I keep encountering lists lately ... and not simply lists of things to do and tasks at hand, but lists of all kinds. Lately, one of my favorite ways to procrastinate at work is to get onto EW.com and click through their ridiculous assortment of pop culture lists (50 Greatest Movie Villains, 20 Scariest Movies, 30 Television Shows You Wish Someone Would Bring Back, etc.). It has taken me a while, but it is strange how many lists sit around my desk. There's a church movie night list, and next to that a two page legal tablet scribbling of the dates of all the Biblical kings and political upheavels, and then there's a post-it with a bunch of names of different Holocaust and World War II historians. Tacked on the bulliten board wall of my desk is a list I compiled in green ink during my last lay-committee meeting with some of the wonderful people at DaySpring Baptist Church in which they imparted to me the kind of things they like to see in a pastor. Not far from this is pinned a list of members of the UBA Student Work Team, and now that I look at it more closely, I see it is from 2006, which means I probably should get an updated version at the next meeting this Thursday...
So, as an ode to all these lists, and because no blog would be complete without a blatant ripoff of another blog, I've decided to compile my own random list, much like the one a friend of mine compiled not long ago on his own blog, which I recently found myself surfing back to in my mid-afternoon boredom.
50 Things...
1) The fingernail on my right index finger cracked over a year ago and still hasn't healed. It's pretty gross.
2) Calvin and Hobbes comic strips constituted around 67% of the comedy I indulged in during my middle school years.
3) I have been yelled at and threatened by a member of Border Patrol.
4) I think I could be friends with Jonathan Papelbon, the Red Sox closer, if given the chance.
5) It often takes me several fluffing cycles before I get around to taking out a load of laundry.
6) I have a black belt in Kung Jung Mu Sul martial arts.
7) I am not a fan of big cities, which makes my current dwelling place a difficult experience.
8) There exists within the American Airlines company a security file on me, and I was once banned from flying with them for six months.
9) In my four and a half years of college, I had four different BSM directors.
10) My oldest friend, who I still keep in touch with, is Lisa (Davis) Snow from 9th grade.
11) I have lived in three different cities in Massachusetts.
12) I was once frisked in front of police officers with hands on holsters, but I have never been arrested.
13) The worst movie I have ever seen is Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey.
14) The greatest beer in the world is Guinness.
15) I am a state champion German Folk Dancer.
16) I once pretended to be stalked by a lunatic to impress a girlfriend.
17) I have never had stitches.
18) I named by boy dog after Huckleberry Finn and my girl dog after the name on the pound's adoption sheet.
19) I am currently reading the Harry Potter series and am ensorcelled by it.
20) I have more than 15 Christian music singing tracks in my possession, and have sung to many of them in public.
21) I learned the difference between the word "cynical" and the word "sardonic" from a stubborn roommate with a dictionary.
22) I have never - NEVER - walked out on a movie in the theater.
23) Three of the best books I have ever read are Gilead, The Brothers K, and The Oath.
24) If I had not met my wife, I would have seriously considered becoming a monk.
25) I had a Michael Jordan/Bugs Bunny poster in my room when I was a teenager. Next to it was a Bartman poster.
26) My sister died while on a Christmas-caroling hayride when I was 8 years old.
27) On my desk stands a troll doll that has been in my possession for over 15 years.
28) My greatest Christmas memory is when I was five and received the entire Voltron robot set. There is a video of my awe-struck reaction.
29) I have never seen the movies Chicago, Casablanca, Pulp Fiction, or It's a Wonderful Life.
30) I am fascinated by The Food Network.
31) I think Field of Dreams, Dead Poet's Society, and The Village are three of the most spiritual films ever made.
32) I loathe going to malls.
33) I once pulled a fire alarm in 8th grade.
34) I've ordered black pudding in Ireland thinking I was getting chocolate Jell-O.
35) My first kiss was on a school bus in that little seat in the rear.
36) The best piece of fruit is a pear.
37) My guilty pleasure is watching South Park and laughing hysterically.
38) Three movies I could watch over and over again are: Anchorman, Wonder Boys, and The Insider.
39) I've had Shingles.
40) I've sipped coffee and people-watched outside a cafe in Paris.
41) I was a member of a state champion Polka Band.
42) I have been a two-time award winner in the category of "Dance."
43) My first kiss with my wife was on the Brooklyn Bridge.
43) I think, in a few years, the term "theology" will be considered a subversive term in some denominations.
44) My two most outlandish goals are to hike the Appalachian Trail in its entirety, and win the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction.
45) My best friend, Stevie, is a pharmacist, and I feel guilty when I call him for medicine advice.
46) I can't remember the last time I vomited.
47) My mother has out-read me in books by at least 10-1, and this is just in the last five years.
48) I get extremely self-conscious when I try to dance with someone.
49) I have to go to the bathroom.
50) I hate iceburg lettuce.
Showing posts with label Well-Lived Lives. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Well-Lived Lives. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
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!"
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!"
Friday, April 27, 2007
The Hitching Post
The first few days of life after getting married (not counting the honeymoon, because life certainly isn't running in the normality gear during those whirlwind days) are strange ones. The equilibrium, while intact and maintainable, is certainly confused. In other words, you feel as if you should feel strange, but, strangely, you don't feel strange.
