a pink slip in your job-box is like a stake through the heart. Life going well, arms pumped full of blood, and the rocks beneath us, or in our hands, shift, and life is different; maybe for a day or maybe for a lifetime. The line is thin, but our pride tells us it's not. I will nurse my bird for a few months; there's no way he can fly anytime soon. In the meantime, I'll probably bump it on everything from wine corks to dipsticks. But when I grimace I will be reminded of the thin places, the clefts in the rock, where the soul and spiders hideth.
I was helping my mother-in-law today in our yard. She is a gardener extraordinaire, whilst I am better suited for a patio home. Anyway, we were moving rocks - not smooth, river stones, but big, mountainous stones with heft and spiders living underneath them. I had muscled three of them on my own from the backyard to the front, keeping them close to my body, utilizing lifting skills I learned working as a grunt years ago at UPS. We debated on bringing the fourth around, something about landscaping being done in odd groupings instead of even. I insisted, feeling the pump of blood in my arms from the previous three and loving that feeling. This fourth stone was evidently the mother of the other three - rocker mater. I shifted it around, cleaning off all the spiders, and tried to lift it. Pretty damn heavy; too heavy, in fact, for the trek around to the front yard. I borrowed my kids' red wagon and got that momma up in the bed and began the pull to the flowerbed. All was well until I lifted it out (still all was well) and placed it beside the other three. In a split second of a nanosecond, the rocker mater shifted slightly and my middle finger, the "bird" got caught between a rock and a harder place. I pulled it out quicker than a duck on a junebug - but I had crossed that thin line between this world and the next, if only for a moment, and the rest of my day was changed. The bird turned every hue of blue in the 64 Crayola box and then began to swell and bleed. I had to sit down because I feared I might faint. That would have been a helluva sight - long haired hippy man asleep in the flower bed with his size 12 boots sticking out, looking like the dead Witch of the West, while the little Oz people (my kids) look on in wonder saying, "Mom, Dad's sticking the bad finger at us and saying badder words."
The rest of my day was one finger off. From typing (God save me from "d's") to buttoning Levis (where are those pull-on velour pants?) - I realized just how quickly things can change. How fingers can become swollen birds in the twinkling of an eye and a kid can step off a curb and be hit by a car. How a doctor can say, "Six months - tops" and a pink slip in your job-box is like a stake through the heart. Life going well, arms pumped full of blood, and the rocks beneath us, or in our hands, shift, and life is different; maybe for a day or maybe for a lifetime. The line is thin, but our pride tells us it's not. I will nurse my bird for a few months; there's no way he can fly anytime soon. In the meantime, I'll probably bump it on everything from wine corks to dipsticks. But when I grimace I will be reminded of the thin places, the clefts in the rock, where the soul and spiders hideth.
Taste and see
"The Spirit of God whets our appetite by giving us a taste of what's ahead. He puts a little of heaven in our hearts so that we'll never settle for less." 2 Cor. 5.5
This is a verse from one of the Anglican readings for this coming Sunday. I've been asked to preach, so it's on my mind. Then again, it may be on the tip of my tongue. Or the palms of my hands. Possibly the balls of my feet. Maybe that'll make a little more sense if we keep going. The entire passage has an emphasis on the life yet to come - heaven, glory, over Jordan, Colorado, whatever you want to call it, o.k? And the surface reading seems to be that this life is a crapshoot and the good stuff is yet to come; however, first we've got to endure this vale of tears. I've no problem with that - I believe there's much truth there. But, if God is whetting our appetite by giving us a taste of what's ahead and He's putting a little of heaven in our hearts, where is that taking place? [Cut to the chase] I believe those heavenly appetizers are being served to us right here on earth in the realm of blood and bone and sinew and muscle and spit and pee and earwax. I mean, where else could it be happening? Some might answer, "Well, in the spirit." Forgive me, but I don't know what that means. That sounds very ethereal, quite other-worldly and just a little Gnostic; Gnostic, as in, secretive, as in, you have to have the secret handshake or know the secret DaVinci code to get in the "spirit."
So, maybe the challenge is for us to continually be attentive to the world inside and around us, because that's where these foretastes are occurring; in other words, via our senses. There's a wonderful phrase in the story of the prodigal son that the entire story turns on - "When he came to his senses..." What if that means not only his thoughts or reason, but it equally means his sight, smell, taste, hearing, and so on. Maybe being heavenly-minded means being earthly attentive? Not numbed to our senses, as many of us usually are, but truly awake and alive to what we're seeing or hearing or tasting. One writer referred to what we usually do as "unconscious Christianity" - not fully present. So many believers or people of faith I've met over the years are so uncomfortable with their bodies that the senses are totally shut down or cinched up tight in a girdle of some sort - spiritual, I'm sure. But what if God is trying to show us images, sing us songs or feed us meals of what's to come, but we continually miss them? The New Testament definition of "sin" is missing the mark - could the negation of the body and her senses be sinful? We usually think of it the other way around...More later.
