Anything Sacred

My father often has amusing ways of responding to things, and normally he does not recognize it, but my mother and I do; I use this quirk of his to preface this reflection. For example, about a year before I was born, my parents and my sister experienced a terrifying tragedy. In the middle of the night, a devastating tornado touched down in their neighborhood (this was in Bossier City, LA) and wreaked havoc upon their house and dozens of others. My sister almost died. The fear of thunderstorms plagued my mother for years afterward. Two decades later, when the summer blockbuster, Twister, came out, my father refused to ever see it. His response to my questions was quite simple. "I don't believe in that," he said.

Amusing, yes. Confusing, absolutely. How could he not believe in that movie? Granted, it was a pretty outlandish plot, but the basic theme that tornados are destructive forces of nature that need to be better studied should have been completely understood by my father, who experienced this reality at full force. Yet, my father separated himself from not only the movie, but the discussion of such things.

American Christianity has formed its own sub-culture, and has defaulted to this same attitude that my father expressed when confronted with that Jan de Bont film. It is impossible for Christians in America today to not be aware of the progression of the culture in all its different directional tangents (this is often described as a "decline" by many in the Church). But, in their awareness, they have shrunk away like children from their father's cane. "Separation" or "isolation" are becoming more and more the fitting words to describe the Church in America.

I fell victim to this sub-culture, mainly because it is quite deceptive in that, from the outset, it comes across as scriptural. Two of the main passages from the Bible that are cited often to argue that Christians should keep the world at no less than arm's length are 1st John 2:15-17 and Philippians 4:8. And truth be told, the Bible does address the danger of immersing oneself in the world, of taking worldly ways upon oneself. Unfortunately for the sub-culture, never is there mentioned the words "separation" or "isolation." Yet, as a member of this sub-culture from high school through college, I followed the unwritten rules that included: not seeing movies that were R (or, if they were, could have no nudity or sexual references in them - apparently violence and foul language were not as bad); I only read books in the Christian publishing market; I did not support the sinfully promiscuous music industry by purchasing any "secular music;" and of course, weekends never included attendance in any bars, clubs, or questionable parties.

And so, around four years ago, I was crippled by the effects of a massive YAWN. I became so bored - so completely unlike anything I saw in society - that I felt not only very alone, but also extremely ineffective in sharing the love of Jesus Christ with anyone. While many do it everyday (entire children, youth, and college retreats are built around it every summer), I found that separating myself from everything in the world did not make me something special (someone God stood up and applauded) - it only made me excrutiatingly dull. If we were honest with ourselves - with our sinful condition, whether we are Christians or non - I think the idea of God applauding anything having to do with our willpower would be highly laughable. Let's face it, one of the main reasons Christ died is because our willpower to refrain from disobedience is practically non-existent.

But the argument remains, as does the tired youth group-ish question, "Are you "in" the world, "out" of the world, or "of" the world?" (If that confuses anyone, "of" is the bad answer.) And this argument, which is quite intricate and vitally important, I believe, to the future of the Church, boils down to one main thing: Fear. Christians who resign themselves to dwell within this sub-culture (to refrain from the extreme realities of the world, like the recognition of crime, alcohol, drug use, disease, promiscuity, sexual confusion, etc.) might not admit this, but it is not necessarily faithfulness to their clean & tidy God that keeps them in this bubble - it is fear of what exposure to what is outside the bubble might do to them, how it will compromise their purity, mount an assault on their salvation.

I was rescued from the sub-cultural bubble not by any person, so much as a love for good writing and good music and good story-telling, things of which the Christian sub-culture market has little. The first to go was my refusal to read books by non-Christian writers. Being an English major in college, I would have had a difficult time sticking to my guns on that one. In finally opening my mind to both classic and contemporary writers who do not cater to the Christian bubble (though I have found several who are very inspiring Christians), I discovered an exciting new world unfolding before me. But, oh, my reserved sub-culture spirit was sweating nervous bullets ... These days, the music I listen to and the movies I enjoy no longer meet the criteria of the bubble - they meet my own criteria.