Right now, I'm sitting in my office at the church, and the iTunes playlist from my wedding reception is playing (and Yellowcard's "Only One" has just come on, and while the sentiment seems to fit, I'm wondering why Leigh thought it was a tune appropriate to our laid-back, soft time of dancing), and I'm looking at this blog screen for the first time in almost a month, and I don't feel all that different, but I know that I am different. For one thing, I'm still aware of this ring around my finger. I've never really been a ring-wearing kind of guys, unless you count that ugly, gold pinkie ring sporting my initials that I bought when I was a desperate-to-seem-cool teenager at Six Flags Fiesta Texas (which I thankfully lost soon after), or that silver James Avery promise ring I wore up until college when I gave it to a girlfriend (who, whether I should have taken it as a convenient omen or not, subsequently lost it).
But this ring around my finger is a peculiar thing. It's plain white gold, already becoming scratched, and certainly isn't an attention-drawing accessory, but I do remember that it stands for something sacred, something sacramental (yes, yes, I would be a Catholic if I were only a bit braver and more tolerant). I'm wondering how hard it is going to get to remember what this ring stands for ... or to even maintain the ability to notice this little silver thing at all. I suspect that is one of the things that happens in so many marriages - he or she loses sight of the sacramental - or, for a more ecumenical word, holy - factor of it all. The memory of the vows, the ceremony, the promise, the worship of that day kind of fades away.
Leigh was telling me the other day, while on our way to the airport for our honeymoon, that it is important to recollect out loud to each other all our memories from our wedding: the rehearsal, rehearsal dinner, ceremony, and reception - all of it. She explained to me that two of our friends, who I like to call Jenny Squared (I have to write out "squared" because Blogger doesn't offer superscript), had told her that if you don't continually share your memories of the wedding with each other, soon it will fade from memory, and the loss will hurt. They assured her that it goes by so fast for the bride and the groom that calling moments back to mind, again and again, is imperative. I'm less than two weeks removed from that day, and I could not agree more. It did go by awfully fast.
There's a small, deep anxiety within me that I will not be able to maintain my recognition of both the vows and the beauty of my union with Leigh as time goes on. I look around me at different couples that are struggling, that have called it quits... I watch movie after movie and show after show about fizzled marriages... I read about them, I hear about them, I sometimes can even watch them crumble right in front of me... and I wonder how in the world I will ever be able to succeed where so many others have failed.
But then I remember two things. Number one, it is not about "I," but "we." I cannot succeed, but we just might have a chance. After all, isn't that what bearing with one another and submitting to one another is all about? Number two, we serve a good, loving God, who, as I was reading just yesterday, invites us not only into a relationship with Him, but one marked by providence and provision. Not the popular name-it-and-claim-it, God-wants-me-to-be-successful-and-realize-my-potential crap religion, but a faith that calls me into humility, to realize it is not by any special deed or flowery incantation that God will notice and condescend to me, but simply because I come before Him, admitting that I don't really get it, and can't really do it, but - and, of course, this is the key that even fewer of us turn - I will blindly trust in both His power and desire to do it in my stead.
Yesterday morning, the Liturgy of the Hours (there's me being Catholic-ish again) brought me to Psalm 37. "Commit your way to the Lord, trust also in Him, and He will do it. He will bring forth your righteousness as the light and your judgment as the noonday. Rest in the Lord and wait patiently for Him..." (v. 5-7a). A selfish person would fixate on being made righteous in the eyes of everyone else, especially his or her selected enemies. On the contrary, I suppose a humble person would simply take comfort in being made righteous before God. And, in the end, that is what I want for Leigh and I, and what I believe this centuries-old, prayerful song is promising.
So, let it be. Let it be.
___________________
Here are some of my favorite pictures from the wedding. You can view a lot more by going to www.chasingfeathers.smugmug.com. I've got to quickly plug Rachel, our photographer. She did an amazing job, and if you're in the central Texas area, you should definitely hire her for whatever, weddings, parties, grocery store trips, lynch mobs, whatever... Oh, and Sabrina, my buddy, you did a great job, too.
It was a good day...
Right now, I'm sitting in my office at the church, and the iTunes playlist from my wedding reception is playing (and Yellowcard's "Only One" has just come on, and while the sentiment seems to fit, I'm wondering why Leigh thought it was a tune appropriate to our laid-back, soft time of dancing), and I'm looking at this blog screen for the first time in almost a month, and I don't feel all that different, but I know that I am different. For one thing, I'm still aware of this ring around my finger. I've never really been a ring-wearing kind of guys, unless you count that ugly, gold pinkie ring sporting my initials that I bought when I was a desperate-to-seem-cool teenager at Six Flags Fiesta Texas (which I thankfully lost soon after), or that silver James Avery promise ring I wore up until college when I gave it to a girlfriend (who, whether I should have taken it as a convenient omen or not, subsequently lost it).
But this ring around my finger is a peculiar thing. It's plain white gold, already becoming scratched, and certainly isn't an attention-drawing accessory, but I do remember that it stands for something sacred, something sacramental (yes, yes, I would be a Catholic if I were only a bit braver and more tolerant). I'm wondering how hard it is going to get to remember what this ring stands for ... or to even maintain the ability to notice this little silver thing at all. I suspect that is one of the things that happens in so many marriages - he or she loses sight of the sacramental - or, for a more ecumenical word, holy - factor of it all. The memory of the vows, the ceremony, the promise, the worship of that day kind of fades away.