This is a verse from one of the Anglican readings for this coming Sunday. I've been asked to preach, so it's on my mind. Then again, it may be on the tip of my tongue. Or the palms of my hands. Possibly the balls of my feet. Maybe that'll make a little more sense if we keep going. The entire passage has an emphasis on the life yet to come - heaven, glory, over Jordan, Colorado, whatever you want to call it, o.k? And the surface reading seems to be that this life is a crapshoot and the good stuff is yet to come; however, first we've got to endure this vale of tears. I've no problem with that - I believe there's much truth there. But, if God is whetting our appetite by giving us a taste of what's ahead and He's putting a little of heaven in our hearts, where is that taking place? [Cut to the chase] I believe those heavenly appetizers are being served to us right here on earth in the realm of blood and bone and sinew and muscle and spit and pee and earwax. I mean, where else could it be happening? Some might answer, "Well, in the spirit." Forgive me, but I don't know what that means. That sounds very ethereal, quite other-worldly and just a little Gnostic; Gnostic, as in, secretive, as in, you have to have the secret handshake or know the secret DaVinci code to get in the "spirit."
So, maybe the challenge is for us to continually be attentive to the world inside and around us, because that's where these foretastes are occurring; in other words, via our senses. There's a wonderful phrase in the story of the prodigal son that the entire story turns on - "When he came to his senses..." What if that means not only his thoughts or reason, but it equally means his sight, smell, taste, hearing, and so on. Maybe being heavenly-minded means being earthly attentive? Not numbed to our senses, as many of us usually are, but truly awake and alive to what we're seeing or hearing or tasting. One writer referred to what we usually do as "unconscious Christianity" - not fully present. So many believers or people of faith I've met over the years are so uncomfortable with their bodies that the senses are totally shut down or cinched up tight in a girdle of some sort - spiritual, I'm sure. But what if God is trying to show us images, sing us songs or feed us meals of what's to come, but we continually miss them? The New Testament definition of "sin" is missing the mark - could the negation of the body and her senses be sinful? We usually think of it the other way around...More later.
Amazin' Grace
Bewildered in our timely dwelling place,
Where we arrive by work, we stay by grace. - Wendell Berry
How much grace can one receive? - Father Murray
Two of my favorite poets; thanks, boys. The question of grace, posed most eloquently by Father Murray and hinted at by Mr. Berry. I pondered the question this morning while driving to propose some work to a publisher. The backdrop for my commute was Josh Groban music and the Front Range of the Rockies, Pikes Peak style to be specific; two elements of grace in their own right. How much can one receive? To ask some would bring a reply of, "What grace? Not much in my life." That's fair. But I cannot answer that way. My reply would be, "Grace? How do I receive thee? Let me count the ways." Where do I begin?
I feel grace is like manna - enough for the day and then you begin again. So I'll begin with today. This meeting with a publisher I had is, on some level, the culmination of almost two years of writing and editing and editing and writing. I wished it would've happened sooner, but grace sometimes seems shy; like it needs to be wooed or something. Our meeting was good - lots of affirmation and encouragement and hope-full talk of today and tomorrow. I left with gratitude, thinking, "How much grace can one receive?"
About five minutes from home, my cell phone rang; it was my daughter. She had good news - euangelion! After months of trying and falling and scraping and skinning, she rode the length of our street on her bike. I had tried to help her for months, but to no avail. My wife held her seat once today, gave her a push, and whala! Truly, in the fullness of time. I got home and we proceeded out to the road, where I watched my little girl ride like she'd been doing it for years. The smile on her face was almost as big as mine. My family just stood there on the curb, with the hot Colorado wind in our faces, watching a blond on a bike doing figure eights and I thought, "How much grace can one receive?"
How much can one receive? I guess it depends on how open your hands are. Or your eyes and ears. It may even depend on how much you're willing to commit to something, e.g., work (Berry's quote above). Not that grace is a result of our efforts or work, but being able to receive grace is often times, in my experience, the result of stepping into a job or a marriage or a friendship. Or getting back up on the bike. Or writing yet another cheezy column for some low-paying gig. But you open yourself to it and it creates space; space for grace. Spaceum et graceum or whateverthehell the Latin is. And it seems like grace is always there, just waiting to be asked to dance. But it won't force itself on us - it needs an opening or an invitation. How much grace can one receive? How open can one be to people, places and things? How willing can one be to write in obscurity for a season? How courageous can one be and get back up on the bike? How loving can one be to someone who always wounds with words or silence? How strong can one be in the face of the false self? Lotsa space, lotsa grace. That's enough for today. There'll be fresh grace on the ground in the morning. But you may have to stoop down to pick it up.
Where we arrive by work, we stay by grace. - Wendell Berry
How much grace can one receive? - Father Murray
Two of my favorite poets; thanks, boys. The question of grace, posed most eloquently by Father Murray and hinted at by Mr. Berry. I pondered the question this morning while driving to propose some work to a publisher. The backdrop for my commute was Josh Groban music and the Front Range of the Rockies, Pikes Peak style to be specific; two elements of grace in their own right. How much can one receive? To ask some would bring a reply of, "What grace? Not much in my life." That's fair. But I cannot answer that way. My reply would be, "Grace? How do I receive thee? Let me count the ways." Where do I begin?