Thanks to several in depth conversations that have taken place over the past four months (two big ones in the last three days, actually), I believe I can communicate this sufficiently, at least as far as I'm concerned:

There are two amazing realities in life that determine what I get involved / show interest in. Beauty and Redemption. This stems from my belief in the truth of Scripture, most specifically the Gospel of Christ. I believe God incarnated himself to reveal to humanity these two things. The Creator wanted to show humankind where Beauty could truly be found, and from whence it ultimately originated (in the Creator), and the Creator wanted to make humankind aware of the fact that they are all bent towards Redemption, that every person's "story" is one that is attempting (often struggling) to find redemption (which, according to Scripture, only finds ultimate fulfillment in the overarching, all-sufficient redemption of Jesus on the cross and out of the tomb). Jesus illustrated these two realities in many ways - parables, lessons, sermons, miracles, healings - but none so great as the way he simply spent the days of his life, constantly journeying and surrounding himself with the downtrodden, the dirty, and the despicable (those who, today, would without question dwell outside the bubble). I believe, without a doubt, that Jesus daily spoke of Redemption to them, as well as honestly saw them as Beautiful. He did not allow their degradation or their careless living or their constant rebellion to deter him from spending time with them, being the Light in their darkness.

We strive to be like Jesus, and we continually cite this truth that he hung out with the rejects of society as that which strikingly communicates the boundlessness of his love. But we cannot resemble this love or be like Jesus from our isolated position in the bubble. And because so many do not budge from the sub-culture, the sub-culture is despised (and we shrug this off and quote the scripture that Jesus said the world would hate us). In essence, we are afraid of the world.



I am convinced that the problem with "the world" is not what those who do not know God do, but what those who do know God don't do. Rich Mullins once said, "What amazes me is that God did not come up with any plan B. The Church is it - it is God's hope for the world."

I do not think I am contrary to the verse out of 1st John when I write, "I love the world." I do - I love it. I am a huge fan of it, as well as the One who made it. No, I do not indulge in drugs. No, I am not sexually promiscuous. No, I have never been drunk. In fact, surprisingly, I have found that I am incorrupted by the detriments of the world even though I listen to music by unsaved songwriters, I go and see movies in which drugs are used, crimes are committed, and every once in a while, someone is nude for whatever reason. But, truthfully, I don't see these things. I see a story of determination and bravery, of waking up to the Beauty and wonder of life. I see flawed, hurting characters stumbling through their story, desperate for redemption. And I think to myself, "THIS is real life. THESE are the kind of people to whom I am called to show God's love. THIS is the world - the reality - in which I need to dwell." God knows the bubble is not succeeding in this.

Last night, in a conversation on this very subject, my friend, Grayson, remarked, "I wonder if it is such a bad thing to be 'desensitized.'" He went on to tell a Beautiful story about a short conversation, saturated in grace, that he had with one of the prostitutes that works on his street corner. "I told her 'hello' and asked her how she was and then I just said, 'You look great. You are so beautiful,'" Grayson recalls. "I don't know where that came from, but I know, in that moment, I absolutely meant it. ... I think that is exactly how Jesus saw people." I'm afraid those in the bubble would never be able to experience a grace-giving friendship with the prostitutes on 15th street - they would have moved out of that neighborhood at the first sign of worldliness.

Frederick Buechner writes, "Needless to say, church isn't the only place where the holy happens. Sacramental moments can occur at any moment, at any place, and to anybody. Watching something get born. Making love. A walk on the beach. Somebody coming to see you when you're sick. A meal with people you love. Looking into a stranger's eyes and finding out he's not a stranger. If we weren't as blind as bats, we might see that life itself is sacramental."

I'm new to this, and I do not claim to have just presented the best reflection on this subject. But I think of the book of Proverbs, where Wisdom calls from the streets, to the "naive" and the "fools." She cries for them to bend an ear to her and to come to her in the streets, for, to those who are not afraid to come, she offers understanding, righteousness, and knowledge. She offers herself. She offers the truth of God.

Haunted Again

It must have been quite confusing for him. My best friend, doing his best to make me laugh, expounding on his best material (those Aggie Corp stories normally have me rolling on the floor, holding my gut lest it bust), still could not draw much more than a strained chuckle from my lips the other night. Thankfully, others at the table in that Applebees had not heard these stories and kept him from any embarrassment by genuinely breaking into laughter, but I'm sure it confused him as to why I was not my usual self, parrying each of his jovial strikes with my own attempts at hilarity.