Leigh was telling me the other day, while on our way to the airport for our honeymoon, that it is important to recollect out loud to each other all our memories from our wedding: the rehearsal, rehearsal dinner, ceremony, and reception - all of it. She explained to me that two of our friends, who I like to call Jenny Squared (I have to write out "squared" because Blogger doesn't offer superscript), had told her that if you don't continually share your memories of the wedding with each other, soon it will fade from memory, and the loss will hurt. They assured her that it goes by so fast for the bride and the groom that calling moments back to mind, again and again, is imperative. I'm less than two weeks removed from that day, and I could not agree more. It did go by awfully fast.
There's a small, deep anxiety within me that I will not be able to maintain my recognition of both the vows and the beauty of my union with Leigh as time goes on. I look around me at different couples that are struggling, that have called it quits... I watch movie after movie and show after show about fizzled marriages... I read about them, I hear about them, I sometimes can even watch them crumble right in front of me... and I wonder how in the world I will ever be able to succeed where so many others have failed.
But then I remember two things. Number one, it is not about "I," but "we." I cannot succeed, but we just might have a chance. After all, isn't that what bearing with one another and submitting to one another is all about? Number two, we serve a good, loving God, who, as I was reading just yesterday, invites us not only into a relationship with Him, but one marked by providence and provision. Not the popular name-it-and-claim-it, God-wants-me-to-be-successful-and-realize-my-potential crap religion, but a faith that calls me into humility, to realize it is not by any special deed or flowery incantation that God will notice and condescend to me, but simply because I come before Him, admitting that I don't really get it, and can't really do it, but - and, of course, this is the key that even fewer of us turn - I will blindly trust in both His power and desire to do it in my stead.
Yesterday morning, the Liturgy of the Hours (there's me being Catholic-ish again) brought me to Psalm 37. "Commit your way to the Lord, trust also in Him, and He will do it. He will bring forth your righteousness as the light and your judgment as the noonday. Rest in the Lord and wait patiently for Him..." (v. 5-7a). A selfish person would fixate on being made righteous in the eyes of everyone else, especially his or her selected enemies. On the contrary, I suppose a humble person would simply take comfort in being made righteous before God. And, in the end, that is what I want for Leigh and I, and what I believe this centuries-old, prayerful song is promising.
So, let it be. Let it be.
___________________
Here are some of my favorite pictures from the wedding. You can view a lot more by going to www.chasingfeathers.smugmug.com. I've got to quickly plug Rachel, our photographer. She did an amazing job, and if you're in the central Texas area, you should definitely hire her for whatever, weddings, parties, grocery store trips, lynch mobs, whatever... Oh, and Sabrina, my buddy, you did a great job, too.
It was a good day...
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
The Hopeless Romantic Who Will Change the World
My friend, Meg, shared this link on her blog, and, rarely being one to pass up a goofy Internet quiz, I thought I would take a crack at it and share the results with you. Regarding the first test result, I had no idea I am so romantic. Regarding the second, I had every idea that I am steeped in greatness...
Yes, my dear readers, now you know me even better.
My next post is coming very soon, in which I will retell the story of how I got engaged to my wonderful girlfriend (now fiance'), Leigh, over the Christmas holiday. There will be pictures, too.
Yes, my dear readers, now you know me even better.
My next post is coming very soon, in which I will retell the story of how I got engaged to my wonderful girlfriend (now fiance'), Leigh, over the Christmas holiday. There will be pictures, too.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Far As The Curse Is Found
Last night I had a dream that I was fighting for freedom. My freedom. The theme was unequivocal, but the form in which it took was somewhat strange. I was preparing to go to battle (more like a street fight a la Gangs of New York) with a few friends in the middle of a church sanctuary, which, when we finally marched down the center aisle toward the front right pews, our faces grim and our white knuckles clenched, I discovered to be some strange blend of the First Baptist Church of Buda sanctuary of my childhood as well as the sanctuary of my current home, River Oaks Baptist here in Houston. Standing against us was another motley crew, and despite worshippers scattered throughout the sanctuary, it was obvious that this was our hour, our time to fight, our one chance to determine supremacy.
I awoke just before my cohorts and I came to blows with our adversaries ... My alarm was buzzing incessantly.
We are three days removed from one of the greatest feasts of the year (yes, it is actually a Feast Day, and not simply because our families cook ridiculously-sized meals for us to gorge ourselves upon): the feast of Christmas. It is a time of celebration, a joyous triumph in newness and hope. Though the Christian year officially begins anew at the beginning of Advent, Christmas Day seems the best day to point to as a day to start over. The world has its revelry on New Year's Eve and its hopeful resolutions established on New Year's Day, but is there a better day for a new beginning than the day we celebrate the Incarnation, hope defined with ethereal clarity by the presence of a tiny, newborn child placed in a feeding trough?
It is in this moment, and not on January 1st, when the hope of redemption, the desire to try-yet-again, the desperation to be made new, the anticipation to live right where we have lived so wrong, is found. The reverberations of the Incarnation fall upon us like silent waves, washing us clean without us even knowing it. It is there for us. It gives us courage to begin again... and again... and again. It instills in us a Truth that no matter how lowly are our lives, the Incarnation comes to the lowest of places. As the carol proclaims, "far as the curse is found," the Incarnation reaches that depth.