I feel grace is like manna - enough for the day and then you begin again. So I'll begin with today. This meeting with a publisher I had is, on some level, the culmination of almost two years of writing and editing and editing and writing. I wished it would've happened sooner, but grace sometimes seems shy; like it needs to be wooed or something. Our meeting was good - lots of affirmation and encouragement and hope-full talk of today and tomorrow. I left with gratitude, thinking, "How much grace can one receive?"
About five minutes from home, my cell phone rang; it was my daughter. She had good news - euangelion! After months of trying and falling and scraping and skinning, she rode the length of our street on her bike. I had tried to help her for months, but to no avail. My wife held her seat once today, gave her a push, and whala! Truly, in the fullness of time. I got home and we proceeded out to the road, where I watched my little girl ride like she'd been doing it for years. The smile on her face was almost as big as mine. My family just stood there on the curb, with the hot Colorado wind in our faces, watching a blond on a bike doing figure eights and I thought, "How much grace can one receive?"
How much can one receive? I guess it depends on how open your hands are. Or your eyes and ears. It may even depend on how much you're willing to commit to something, e.g., work (Berry's quote above). Not that grace is a result of our efforts or work, but being able to receive grace is often times, in my experience, the result of stepping into a job or a marriage or a friendship. Or getting back up on the bike. Or writing yet another cheezy column for some low-paying gig. But you open yourself to it and it creates space; space for grace. Spaceum et graceum or whateverthehell the Latin is. And it seems like grace is always there, just waiting to be asked to dance. But it won't force itself on us - it needs an opening or an invitation. How much grace can one receive? How open can one be to people, places and things? How willing can one be to write in obscurity for a season? How courageous can one be and get back up on the bike? How loving can one be to someone who always wounds with words or silence? How strong can one be in the face of the false self? Lotsa space, lotsa grace. That's enough for today. There'll be fresh grace on the ground in the morning. But you may have to stoop down to pick it up.
Beauty via rabbitears
The children were nestled, all snug in their beds. The sandman had sprinkled his dust on the wife and she was out for the count. And that left me, awake, tired, but not ready to slip into the rhythms of darkness just yet. I turned on the television and the PBS channel was the first to greet me. We do not have cable, so I adjusted the rabbitears and sat back down. A presentation was on that I had seen bits and pieces of, but never the entire show; it was a concert - Celtic Woman. Four young women sing hauntingly beautiful songs for a captive audience in Dublin; and then there's one young fiddle player. There's a lush orchestra supporting them, backup singers, and a video screen with screensaver type images that correspond to the music. It is simply spellbinding. And I was taken captive by its magic.
I knew I was tired. I hadn't slept much the night before and my emotions were quite close to the surface. Nothing wrong with that, mind you - it's just where I was. Within minutes I found myself weeping and smiling and being so grateful that I had randomly landed on this channel. Random; helluva word, huh? Yeah, I don't believe it either. I watched as these young women, physically striking in their beauty, sang individually and as a group for the crowd - songs such as "You Lift Me Up," "Nella Fantasia" and "Orinoco Flow." The traditional Celtic instruments were all there, especially the fiddle. The songs were about love and sorrow and longing and death and earth and sky and blood and hopes and dreams. I watched as the crowd, young and old, sat on the edge of their seats, singing along when they knew the words and nodding along when they didn't; they knew, as I did, that we were in the presence of beauty. Maybe there's another word to describe the experience, but I'll stick with beauty. A vein was opened up in my heart, mind, soul and strength and beauty was transfused in. And I felt alive.
When I think about what I could have watched last night instead: the early news - sorry, no beauty there; some show hosted by Donald Trump - yeah, faggitaboudit; a couple of canned laughter ridden sitcoms - how mindless can it get? Now this is no plug for public broadcasting, but it is a plea for beauty. When the scriptures tell us to fill our minds with beauty (Phillipians 4.8ff), what do we usually think about? More scripture? Thomas Kinkaid paintings (that's probably not how you spell his name; I guess I'd know if I had any of his stuff)? Happy thoughts? What do you think about or dwell on? The number of people watching Celtic Woman last night probably paled in comparison to the numbers watching reruns of Friends, the 10pm news, and that Trump show. But the way to life is narrow, Jesus said; you're probably not going to be able to fit many people on it at once. Last night there was room enough for some Celtic women, a captive audience, and me. And a fiddle player. And if you think all these Celtic women were paper-thin magazine models and that's all this post is about- faggitaboudit!
The Merman Stump
About a year ago, my wife read Sue Monk Kidd's The Mermaid Chair. She really enjoyed it and felt like I would too. I checked it out on one of those 7-day limit bestseller deals at the library. Seven days came and went without ever sitting in the mermaid chair. However, I saw it at the library the other day and thought I'd give it another shot - no 7-day limit on me this time. I was a little put off at first - I kept thinking, "God, I could write this." But then I realized that no, I'm not sure I could write this, at least not right now. Kidd's book is fiction and the heroine of her novel awakes one day in a dark wood and takes a road less traveled and ends up falling in love with a monk. Yeah, some road. She finds herself awakening after years of a good marriage to a good man in a good place. But some great things, like passion, desire, hopes and dreams got buried in all of that good. And she realizes that's bad.