The next day I called Stevie and explained to him why I had not been myself over dinner. It is not often that I can visit my hometown and go out to dinner with my two best friends, Stevie and his wife, Jenny, so I felt terrible I had squandered what could have been a great evening out. I was honest with him; he's a good friend, in that, he knows when I'm being honest with him, confessing it all. "I was kind of depressed," I told Stevie. "You ever feel that way, man? Just sort of under the weather, mentally and emotionally?" He replied that he had indeed felt that way many times. "I think I'm just worried ... about resigning from the youth minister position, about transitioning to a third year of school ... about that girl ... about ... about ... about ..."



We are captives to worry most of out lives. Often, I believe, if we consider ourselves happy people, the worries that consume us are minor. They are normally manageable - we usually just accept them as an inevitability in life. They rub themselves into the grain of our lives - a few leave those little dark stains that don't bother us all that much as long as they stay small - and we do not think much of it. However, there are those seasons in life where all we know is worry. Tumbling, pompous boulders of worry fill up our minds and we're lucky if we can manifest a coherent thought in the midst of the avalanche. School work goes to pot, or at least becomes three-times the chore it ever was before. In every moment of silence the brain spins so loudly in its desperate effort to dig through the debris that there can rarely be found any peace.

We can call them "concerns." We can call them "issues." We can call them "points of focus." The criteria to understand all these as "worry" is quite simple - are they robbing me of peace? Are they drawing me away from a steadfast living of my life? Giving them a less intimidating, more manageable name does not really help, does it?

Rich Mullins wrote, "We are haunted by the ghosts of the "what ifs" who live in the shadows of the "if onlys." That certainly feels true - to be worried is to be haunted. And to be haunted is to be chained, to be boxed in, to be locked away, to be afraid. To be haunted is to be stripped of freedom.

Jesus declared, "If the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed" (John 8:36) Granted, he supposedly said this while discussing sinful nature with the Jews, not while discussing "worry." But the truth remains - we are called to live as people who have been set free. This includes (I submit that it is integrally related to) how we handle the presence of "worry" in our lives. We allow ourselves to be held captives within prison cells that have doors swung wide open. Night after night, we slowly rot in these cells, and rarely will anyone call out to us and remind us that we have not been locked in - most people are just like us, wallowing in their own open-door cages.

I do not advocate playing pretend. The reality of worry is too great and too serious to just live our lives acting as if nothing bothers us. Some people do this, and they appear to us as inhuman, like robots who cannot express emotion. And worry is not easy to get rid of; there is no easy-step formula despite what the good-intentioned Joel Osteens and Rick Warrens might say. Struggle is a reality within life, especially the Christian life. Take a look at any person in Scripture (or Church history) whose life was genuinely changed by God's revelation to them: hardships came to every one of them, many times with greater gusto than before they had experienced their Redeemer's touch.

So how do we marry the inevitability of worry/struggle with this call of the Savior to live as one who is free? To this I have only flowery, fluffy answers that will not sustain. But I'm reading a book right now that reminds me that the purpose of life is experienced not at the final destination, but slowly all along the journey. I think the answer to this question lies somewhere down this road I walk. This road you walk. This road we all walk.

There is one thing I do know - God, in calling us to so much, has not asked us to do "it" all, but simply to make an effort. We do not have to pretend we know what we're doing, or that, really, nothing is bothering us, or that we are only living right when we have everything situated in our lives just like we want it. In other words, when he says to cast our cares on him (Ps. 55:22), we are expected to cast. When he says not to let our hearts be troubled (John 14:1), we are to rest in our belief in him. When he says to keep in step with the Spirit (Gal. 5:25), we are to summon our weary feet to continue the journey. When he says to not be afraid (Jer. 1:8), we may recognize we are haunted by a hundred million things, but we should find no reason to shudder.

Two Paintings

There are two expensive prints of paintings in my house. I mustn't claim they are paintings, but prints of paintings, even though to simply state they are paintings makes me come across a bit more cultured. However, though they are prints, they are of fine quality, matted with accentuating colors, and encased in carefully selected frames. Both are gifts from my mother, both at Christmases, and both are special.

