Summer in the City

It is a disconcerting thing to wake up, morning after morning, in a big city. Especially one like Houston. It is not that this sprawling megatropolis has not grown on me in some respects, but it is so big, spread wide as far as the eye can see from the vantage points of highway overpasses, hectic with little slow down, and sweltering hot. Instead of a peaceful backyard, I wake and unfold the blinds to view painters and lawn workers moving back and forth along the apartment community sidewalks between my porch and other units less than a stone's throw away. I grab the dog's leashes and lament every morning that I cannot let them simply run wild, which is what I'm sure they long to do, but instead must hold them back so that, in their desperate pull on the leashes, they look like sled dogs trudging through snow.

Except that there is no snow ... no countryside at all, really. Concrete mostly, and little spreads of grass.

It's not that I'm unhappy with where we live - our apartment and area of town - or with Houston in general. There are pros and cons to every city, every town. What I miss is the quiet. I miss long expanses of grass. Choruses of birds singing and not drowned out by weed-eaters, generators, and cars blasting by on the highway. I miss slowness. I miss calm.

The rigors of apartment life in a big city are nothing to complain about, really, so don't take this entry as proof of discontentment. It is a hope for adjustment as much as change. I want to live now, and not mourn the things I don't have. And yet...

This is my one hundredth post on this blog. One hundred entries. One hundred posts ago, I was living in Waco, attending seminary, searching for belonging in that place, living alone, feeling strangely part of a city and a small town all at once (Waco is strange in that way). I created this blog then to encourage myself not to shy away from expression, and to be mindful of all the little wisps of wonder that meander into our lives.

Sometimes I feel like that desire has been squelched by lost time and the big city. But it has not. It's still there, under the surface, and even my discouragement is proof of it.

Such a wish for slowness and rural country is helping me with my writing of late. The piece I'm currently at work on finds the protagonist debating his existence in a large city, and weighing the merits of retreating to a quieter, more homely place. But, of course, on the page I work now, he's still in the city, still searching, still struggling to find purpose in the midst of a thousand distractions, things that seem to lie in wait overnight and seize our attention as soon as our heads lift off the pillow and we swing our weary feet to the floor.

Leigh and her sister are visiting a friend in Wisconsin this week, and with mountains of work to do at the church in preparation for a new season of worship and activity, I'm stuck here in Houston. Driving her to the airport this morning along Beltway 8, my eyes fell sadly on rows of towering power line structures disappearing into the distance, and the way the scorching August sun glared off of them and created liquid-like waves of heat upon the asphalt. In that moment, the giant, metal towers could have been prison bars.

I realize wonder is an elusive thing, but sometimes I think I am just too lazy to seek it out. It's going to take some initiative, living here in the big city. For my sake, I hope I've got it in me.

No More Hiding Places

Several years ago, one random summer evening, I was participating in perhaps one of the greatest young evangelical past times: a hide 'n' seek game in the church. Now, unfortunately, the location was actually known as the "Family Life Center," which was separate from the old, creepy sanctuary with the rows of musty-smelling pews that so often draws hiders during an intense game. However, the large, two-story center contained plenty of challenges for the seeker, with nook-searching hiders able to choose from classrooms, choir robe cabinets, bathroom stalls, and even the elevator. I remember it being a great game...

That is, until, about an hour and a half in, my friend, Stevie, found the perfect hiding place. The place no seeker would ever look, unless they were a die hard investigator of every tiny crack and crevice in the building. It was also a place no other hider would have dared venture into, simply because of how unsafe the spot was, not to mention how soiled anyone who squeezed into the spot would most certainly get. But into this space Stevie squirmed, and sure enough, after every other hider was located, and everyone was prepared for yet another round, and they and the seeker patrolled the building again and again calling out for him, we heard Stevie shout in reply.

"I'm here!"

"Where are you?!" we all yelled, amazed yet also annoyed that we hadn't found him.

"Right up here."

"Where?!"

"Above you."

His voice was muffled, and it sounded as if he was on a different floor, but there were only two floors. For a moment we suspected he had somehow gotten on top of the elevator, but a quick inspection proved this was impossible without removing barriers that were bolted down.

We finally found him only because he tired of toying with us. He had stolen away to a small closet space, and had spied a hole in the ceiling tile. Though it was hardly larger than a dinner plate, Stevie had wriggled through and balanced himself precariously on the rafters above the second-floor ceiling. As long as he stayed quiet and still, no one ever would have found him. Had he not finally decided to show himself, not even the greatest seeker among us would have discovered him.

It occurs to me that despite the impressive measure Stevie went to to conceal himself (he eventually emerged from the hole covered in ceiling dust and grime), he ruined the game. No hiding place was good enough anymore, and no one would be able to top him. Not only so, but now every subsequent seeker would be suspicious enough to grab his or her flashlight and inspect the hole to make sure no one had stolen his idea. But this was not the biggest problem.

The goal of a traditional game of hide 'n' seek is to be found ... eventually. For the hider, it is to be the last found - to prove yourself the best at staying out of sight. For the seeker, it is to find everyone, no matter how well they conceal themselves. Stevie introduced a fatal flaw into the game, and while impressive, he made it impossible for either goal to be achieved. He would never be found, nor would any seeker eventually search him out - at least not without help from the fire department.

I think of this experience when I consider the weight of authenticity and honesty when it comes to life with God, specifically in worship. We know we are living the opposite of honest when we are hiding things from our friends, our family, the people in our churches, even our own memory. Whether this involves things we have done, doubts we are afraid to make known, or questions that challenge our very core beliefs and understandings, I think any one of us can, without much pause, think of several things we are currently hiding.

Why are we hiding? Because we don't want to be found out by anyone, someone, everyone. We're afraid of the judgment, or the confrontation, or the fallout.

If Jesus came to seek and to save, then hiding seems to be of no use. I really don't think we're going to find that perfect hiding place that we can squeeze our dark parts into so that they may never be found. In reality, no matter how much I've hidden from other people, I have succeeded in hiding absolutely nothing from God, and if it is him who I am seeking to worship and follow and live for, than I'm just making it harder on myself by trying to conceal even the smallest of things from him.

Authenticity in worship is coming to God with open hands, so that he may see all the weapons of selfishness you've been clutching. Authenticity in worship is coming to God with open minds, so that he may search you and know all the doubts and fears and hopes and prejudices and biases and judgments and longings that have been swirling around in there. He's already aware of it all anyway. Authenticity in worship is coming to God without pretension, with speech that, while respectful and honoring, is not masked by flowery words toward him if flowery words are not what's currently overflowing from your heart.

Worship is not found in music, hymns, prayers, or even a wonderful, contemplative silence. These are merely expressions of a present state of worship. Worship is being real with God, whether individually or corporately. It is found in connecting with God in a way that is free of pretension and the worry that something - some part of you - doesn't belong.

No matter what most of the plastic, me-first Christians in our world today may believe, the actual safest place for the darkest parts of our lives is lying exposed before the feet of our God. It is only there that we may truly touch home and cry out, "Free!"