I'm about halfway through the book. A little like I'm about halfway through my life. I'm 39 - I hope to live to be 78 and still be a presence in a room; but that may not happen. I did awake a few years ago in a dark wood - sorta. And I did take a road less traveled - at least in terms of the roads my family has traditionally taken. I didn't fall in love with a monk. But I may have become one - sorta. And I have realized that a life full of good can get in the way of great; that hopes and dreams and passions can get lost over the years. And that's bad. But, you say, what about the new dreams that have been birthed or the new passions that have been kindled while being or doing good? You know, here on the backside of thirty, I believe you are born with hopes and dreams and passions specific to you and no one else. And over the years those stay the same. Oh, they nuance on you sometimes and may end up being a little different color, but those core dreams keep breaking the surface. Like some mermaid that keeps swimming alongside your boat, cresting at just the right times and cutting those nautical eyes at you and beckoning you to follow her into the depths of the channel less traveled. Those little sea-shell tops are quite a number.
I'll finish Kidd's book; hopefully this week. And I'll finish my life - someday. I hope at the end of her book to close the back cover and smile, content at having read a great book. And I hope to one day die content at having lived a great life. Not one that got interviews on the Today show or left millions to school libraries, mind you. But one that believed in mermaids. And followed them. And became a merman - sorta.
In Memoriam - J.W. Taylor, died May 23, 2006
In Memoriam - My PePa, J.W. Taylor
You've lived in the past for years now.
Family would try and invite you into the moment -
Here, have another piece of pie. How about some coffee?
You would eat their food and drink their drink, small concessions to calm their fears.
They were afraid they had lost you to another time and so they did what people do when they don't know what to do - eat.
They couldn't see you. But I felt I could. You entire body was a window.
When I would look into your eyes, I would see men at work in the sawmill -
men closer than brothers chewing tobacco and sweating out chambray shirts with grizzled chins.
Your hair-ridden ears perked for the squeak of a porchswing and the intoxicating hum of the cicadas .
The tanned nose longing for the whiff of the green of tomato plants striving for the sunlight as you tended and watered,
and then harvested like no one else in town.
And your small, but vise-like hands lighting firecrackers in the yard as children squealed on the fourth of July.
Yes, you'd been living in the past for years now.
And then your heart stopped. Was the longing for days-gone-by too much?
Did you cry in the early morning hours when no one knew with a grief that just became more than you could bear?
They didn't talk much about you at the funeral. They talked about themselves quite a bit.
There were flowers and singing and...food - like you'd expect.
But I saw you there in that casket.
Strapped into a pin-striped suit God doesn't give a damn about.
And then I noticed your wristwatch. And it was running.
Even at the end, they tried to keep you bound in time.
But you left. Where'd you go?
I hope to the place of your heart's desire.
A place where children and cicadas and tobacco and tomatoes fill your days and nights.
A place where she is, she who went before you did. A place of warm.
I placed my hand on your forehead before they closed the lid.
You were as cold as ice. You were not there. You'd been cold for years now.
You've lived in the past for years now.
Family would try and invite you into the moment -
Here, have another piece of pie. How about some coffee?
You would eat their food and drink their drink, small concessions to calm their fears.
They were afraid they had lost you to another time and so they did what people do when they don't know what to do - eat.
They couldn't see you. But I felt I could. You entire body was a window.
When I would look into your eyes, I would see men at work in the sawmill -
men closer than brothers chewing tobacco and sweating out chambray shirts with grizzled chins.
Your hair-ridden ears perked for the squeak of a porchswing and the intoxicating hum of the cicadas .
The tanned nose longing for the whiff of the green of tomato plants striving for the sunlight as you tended and watered,
and then harvested like no one else in town.
And your small, but vise-like hands lighting firecrackers in the yard as children squealed on the fourth of July.
Yes, you'd been living in the past for years now.
And then your heart stopped. Was the longing for days-gone-by too much?
Did you cry in the early morning hours when no one knew with a grief that just became more than you could bear?
They didn't talk much about you at the funeral. They talked about themselves quite a bit.
There were flowers and singing and...food - like you'd expect.
But I saw you there in that casket.
Strapped into a pin-striped suit God doesn't give a damn about.
And then I noticed your wristwatch. And it was running.
Even at the end, they tried to keep you bound in time.
But you left. Where'd you go?
I hope to the place of your heart's desire.
A place where children and cicadas and tobacco and tomatoes fill your days and nights.
A place where she is, she who went before you did. A place of warm.
I placed my hand on your forehead before they closed the lid.
You were as cold as ice. You were not there. You'd been cold for years now.
Just a touch
"The thing that does not touch us, the merely 'looked at,' the mere object, cannot be manifest reality basically understood. In the ancient Hebrew sense of the word - that with which there is not the intimacy of touch is not truly 'known.' No intimacy: no revelation. No revelation: no true givenness of reality."