The first painting is by Rembrandt, The Return of the Prodigal Son. It is quite large and enclosed in a very expensive maroon and black, marble-like frame, and it hangs perfectly in the space above the small, thin fireplace mantle in living room. The painting is rather dark, ragged, even shadowy, and were it not for the image at its center - and the wonder of a story on which it is based - it might draw out distinct feelings of melancholy. But because of the two main figures upon which Rembrandt chose only to shed significant light, what is viewed is compassion verbed out in human forms, a father with a heart stricken with sudden joy clutching his dirty and despicable son's head to his chest. Love like has never been viewed before. Love far beyond degree ...

The second painting is a smaller print, encased in a rustic wooden frame that could be pine, or mesquite, or western oak (I really don't know much about the wood of trees). It is a painting called, The Circuit Rider, by southwestern contemporary artist, Kenneth Wyatt. Looking into this painting is like looking out a window into a windswept, snowy roll of hills, spotted with thrush and sage. In the center stands a man who cannot be clothed warmly enough for the darkening winter eve, despite his cowboy duster and his wide-brimmed hat. He stands beside his patient horse, staring down into a yawning, stretching valley. Behind his back, not in shame but in anticipation, he clutches a worn Bible in his left hand. He is still, pensive, and solemnly eager to move on into the valley. For in the far distance, at the base of a rising hill enclosing the valley into a sloping canyon, sits a simple, isolated house. A trail of smoke meanders upward into the chilled air, and even though it is nothing but a speck, this home appears very inviting, especially for a tired messenger of the Gospel, who seems unwilling to cease his duty of riding across the countryside, visiting those who dwell in the wild, and sharing with them a truth he holds onto tighter than the reigns on his horse ...

These two paintings are a reality that I desire for my life - this is why I write about them tonight (also because, though it is past 1 AM, I cannot coax myself into bed yet). They are a reality that I have not yet fully achieved, and I speak this on as physical a spiritual level as can be. If I had to dartboard my position within the scope of the lifestory these two paintings communicate, I would assume I am somewhere in the middle of them - somewhere between returning broken, poor, and needy to my recklessly loving Father, and stepping out in calm, faithful resolve to tell the world the euangelion, the good news, of Christ.

However, there are times when I feel I have not even come to a point that the lowdown and dirty son has in Rembrandt's masterpiece. If I were the prodigal son, a more accurate parable would have included me returning to the distant country and squandering a hundred - a thousand, a million - different inheritances, and returning shamefully to the father every time. Would the father still run to me and reveal himself undignified, hold me and render himself unclean, and kiss me and render himself a fool?

So much more is my fear that not only have I not found myself as confidently resolute as the circuit rider, but that I shall never finish such a path to becoming like him - I shall never be the servant God wants - does God need? - me to be.

And yet, these two paintings (prints, of course) hang in my house, and day after day my eyes glance past them. Rarely do I look - really give them the attention they most certainly deserve. But, gifts as they were, perhaps they were meant for more than a possession I can one day pass on to my own children (if I am so blessed). Perhaps they were meant for moments like this, late into the night, when I am desperate for an assuring voice from heaven approving my current lifewalk - when I am starving for a soothing gust of wonder. Maybe they are meant to remind me simply that whatever road I find myself on, whether it be facing a familiar home of grace or an unfamiliar destination of purpose, the only right move is to head in their direction.

On to Bethlehem

God wraps himself in human skin
for those who want a touch
And God let them drive the nails in
for those of us who know way too much
You come bearing all our burdens
to take your lovers for a ride
But we stay locked up in our cages
fashioned by our own design

It's cold this year and I'm late on my dues
It's cold in here, ah but that's nothing new
My heart's electric with your love again
So it's on to Bethlehem
On to Bethlehem

So tell me what is your secret?
What's on your blister soul?
What is that one little secret,
you know, the one that has taken its toll?
'Cause Daddy's banging on your gate again
No he won't leave you alone
He's got a whole lot of dry, warm rooms
and the finest of homes

It's cold this year and I'm late on my dues
It's cold in here, ah but that's nothing new
My heart's electric with your love again
So it's on to Bethlehem
On to Bethlehem
On to Bethlehem
On to Bethlehem

(final two verses of "On to Bethlehem" by Bill Mallonee and Vigilantes of Love)

*Thanks, Bill, for such a wonderful song.
______

The purpose of this blog was for it to serve as a personal reminder of the constant presence of the wonders of God, as well as an outlet for my thoughts and ideas on such a grand subject. Looking back over some of the posts, I realize most of the time my investigate of these wonders comes across rather happy-go-lucky - perhaps even a bit naive. It is not only in pleasure that one discovers (often stumbles unwittingly across) these little glories, these hidden but not hiding diamonds of life. To be honest with ourselves, we can find revelations of wonder in our pain - in our struggles, both large and small - as well.