Inside me is the desire to battle myself, to muster my courage and my passion to a strong enough level that I might do away with my own shortcomings, my own gullibility, my own rebellions, my own dark, dark sins. And it is a losing fight. Had the alarm clock not saved me and had I come to blows in my dream, I believe it would have turned into a nightmare, and I would have found myself weary, bloodied, with nothing solved, no resolution made.
Blessed Incarnate One, come and make me whole. Forgive my waywardness, my craving for deception, and my appetite for darkness. Cleanse me throughout, as far as the curse is found.
Merry Christmas to all my readers...
I awoke just before my cohorts and I came to blows with our adversaries ... My alarm was buzzing incessantly.
We are three days removed from one of the greatest feasts of the year (yes, it is actually a Feast Day, and not simply because our families cook ridiculously-sized meals for us to gorge ourselves upon): the feast of Christmas. It is a time of celebration, a joyous triumph in newness and hope. Though the Christian year officially begins anew at the beginning of Advent, Christmas Day seems the best day to point to as a day to start over. The world has its revelry on New Year's Eve and its hopeful resolutions established on New Year's Day, but is there a better day for a new beginning than the day we celebrate the Incarnation, hope defined with ethereal clarity by the presence of a tiny, newborn child placed in a feeding trough?
It is in this moment, and not on January 1st, when the hope of redemption, the desire to try-yet-again, the desperation to be made new, the anticipation to live right where we have lived so wrong, is found. The reverberations of the Incarnation fall upon us like silent waves, washing us clean without us even knowing it. It is there for us. It gives us courage to begin again... and again... and again. It instills in us a Truth that no matter how lowly are our lives, the Incarnation comes to the lowest of places. As the carol proclaims, "far as the curse is found," the Incarnation reaches that depth.
Inside me is the desire to battle myself, to muster my courage and my passion to a strong enough level that I might do away with my own shortcomings, my own gullibility, my own rebellions, my own dark, dark sins. And it is a losing fight. Had the alarm clock not saved me and had I come to blows in my dream, I believe it would have turned into a nightmare, and I would have found myself weary, bloodied, with nothing solved, no resolution made.
Blessed Incarnate One, come and make me whole. Forgive my waywardness, my craving for deception, and my appetite for darkness. Cleanse me throughout, as far as the curse is found.
Merry Christmas to all my readers...
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Flight
I stand upon the precipice, leaning at the edge. There is a strong updraft gusting; it tries to keep me from leaning too far. But for the familiar fear residing in my mind, my whole being desires to separate from the ground under my feet and soar into the wild, boundless sky. It is an unknown, frightening blue sea, but no more dangerous than the dusty dirt beneath my feet in which I have placed far too many footprints.
I know I cannot simply jump. My mind won't allow it, nor will the updraft. I am held fast in place, flirting with the edge, unable to free myself. Unable to fly. I have done all that I feel I can - I have stepped to the edge and peered out into the sky. My heart is filled with a desire for so many possibilities that do not exist upon land, but are rumored to lie somewhere within the wild blue stretching out endlessly before me. To get there, however, will take more power than I possess on my own. Strength to overcome my own hesitation and the guarding, gusting wind here at the edge.
I do not need merely a holy nudge, but a holy shove. A confident push that will separate me. Perhaps I will only plummet to the rocks far, far below, but even in such a crash there is more wonder and excitement than when I fall here on land. Falling here is but a pathetic scrape of the knee. Falling out there is a glorious destruction. Everything out there is better, is truer, is wild and unpredictable.
Deep down, beyond my present fear, I believe a real life is one lived in flight. I need this wildness. I need the unknown.
But first, I need a holy shove.
I know I cannot simply jump. My mind won't allow it, nor will the updraft. I am held fast in place, flirting with the edge, unable to free myself. Unable to fly. I have done all that I feel I can - I have stepped to the edge and peered out into the sky. My heart is filled with a desire for so many possibilities that do not exist upon land, but are rumored to lie somewhere within the wild blue stretching out endlessly before me. To get there, however, will take more power than I possess on my own. Strength to overcome my own hesitation and the guarding, gusting wind here at the edge.
I do not need merely a holy nudge, but a holy shove. A confident push that will separate me. Perhaps I will only plummet to the rocks far, far below, but even in such a crash there is more wonder and excitement than when I fall here on land. Falling here is but a pathetic scrape of the knee. Falling out there is a glorious destruction. Everything out there is better, is truer, is wild and unpredictable.
Deep down, beyond my present fear, I believe a real life is one lived in flight. I need this wildness. I need the unknown.
But first, I need a holy shove.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
If You Want to Catch the Squirrel...
This morning, I preached/spoke/taught (what's the difference anymore?) in the church school's lower chapel, which consists of Kindergarten through fourth grade. It was strange to stand up and see my church's sanctuary filled to the back with little munchkins, stranger still to find myself speaking to them, and even stranger to see most of them engaged in the message. However, what was most surreal about the entire experience is that the message which, I admit, I threw together in a couple of days, somehow morphed into the story of my life, unbeknown to the crowd of rug-rats and their teachers.
The theme of the chapels for this year is "the fruits of the Spirit," and I spoke about patience and self-control using my parents' two dogs, Gracie and Molly, and their continual epic struggle against a devious wild squirrel as a means to communicate the importance of stepping back and learning to wait on things rather than rushing right in.