-Henry Bugbee, The Inward Morning
"Touch. It is touch that is the deadliest enemy of chastity, loyalty, monogamy, gentility with its codes and conventions and restraints. By touch we are betrayed, and betray others." - Wallace Stegner, Angle of Repose
I began this post last Thursday. But I couldn't get past the quotes - until today. So here we go. If this ends up sounding like a rant, please let me know - that is not my desire. I sat in our church service this morning, singing a strange brew of hymns and choruses. One of the choruses we sang had these words as the refrain, to be faithfully repeated many, many times: "This world has nothing for me. This world has nothing for me. This world has nothing for me." People were intently singing the words, many of them with eyes closed and arms wide open. The final song for the morning was an old toe stompin' hymn - I'll Fly Away. It's lyrics go something like this: "Some glad morning when this life is o'er, I'll fly away. To a land on God's celestial shores, I'll fly away." Folks sang this one just as intently, but now eyes were open and their hands were a'clappin'. I believe both of these songs, probably among many others, reveal a basic attitude that most believers have toward God's world - the quicker we can get out of here, the better. This world has nothing for me, all I need is Jesus. And at least one morning in my life will be glad, as opposed to all the other crappy ones, and this one will find me on the teleporter pad ready to be beamed up to God's celestial shores.
I will use the collective "we" in these words, for I am complicit in this and I know of at least two or three others gathered in His name who do it too. We, as believers, don't want to be touched by this world. We uphold a strange chastity and gentility that leaves us bereft of intimacy and therefore revelation and therefore reality. We claim to worship the one who decided on touching and being touched by this world, yet we longingly sing (always a good measure of our theology) of a life untouched. Do I look forward to a day when the cancer that wrestles with my daughter's friend will concede? You bet. And I do believe that Jesus is what she needs, but she also needs her dad's strong arms and her mother's gentle embrace. And the belonging of friends, like my daughter, to hold her hand as her hair falls out. Maybe all those things are Jesus for and to her. Do I hope for some glad morning when married couples can live for better or better instead of that worse stuff? Hell, yes. But I also know that there have been days of betrayal when she should have flown away, but she didn't. And the shores my wife and I walked on weren't celestial, but they were real. And revelation, even if less than desirable, was tangible. And we learned things we didn't know about one another and were humbled. And we were grateful that this life wasn't o'er, if at least for one more day, so we could try again. To try to touch and be touched. To risk being intimate and understood. And to dream dreams of being real and sing songs like "I Am, I Said" by Neil Diamond, which is neither a chorus or a hymn, but maybe should be. I've always heard that God inhabits the praises of His people. But what if those praises are bogus goods? Shoddy theology? Although broken, this is the world He created by his spoken word and on some level, it's still good. And we turn our faces from it and look to the skies and close our eyes and open our arms. And He says, "Remove you shoes. Open your eyes. Wiggle your toes. You're on holy ground."
-Henry Bugbee, The Inward Morning
"Touch. It is touch that is the deadliest enemy of chastity, loyalty, monogamy, gentility with its codes and conventions and restraints. By touch we are betrayed, and betray others." - Wallace Stegner, Angle of Repose
I began this post last Thursday. But I couldn't get past the quotes - until today. So here we go. If this ends up sounding like a rant, please let me know - that is not my desire. I sat in our church service this morning, singing a strange brew of hymns and choruses. One of the choruses we sang had these words as the refrain, to be faithfully repeated many, many times: "This world has nothing for me. This world has nothing for me. This world has nothing for me." People were intently singing the words, many of them with eyes closed and arms wide open. The final song for the morning was an old toe stompin' hymn - I'll Fly Away. It's lyrics go something like this: "Some glad morning when this life is o'er, I'll fly away. To a land on God's celestial shores, I'll fly away." Folks sang this one just as intently, but now eyes were open and their hands were a'clappin'. I believe both of these songs, probably among many others, reveal a basic attitude that most believers have toward God's world - the quicker we can get out of here, the better. This world has nothing for me, all I need is Jesus. And at least one morning in my life will be glad, as opposed to all the other crappy ones, and this one will find me on the teleporter pad ready to be beamed up to God's celestial shores.
I will use the collective "we" in these words, for I am complicit in this and I know of at least two or three others gathered in His name who do it too. We, as believers, don't want to be touched by this world. We uphold a strange chastity and gentility that leaves us bereft of intimacy and therefore revelation and therefore reality. We claim to worship the one who decided on touching and being touched by this world, yet we longingly sing (always a good measure of our theology) of a life untouched. Do I look forward to a day when the cancer that wrestles with my daughter's friend will concede? You bet. And I do believe that Jesus is what she needs, but she also needs her dad's strong arms and her mother's gentle embrace. And the belonging of friends, like my daughter, to hold her hand as her hair falls out. Maybe all those things are Jesus for and to her. Do I hope for some glad morning when married couples can live for better or better instead of that worse stuff? Hell, yes. But I also know that there have been days of betrayal when she should have flown away, but she didn't. And the shores my wife and I walked on weren't celestial, but they were real. And revelation, even if less than desirable, was tangible. And we learned things we didn't know about one another and were humbled. And we were grateful that this life wasn't o'er, if at least for one more day, so we could try again. To try to touch and be touched. To risk being intimate and understood. And to dream dreams of being real and sing songs like "I Am, I Said" by Neil Diamond, which is neither a chorus or a hymn, but maybe should be. I've always heard that God inhabits the praises of His people. But what if those praises are bogus goods? Shoddy theology? Although broken, this is the world He created by his spoken word and on some level, it's still good. And we turn our faces from it and look to the skies and close our eyes and open our arms. And He says, "Remove you shoes. Open your eyes. Wiggle your toes. You're on holy ground."