In the last few years, an image has continually been recycled in my mind, elbowing its way to the forefront of my thoughts every so often. It is a picture of me ungracefully maneuvering a tightrope stretched high above a circus-like arena. I am somewhere in between the start of this precarious journey and its much awaited, much desired, much glory-filled end. I clutch one of those long rods and am trying my best to position it back and forth to maintain my balance, but it is obvious to myself and everyone in the audience that it is only a matter of time before I plummet off one side of the rope.

And what this image affords me as the two different sides below the tightrope are enough to rattle my nerves beyond my control. If I fall off one side, it will be right into the ring of the lions, all hungry and dissatisfied with life and pissed to be where they currently are. Assuming the simple impact doesn't kill me - and it probably won't - these merciless beasts will. On the other side of the rope, below me, stands proudly and pompously the ring leader and his little lackeys that race around following his commands like Oompa Loompas on speed. The ring leader and his assistants notice my uncertain position, my treacherously weakening footing, and looking up at me they frown. I know if I fall to them, I will absolutely ruin the whole show.

I will abandon drawing out this metaphor any further. This image serves as a constant reminder of the precarious position in which I often find myself in regards to the path I am walking between two worlds, both of which I love and I love to hate. The side of the rope with the lions is the world (or, as Christian sub-culture would label it, the "secular world"), and I know if I fall too far into it, it will eat me alive, causing me to compromise everything I hold as noble and absolutely true. And yet, it is an exciting world, full of danger and grandeur and power. The other side of the rope is the Church, and the manner in which it has become so absolutely terrified of failure, adverse to falling, and severely unappreciative of anything that would cause the show to look - if even for a moment - unprofessional. Where is one to fall, when both sides have become so threatening?

If the metaphor was nice and tidy, included in my image would be a strong safety net stretched under me like patient, loving hands. But, I must be honest, every time this image comes to mind, I see no such net.

I believe God is there ... but lately I have felt so far from him that the manner in which he would fit into the metaphor is only as the safety net I, the performer, in all my pride and carelessness, told the ringhands to keep stuffed in its box in the supply tent. This distance I feel from my Maker is of my own doing, my own wandering. I would rather wallow in my laziness, my carelessness, than spend time seeking him, inquiring as to his will, growing closer to him as my lover. This all has nothing to do with whether or not I am "doing my daily quiet time" or "pursuing my joy in him." It is a deeper struggle, stemming from a base condition of human desire in living. We do what is least risky, most of our lives, as far as internal, psychological and spiritual truth goes.

Before me lies my open notebook, where I scribble countless ideas for stories and my novel, to-do lists, and interesting quotes and thoughts that spring to mind. Scratched in my terrible, bump handwriting is a simple phrase that means more to me right now, in these days, than it probably did when I jotted it down many months ago. It reads, "The Church and Christians are at risk if they won't risk." Such is this truth, especially for me. I have to risk living like I am in love with my Lord, or everything around me will decay, whether it appears connected to my spiritual life or not.

But in the hustle and bustle of life, however, it is hard to find some time away, a period of separation, to clear our heads.

Tomorrow morning, I will rise once again at an ungodly hour (though the monastery experience did teach me that the earlier the hour, the more godly they sometimes seem) to begin the long, day's drive to youth camp with my kids. Though I am no stranger to these weeks, and all the fatigue and lack of sleep they bring to already harried youth ministers, I am actually looking forward to it. At least I will be able to get away, to take some time apart from the life I am experiencing at far too great a speed back home in Waco.

As the song I quoted (which brought tears to my ragged eyes as I heard it yesterday) says, "My hearts electric with your love again ..." This is my prayer - to regain a furiously loving heart for my God, to return to cherishing the simple love of my Savior. Tomorrow at 5:30 AM, the youth group might be saying, "On to Clinton, Mississippi."

My heart, however, will be saying, "On to Bethlehem."

Seeking to know him at the monastery ...