I explained that the consequences to rushing in and not thinking things through can oftentimes be painful, much like Gracie, when she somehow manages to scrape her way up onto the lowest nook of the tree, sprains her paw almost every time when she has to hop back down. And I am not much different...
It is extremely difficult to be patient, to wait on things. When I get a bright idea, I normally take off after it and decide that, if I'm going to think it through I'm going to do so only in the time allotted on the way and if not then screw thinking anything through at all. I feel like this sometimes happens to Leigh and I, as well as with my work in the youth group, but lately I realize that my entire psyche is geared this way, to chase before I know the prey, to shoot before I even see the target.
It occurs to me (as I'm sure it occurs to other people a lot earlier in life) that impatience is at the root of much of our division and animosity. It could be argued that the mishandling of the War in Iraq (no matter how much you may think it was or was not mishandled) came from mere impatience on the part of those who knew we needed to do something about Hussein's regime (and I have just realized, as a complete side note, that Hussein sorta rhymes with "insane"). The same could be considered for many of the problems in the denominational splits, specifically Baptists, over the past several years. Impatience leads us away from an amicable solution - it does not lead us there faster.
And, in my mind, this all spirals back to me, and my inability to wait on the good things and to control myself from chasing after the bad things. And even if I do decide to seek after the good things with more vigor, I transition from battling impatience to battling procrastination, which I suppose, is just impatience in another form.
Life is not easy. Simple, yes. But never easy, at least not for someone who truly wants to embrace it. In doing so, there comes the subtlest of struggles, from the need to tweak relationships, overcome disagreements and misunderstandings, reassess ideas and accept failure, and learning each day how to walk a straighter, narrower line in regard to all the hundred million buzzing flies of distraction that play incessantly before our eyes. To be impatient in any or all of these circumstances is to turn our backs on the goodness and worth of the world. To embrace the world and seek its goodness - to embrace life - is to overcome our desire to have everything immediately.
It is a truth I hope at least the children caught, if not me as well. There's no need to leap into the tree. Just let the squirrel be, because, if we remain patient, eventually it'll have to come down, right?
I believe that I shall see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Wait for the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage; wait for the Lord! - Psalm 27:13-14
The theme of the chapels for this year is "the fruits of the Spirit," and I spoke about patience and self-control using my parents' two dogs, Gracie and Molly, and their continual epic struggle against a devious wild squirrel as a means to communicate the importance of stepping back and learning to wait on things rather than rushing right in.
I explained that the consequences to rushing in and not thinking things through can oftentimes be painful, much like Gracie, when she somehow manages to scrape her way up onto the lowest nook of the tree, sprains her paw almost every time when she has to hop back down. And I am not much different...
It is extremely difficult to be patient, to wait on things. When I get a bright idea, I normally take off after it and decide that, if I'm going to think it through I'm going to do so only in the time allotted on the way and if not then screw thinking anything through at all. I feel like this sometimes happens to Leigh and I, as well as with my work in the youth group, but lately I realize that my entire psyche is geared this way, to chase before I know the prey, to shoot before I even see the target.
It occurs to me (as I'm sure it occurs to other people a lot earlier in life) that impatience is at the root of much of our division and animosity. It could be argued that the mishandling of the War in Iraq (no matter how much you may think it was or was not mishandled) came from mere impatience on the part of those who knew we needed to do something about Hussein's regime (and I have just realized, as a complete side note, that Hussein sorta rhymes with "insane"). The same could be considered for many of the problems in the denominational splits, specifically Baptists, over the past several years. Impatience leads us away from an amicable solution - it does not lead us there faster.
And, in my mind, this all spirals back to me, and my inability to wait on the good things and to control myself from chasing after the bad things. And even if I do decide to seek after the good things with more vigor, I transition from battling impatience to battling procrastination, which I suppose, is just impatience in another form.
Life is not easy. Simple, yes. But never easy, at least not for someone who truly wants to embrace it. In doing so, there comes the subtlest of struggles, from the need to tweak relationships, overcome disagreements and misunderstandings, reassess ideas and accept failure, and learning each day how to walk a straighter, narrower line in regard to all the hundred million buzzing flies of distraction that play incessantly before our eyes. To be impatient in any or all of these circumstances is to turn our backs on the goodness and worth of the world. To embrace the world and seek its goodness - to embrace life - is to overcome our desire to have everything immediately.
It is a truth I hope at least the children caught, if not me as well. There's no need to leap into the tree. Just let the squirrel be, because, if we remain patient, eventually it'll have to come down, right?
I believe that I shall see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Wait for the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage; wait for the Lord! - Psalm 27:13-14
Monday, October 02, 2006
The Margaritas (for Mother Superior)
Cliff had it right on his blog when, for tribute to Dr. Ruth Ann Foster, he simply posted a photograph he knew she would have found quite amusing. I will attempt to do the same with an infamous story ...
Brian Van Holt, a former seminary student at Truett, told me not far into my first semester that I should ask Dr. Foster about "the margaritas" ...
For those of you who read this and do not know Dr. Foster, she is one of the founding professors at Truett Seminary, where I only recently finished graduate study. I took four classes under Dr. Foster (whom we often called RAF or Mother Superior), and she is responsible for pretty much all of my New Testament seminary education, as she taught me Intro to Scriptures, then two classes spanning Matthew-Revelation, as well as a whole semester spent on the book of her expertise, John. About a year ago she was diagnosed with lung and liver cancer. She passed away last week.