Enough
"There are so few of us left...There are so few left, so few who believe the earth is enough."
-Harry Middleton, The Earth Is Enough
Melancholy on the mountains tonight. Dusk was nothing short of heartbreaking. I sat on my back steps with a Sunshine beer and bare feet. The sky was layered with blue-black clouds. There was a ridge of sunlight just atop the Front Range mountains, which in perspective looked like a window of heaven, cracked just enough so the sun could squeeze through. I just decided to listen awhile. I heard geese honking overhead, although I never could find them in the sky. They were behind the curtain of clouds, hidden but heard. But just the sound of them settled me; wildness, pure and simple. My neighbor's aspen leaves were shaking. Not the golden, unmistakable quakers of October - no, these were the green, eager shakers of May. I guess after shaking all spring, there's not much left to do but quake in autumn. Their shaking was Sabbath-inducing; gentle reminders that there are moments you contribute nothing to - they're simply there as a gift. Like the geese. And the clouds and bare feet. Actually, my wife bought me the beer, so it was a few moments between day and night that were full of gifts. And they were enough.
One of my best friends told me one evening around sunset, "John, it's all a gift." I've held onto that statement for years now. I believe he was and is right. He's the only person I've ever heard articulate that. Oh, I've read it in books by Wendell Berry or Ed Abbey, but I rarely, if ever, hear anyone say that aloud. It seems to be an incredibly minority position. Possibly the narrow way? The road is wide that leads to destruction, but the narrow way leads to life. I don't always live that way, mind you. Some days I bark at the sun and moon and wonder just what in the holy hell is going on? But every once in a while, and hopefully on a more frequent basis, I remove my shoes and sit on holy ground and hear the still, small voice of geese and Aspen leaves saying, "Be still. The earth is enough." The sunlight winked at me one last time and then ducked behind the mountains. I finished the beer, got up, and went inside. Lord, fill my dreams with geese and leaves tonight. I miss them already.
The Vagina Dialogues
I came home from work today and my son (9) met me at the door with a song about vaginas. I let him sing it and then asked him where he heard that word. I immediately felt the shame meter rising in the room, so I quickly told him he wasn't in trouble, but that he and I needed to talk about that word. It came out that somebody named Seth taught him the song today at school. When I asked him if he knew what vagina meant, he pointed to his chest. The song's lyrics went something like "Boys have small vaginas and girls have big ones..." So, with my incredible fatherly deductive powers, I reckoned that vagina is equated with breast in his mind or at least in the mind of savvy second grader Seth, who taught him the song. Well, looks like we'll spend some time talking about vaginas this weekend - just the guys. Should be good.
I'm not overly joyous about Seth lifting the skirt on sex for my son. However, it happens that way, like it or not. You can try and be proactive all you want, but it doesn't always work out that the way those guys who focus on your family say it does. I remember a second grade friend named Marcus Hines. Marcus' skin was as black as mine is white and he wore an afro and walked with a physicality I'm just now coming into at age 39. I remember the day in the boys bathroom when Marcus pulled out a picture that had been folded over several times and motioned for me to "come 'mere." What eventually unfolded was a woman whose skin was as black as mine is white, but who didn't have a stitch of clothes on to save her life. I recall some level of arousal at that moment, probably due to the fact that it was something we were doing in secret, hushed bathroom tones. The sexual aspect of that moment was overwhelming - I'd never seen anything like that or those before. And then it was over. Somebody came in and Marcus quickly put a wrap on the goods and we returned to the innocence of the playground, where teachers stood like heroes at the boundaries and girls were skipping rope in white Keds and Red-Rovered boys kept calling on the wimpy guys to try and break the line.
I don't know what all I'll say to my son. But we'll stumble through it. I'll probably tell him about Marcus Hines and hopefully he'll tell me a little more about Seth. But we won't talk about it in the bathroom; we'll probably go outside and swing - talk about grown-up things while doing a childlike thing. We'll try and get the breast/vagina difference cleared up; shouldn't be too difficult. I'll more than likely tell him that Seth is full of crap, like ole' Marcus was; boys trying to be men too fast, too soon. Maybe he'll ask me questions and I'll try and answer them. And maybe he'll say, "O.k. Can we swing some more?" And maybe, just maybe, vaginas and breasts will wait, not forever, but for just a little longer while I stand behind my boy and push him higher and higher. Then he'll say, "I got it dad." And I'll back up and watch him reach for the sky as geese honk overhead and the chain bounces beneath his weight. And maybe I'll hum a little song myself, though it won't have vaginas, big or small, in it. Maybe it will be a song of the boy, on the edge of the quest, swinging back to me for strength and clarity about things and swinging away from me into the world of boys like Seth eager to be men and girls with vaginas skipping rope in white Keds...
I'm not overly joyous about Seth lifting the skirt on sex for my son. However, it happens that way, like it or not. You can try and be proactive all you want, but it doesn't always work out that the way those guys who focus on your family say it does. I remember a second grade friend named Marcus Hines. Marcus' skin was as black as mine is white and he wore an afro and walked with a physicality I'm just now coming into at age 39. I remember the day in the boys bathroom when Marcus pulled out a picture that had been folded over several times and motioned for me to "come 'mere." What eventually unfolded was a woman whose skin was as black as mine is white, but who didn't have a stitch of clothes on to save her life. I recall some level of arousal at that moment, probably due to the fact that it was something we were doing in secret, hushed bathroom tones. The sexual aspect of that moment was overwhelming - I'd never seen anything like that or those before. And then it was over. Somebody came in and Marcus quickly put a wrap on the goods and we returned to the innocence of the playground, where teachers stood like heroes at the boundaries and girls were skipping rope in white Keds and Red-Rovered boys kept calling on the wimpy guys to try and break the line.
I don't know what all I'll say to my son. But we'll stumble through it. I'll probably tell him about Marcus Hines and hopefully he'll tell me a little more about Seth. But we won't talk about it in the bathroom; we'll probably go outside and swing - talk about grown-up things while doing a childlike thing. We'll try and get the breast/vagina difference cleared up; shouldn't be too difficult. I'll more than likely tell him that Seth is full of crap, like ole' Marcus was; boys trying to be men too fast, too soon. Maybe he'll ask me questions and I'll try and answer them. And maybe he'll say, "O.k. Can we swing some more?" And maybe, just maybe, vaginas and breasts will wait, not forever, but for just a little longer while I stand behind my boy and push him higher and higher. Then he'll say, "I got it dad." And I'll back up and watch him reach for the sky as geese honk overhead and the chain bounces beneath his weight. And maybe I'll hum a little song myself, though it won't have vaginas, big or small, in it. Maybe it will be a song of the boy, on the edge of the quest, swinging back to me for strength and clarity about things and swinging away from me into the world of boys like Seth eager to be men and girls with vaginas skipping rope in white Keds...
Mandate of the mountains
"They are being forced to violate the big echo, the mandate, of the mountains: be big and live big, dramatic lives...I'm all for the small things. They stir my intellect with their intricate, almost incomprehensible beauties and complexities. But I am for the big things, too, the sight of which bypasses the intellect and shoots wild-juice and adrenaline straight into our hearts."
- Rick Bass, The Book of Yaak
Be big and live big, dramatic lives. I'm in a continuous struggle with this particular strand of thought; an angel I wrestle with daily. I deeply desire to live a big, dramatic life; however, some voice in my head keeps whispering, "Don't stand out or draw attention to yourself. Let the attention be drawn to God. He must increase and you must decrease." You can see how screwed up my mind is - or maybe you agree with those thoughts. But I've been fighting them for a long time. Because I like characters, big dramatic characters; and I want to be one. And I believe you can be big and be Christian or be dramatic and be godly or be full of wild-juice and adrenaline and also be full of grace. The quiet, aw-shucks, blend in at all costs life is one I cannot live. Why is the overriding message in the church a plea to live small lives? To take our humanity, with all its richness and variety, and whittle it all down to some humble-bumble-pie that wouldn't stir a cup of coffee, much less the heart of God? Where did that come from? The Puritans? Our own uncomfortableness with living in our own skin? I don't know. I'll continue to wrestle with this angel, this big, dramatic angel. But I echo Bass' invitation - Be big, be bold, be beautiful, be wild and scary and hairy. Don't tell somebody, "I'm going to be big." Just be big. And let the chips fall where they may or the fit hit the shan or whatever.
- Rick Bass, The Book of Yaak
Be big and live big, dramatic lives. I'm in a continuous struggle with this particular strand of thought; an angel I wrestle with daily. I deeply desire to live a big, dramatic life; however, some voice in my head keeps whispering, "Don't stand out or draw attention to yourself. Let the attention be drawn to God. He must increase and you must decrease." You can see how screwed up my mind is - or maybe you agree with those thoughts. But I've been fighting them for a long time. Because I like characters, big dramatic characters; and I want to be one. And I believe you can be big and be Christian or be dramatic and be godly or be full of wild-juice and adrenaline and also be full of grace. The quiet, aw-shucks, blend in at all costs life is one I cannot live. Why is the overriding message in the church a plea to live small lives? To take our humanity, with all its richness and variety, and whittle it all down to some humble-bumble-pie that wouldn't stir a cup of coffee, much less the heart of God? Where did that come from? The Puritans? Our own uncomfortableness with living in our own skin? I don't know. I'll continue to wrestle with this angel, this big, dramatic angel. But I echo Bass' invitation - Be big, be bold, be beautiful, be wild and scary and hairy. Don't tell somebody, "I'm going to be big." Just be big. And let the chips fall where they may or the fit hit the shan or whatever.