So, the margaritas. I proceeded to walk into Intro to Scriptures class and propose, in front of everyone, that Dr. Foster explain this cryptic reference. She gave me a knowing, lighthearted glare, and finished taking roll before beginning the story.
It seems that, back in the early days of Truett Seminary, before the beautiful campus building and the strong collection of faculty, the founding and senior professors used to go to lunch quite often at the same few places. Waco was still a few years off from exploding into the bustling metropolis that it is now, and so El Chico Mexican Restaurant was one of the few tasty places that could accommodate a moderate-sized, moderate-thinking group.
Well, on one particular day, RAF sat at her table with a few students she was working with on a book, when what should be served to her but a margarita. It was purchased for her as a joke by some other students who were also having lunch in the restaurant. Now, it obviously isn't couth for a seminary professor to be seen drinking a margarita in the middle of the day in a restaurant frequented by many a Baylor professor. But RAF would soon become mortified that she let the undrunk drink remain at her table when one of her students, spying the door, saw the seminary dean (and former professor under whom she studied in her own seminary student days), Dr. Robert Sloan, walk through the door with several suited men, obviously either respected ministers and/or potential donors, and head for a table very close to her own.
The story is still told by some of those prankster students how they watched in utter hysterics as Dr. Sloan approached RAF's table to introduce her and her party to the suits. In recounting the story, she was never clear if, in her students' scramble to hide the booze under the table, the suits caught sight of it. However, Dr. Sloan did, but graciously withheld himself from commenting on it.
Eventually, Dr. Foster made sure of two things: that Dr. Sloan understood she had not ordered the drink for herself, nor had she consumed it, and that the offending students be repaid for their prank in the silly-yet-frightening way only RAF knew how to do. After all, she did indeed own a bull whip, given to her by another former student as a fitting tool for her efforts in class discipline. After all, she would say, in her favorite book of the Bible, the Book of John, Jesus himself used a whip to get people to fall in line. Why should seminarians be treated any differently?
You may ask, what was the fallout of this event in Dr. Foster's life? Well, from that time on, every semester, she would find herself having to answer some ignorant new student's ignorant question about "the margaritas." And, every once in a while, a can or pouch of margarita mix could be found awaiting her in her office mailbox or under her office door.
A more gracious and loving woman there never was, nor was there ever someone who taught with such honesty and openness from her own painful past.
Brian Van Holt, a former seminary student at Truett, told me not far into my first semester that I should ask Dr. Foster about "the margaritas" ...
For those of you who read this and do not know Dr. Foster, she is one of the founding professors at Truett Seminary, where I only recently finished graduate study. I took four classes under Dr. Foster (whom we often called RAF or Mother Superior), and she is responsible for pretty much all of my New Testament seminary education, as she taught me Intro to Scriptures, then two classes spanning Matthew-Revelation, as well as a whole semester spent on the book of her expertise, John. About a year ago she was diagnosed with lung and liver cancer. She passed away last week.
So, the margaritas. I proceeded to walk into Intro to Scriptures class and propose, in front of everyone, that Dr. Foster explain this cryptic reference. She gave me a knowing, lighthearted glare, and finished taking roll before beginning the story.
It seems that, back in the early days of Truett Seminary, before the beautiful campus building and the strong collection of faculty, the founding and senior professors used to go to lunch quite often at the same few places. Waco was still a few years off from exploding into the bustling metropolis that it is now, and so El Chico Mexican Restaurant was one of the few tasty places that could accommodate a moderate-sized, moderate-thinking group.
Well, on one particular day, RAF sat at her table with a few students she was working with on a book, when what should be served to her but a margarita. It was purchased for her as a joke by some other students who were also having lunch in the restaurant. Now, it obviously isn't couth for a seminary professor to be seen drinking a margarita in the middle of the day in a restaurant frequented by many a Baylor professor. But RAF would soon become mortified that she let the undrunk drink remain at her table when one of her students, spying the door, saw the seminary dean (and former professor under whom she studied in her own seminary student days), Dr. Robert Sloan, walk through the door with several suited men, obviously either respected ministers and/or potential donors, and head for a table very close to her own.
The story is still told by some of those prankster students how they watched in utter hysterics as Dr. Sloan approached RAF's table to introduce her and her party to the suits. In recounting the story, she was never clear if, in her students' scramble to hide the booze under the table, the suits caught sight of it. However, Dr. Sloan did, but graciously withheld himself from commenting on it.
Eventually, Dr. Foster made sure of two things: that Dr. Sloan understood she had not ordered the drink for herself, nor had she consumed it, and that the offending students be repaid for their prank in the silly-yet-frightening way only RAF knew how to do. After all, she did indeed own a bull whip, given to her by another former student as a fitting tool for her efforts in class discipline. After all, she would say, in her favorite book of the Bible, the Book of John, Jesus himself used a whip to get people to fall in line. Why should seminarians be treated any differently?
You may ask, what was the fallout of this event in Dr. Foster's life? Well, from that time on, every semester, she would find herself having to answer some ignorant new student's ignorant question about "the margaritas." And, every once in a while, a can or pouch of margarita mix could be found awaiting her in her office mailbox or under her office door.