God's won't
I've heard the phrase "God's will" throughout my life; as the son of a preacher man, I've got the lingo down and "God's will" is at the top of the most heard list. It's a valid phrase, although it is usually butchered by whoever's talking about it. Folks have justified everything from unplanned pregnancies to Sept. 11th on God's will. I can't talk much about God's will anymore, whatever the hell that may be. But I can speak of God's won't.
GOD WON'T LET YOU GO THROUGH LIFE WITHOUT GETTING HURT. Almost two years ago now, I resigned from a pastoral role I was in. I had been working alongside a good friend, but the bright balloons of "wouldn't it be great to work together" began to pop one by one - mostly due to something called living from the heart. And when the last one popped, there was nothing to do but fall. Although we publicly declared my setting out for new vistas as God's will, I don't believe we knew what we were talking about; it just sounded good and we buttered it with some bible verses so folks could swallow it. Maybe so we could too.
But it hurt. Bad. I wanted God to come in and blow the top on some secrets in that ministry, but He said, "I won't." I really hoped God would strike a couple of idiots with butt boils or locusts lips, but He said, "I won't." I prayed that a last minute mailman would enter the room that morning of my resignation with bags full of "We believe in John" letters and the judge would rule that "yes, Virginia, the heart really is good." But God said, "Nope. Won't do it, John. We're just gonna' have to fall on this one." But there was one other "won't" that surfaced during that time - the still, small Voice said, "I won't let go of you. Just hang on." And now, almost two years later, I'm beginning to see men as trees walking, beginning to see the necessary woundings that are a part of living from the heart.
There's a dangerous theology out there that says if you do the right things, you won't get hurt. You can read it among the religiously-always-right-evangelical-all-stars, hear it ooze from cable t.v. Armani-preachers, or get it from your neighbor with all those fish decals on the back of his naviburban. But that stuff does more damage to God's Kingdom than all the incantations Harry Potter could ever conjure up. GOD WON'T LET YOU GO THROUGH LIFE WITHOUT GETTING HURT. I imagine Jesus wondered about that while nailed to a cross. And the still, small Voice said, "Just hang on."
Love what you love
A few lines from Mary Oliver -
"You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves."
Ole' Tom T. Hall had a song my dad played called "I love." It was simple and profound at the same time; just a listing of what he loved. Letting myself love what I love. There may be no greater challenge in this life. I'm not Mary Oliver or Tom T. Hall, but here goes:
I love putting my hand on our kids' chests when they're asleep and feeling their hearts beat. Three kids and three different rhythms.
I love reading a footnote in a book about another book and searching out that book and falling for a new author. I discovered Rick Bass by way of David James Duncan that way.
I love spoonin' up against my wife at night. After sixteen years together, we still fit like puzzle pieces.
I love listening to music my dad introduced me to and thinking about him and crying - maybe a song like "Sunday Morning Coming Down."
I love the smell of boot leather in a western store. It's just plum erotic. Tony Lama #12 turns me on over Chanel #5 any day.
I love dusk; those moments when one world ends and another begins. It is my time of the day. Bittersweet, fleeting, beautiful; kind of like autumn - my season.
I love the essence of communion wine just before the chalice tips my way and I take and drink. I also love licking the remainder out of my beard as I return to my seat.
Those are a few of the things the soft animal of my body loves; the baskets I'm putting my eggs in. I'm tired of being good and walking on my knees. I don't love that.
"You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves."
Ole' Tom T. Hall had a song my dad played called "I love." It was simple and profound at the same time; just a listing of what he loved. Letting myself love what I love. There may be no greater challenge in this life. I'm not Mary Oliver or Tom T. Hall, but here goes:
I love putting my hand on our kids' chests when they're asleep and feeling their hearts beat. Three kids and three different rhythms.
I love reading a footnote in a book about another book and searching out that book and falling for a new author. I discovered Rick Bass by way of David James Duncan that way.
I love spoonin' up against my wife at night. After sixteen years together, we still fit like puzzle pieces.
I love listening to music my dad introduced me to and thinking about him and crying - maybe a song like "Sunday Morning Coming Down."
I love the smell of boot leather in a western store. It's just plum erotic. Tony Lama #12 turns me on over Chanel #5 any day.
I love dusk; those moments when one world ends and another begins. It is my time of the day. Bittersweet, fleeting, beautiful; kind of like autumn - my season.
I love the essence of communion wine just before the chalice tips my way and I take and drink. I also love licking the remainder out of my beard as I return to my seat.
Those are a few of the things the soft animal of my body loves; the baskets I'm putting my eggs in. I'm tired of being good and walking on my knees. I don't love that.
Stopping In
"There are cars and trucks parked outside the Dirty Shame when I go past - mostly trucks - and it looks warm and inviting, a glow in the night woods." -Rick Bass, Winter
Such is the initial description of the saloon Bass finds in the Yaak Valley of Northwestern Montana. It's a place where the hermits and recluses come in occasionally to re-member themselves among the larger family of humanity. I find myself somewhat of a hermit these days, doing a lot of writing and editing in my basement, alone, unkempt and content. However, I feel I need a place to stop in every once in a while from the solitary cold. Hopefully the words and thoughts here will be warm and inviting; if I'm lucky, maybe even "a glow in the night woods."
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