A more gracious and loving woman there never was, nor was there ever someone who taught with such honesty and openness from her own painful past.
Now you are finally reunited with your brother, and with your great partner, Chip Conyers. Nevertheless, know we down here shall miss you greatly. You cannot be replaced. I hope that every time I hear the cracking of a whip, I remember you. Farewell, my teacher, my mother, my friend.
Dr. Ruth Ann Foster with seminary student, Courtney Lyons
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
An Equilibrium of Dunces
With a move to a new city, assuming a new job, making new acquaintances/friends, and unloading oneself into a new living space, there is always the desire to mark this relocation with some level of lifechange. A change of behavior, a change of conduct, a change of mindset ... this, at least, is what I often seek to accomplish. In my never-ending quest to be genuine yet new in every season of life, I often find myself disappointed with how much my new position begins to immediately look very much like my old ones.
Why can't I change? A friend of mine, Myles, recently wrestled with the concept of transformation on his blog, and indeed, this is what I truly desire, I believe, at the heart of relocation. To transform and in so doing transcend my current surroundings - to stand above them, unfazed, yet pour this new, noble, genuine self into all that is around me.
A forced transformation is no transformation at all, but an indignantly-worn disguise of who I really am. Such a disguise is stressful, on one extreme, and on the other, the lows of realizing how little I have changed brings with it a much more melancholy stress.
It's dumb - plain ol' dumb - to try to force anything, mainly because we have been created a certain way, to be a certain kind of person, and the task is not to overcome who we are, but learn how to compromise who we are (even the rough, unpopular, unpristine edges of ourselves) with the world around us, no matter where we end up for however long. To attempt anything else is to be off-balance, off-kilter.
So let me be dumb if I am dumb, but not in the way that tries to pretend I'm not. Even as I grow and mature, let me be a bit of a dunce always nonetheless. Let me accept who I am and be taught that if who I am is good enough for God, it should certainly be good enough for me.
Why can't I change? A friend of mine, Myles, recently wrestled with the concept of transformation on his blog, and indeed, this is what I truly desire, I believe, at the heart of relocation. To transform and in so doing transcend my current surroundings - to stand above them, unfazed, yet pour this new, noble, genuine self into all that is around me.
A forced transformation is no transformation at all, but an indignantly-worn disguise of who I really am. Such a disguise is stressful, on one extreme, and on the other, the lows of realizing how little I have changed brings with it a much more melancholy stress.
It's dumb - plain ol' dumb - to try to force anything, mainly because we have been created a certain way, to be a certain kind of person, and the task is not to overcome who we are, but learn how to compromise who we are (even the rough, unpopular, unpristine edges of ourselves) with the world around us, no matter where we end up for however long. To attempt anything else is to be off-balance, off-kilter.
So let me be dumb if I am dumb, but not in the way that tries to pretend I'm not. Even as I grow and mature, let me be a bit of a dunce always nonetheless. Let me accept who I am and be taught that if who I am is good enough for God, it should certainly be good enough for me.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Life Isn't Fair
When I was a child and would protest to my parents regarding any number of disagreements, I would often receive a simple statement dropped with such finality in tone and definitiveness that it would frustrate me to no end. "Well, Vernon, life isn't fair."
I hated this statement, not just because it held a lot of truth, but because I refused to believe such a sweeping, general statement could be relevant anti-explanation to my every objection, from the largest offense to the most minute. Life had to be kind of fair, didn't it?
In reality, life is quite fair, quite just, despite all the examples we see of injustice ... from wars springing from sordid reasons, criminals acquitted thanks to the power of their money, innocent men and women convicted because of poor defense, misleading politicians, the trampling of the poor, the neglect of the sick and dying ... Despite all of this, life is more fair than we realize. The majority of people still get what they deserve, mainly because this is the way most of humanity functions. Karma reigns in many places throughout Asia, and in the West, our churches close the doors on homosexuals, liberals, homeless, and any poorly dressed people we think made their own bed and should therefore, quite fairly, lie in it.
The past few posts have taken me on a voyage of thought I have never truly felt comfortable with, and that not because I couldn't formulate a clear answer, but because I feared if I did formulate a clear answer it would subsequently contort me into a person who, to some group of people or another, turned a cold shoulder ... in the name of what is "true" and "just."
Today is Ash Wednesday, and the beginning of the season of Lent. Both are marked by repentance, penitence, and supplication. During this time, Christians scrape and strive to make sense of the ramifications of what it took for Christ to achieve atonement for all humanity, past and present. And gradually, I come to realize just how offensive, just how unfair, is the lot of the Savior. A good man - a man who experienced every chief emotion, temptation, and challenge we experience, yet resisted rebellion, remained untouched by the nature of Sin. When we come down to it, we find the most unjust of events taking place to accomplish the justice of God.
But still we make it our place to determine who will be with Christ in Heaven and who will "burn in Hell." Some Christians incorrectly defend their judgmentalness by quoting obscure verses in Scripture about the saints judging the nations. These are the same people who clutch their Bibles like a gavel. However, I think we might be surprised just who are revealed to be the true saints mentioned in Scripture. In a comment on my last post, my friend Meg quoted Richard John Neuhaus: "Jesus is not very fastidious about the company he keeps. A serious question is raised about whether we will be happy with those who are with us in paradise."
I believe that one day all our opinions and biases and misguided loyalties will be swallowed up in the stark image of the unjustly nail-scarred hands of a God who became a baby, who became a prophet, who became a Savior, who became a King. Today I think of a head pierced deep by thorns, blood pouring ... of splintered hands pinned to a tree ... of a ravaged side run through with a spear ... of dusty feet caked with blood.
It seems my parents were indeed right - perhaps more right than even they knew. Life ... true life ... isn't fair.
I hated this statement, not just because it held a lot of truth, but because I refused to believe such a sweeping, general statement could be relevant anti-explanation to my every objection, from the largest offense to the most minute. Life had to be kind of fair, didn't it?
In reality, life is quite fair, quite just, despite all the examples we see of injustice ... from wars springing from sordid reasons, criminals acquitted thanks to the power of their money, innocent men and women convicted because of poor defense, misleading politicians, the trampling of the poor, the neglect of the sick and dying ... Despite all of this, life is more fair than we realize. The majority of people still get what they deserve, mainly because this is the way most of humanity functions. Karma reigns in many places throughout Asia, and in the West, our churches close the doors on homosexuals, liberals, homeless, and any poorly dressed people we think made their own bed and should therefore, quite fairly, lie in it.
The past few posts have taken me on a voyage of thought I have never truly felt comfortable with, and that not because I couldn't formulate a clear answer, but because I feared if I did formulate a clear answer it would subsequently contort me into a person who, to some group of people or another, turned a cold shoulder ... in the name of what is "true" and "just."
Today is Ash Wednesday, and the beginning of the season of Lent. Both are marked by repentance, penitence, and supplication. During this time, Christians scrape and strive to make sense of the ramifications of what it took for Christ to achieve atonement for all humanity, past and present. And gradually, I come to realize just how offensive, just how unfair, is the lot of the Savior. A good man - a man who experienced every chief emotion, temptation, and challenge we experience, yet resisted rebellion, remained untouched by the nature of Sin. When we come down to it, we find the most unjust of events taking place to accomplish the justice of God.
But still we make it our place to determine who will be with Christ in Heaven and who will "burn in Hell." Some Christians incorrectly defend their judgmentalness by quoting obscure verses in Scripture about the saints judging the nations. These are the same people who clutch their Bibles like a gavel. However, I think we might be surprised just who are revealed to be the true saints mentioned in Scripture. In a comment on my last post, my friend Meg quoted Richard John Neuhaus: "Jesus is not very fastidious about the company he keeps. A serious question is raised about whether we will be happy with those who are with us in paradise."
I believe that one day all our opinions and biases and misguided loyalties will be swallowed up in the stark image of the unjustly nail-scarred hands of a God who became a baby, who became a prophet, who became a Savior, who became a King. Today I think of a head pierced deep by thorns, blood pouring ... of splintered hands pinned to a tree ... of a ravaged side run through with a spear ... of dusty feet caked with blood.
It seems my parents were indeed right - perhaps more right than even they knew. Life ... true life ... isn't fair.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Great Souls
In Lord Richard Attenborough's film, Gandhi, there is a remarkable scene that takes place toward the end of the Great Soul's days, as terrorists responsible for the violence in Calcutta and other regions of India come to him to lay down their weapons at his bed, determined not to continue their violent ways and so cause Gandhi to perish by fasting unto death. An angry Hindu man rushes to the bedside and shoves bread into the Mahatma's face, demanding he eat. The man refuses to have Gandhi's death on his conscience. He confesses he is damned and tells of recently killing a Muslim child. Still very weak from his fast, Gandhi says to the distraught man, "I know a way out of hell." He tells the man to go, find an orphaned Muslim child, and adopt him as his own son. "But," Gandhi tells the man, "you must be careful to raise him as a Muslim." The man is shocked - so would any of us be who translated this scene into our own lives. All my Western Christian brain could think at that moment was, "But the child would be Muslim. And the man is still Hindu. They're both going to hell."
Why do great souls like Gandhi, Buddha, and Rabbi Abraham Heschel go to hell, after all they have done to direct humanity away from selfishness and into the recognition of the transcendent, transforming love of God? The obvious answer - the answer I grew up with - is that this has nothing to do with what they did in life. What they did was highly commendable, but Ephesians 2:8-9 blares out the truth all the same, "For by grace you have been saved through faith; and that not of yourselves, it is the gift of God; not as a result of works, so that no one may boast." As Christians, especially as Protestants, we hold to this truth with an iron fist. We clarify it as meaning one thing: there is nothing we can do to earn salvation. However, what is remarkably absent from this true and wonderful statement is the "way" that we can find salvation. Christians today inject a doctrine after this verse, and it normally takes the form of praying for the forgiveness of all your sins and accepting Jesus' death on the cross as the atoning sacrifice that covers us from the consequence of sin, which is death. I am not denying this doctrine. I am questioning its placement and its form.
Ephesians 2:8-9 rejects the idea of earning salvation by living in such a way as to impress God. In reality, salvation comes only as a free gift, bestowed upon all whom he chooses to save, no strings attached, no prerequisites required. However, the Church has established a prerequisite of its own - the salvation prayer. Though the original form of this prayer was of complete supplication, complete rejection of all worth and merit, it has become a "work" of its own. If you don't "do" it, you don't get in to Heaven. It has become the initial hurdle to leap over as you "run the race" (1st Cor. 9:24).
What is the salvation prayer supposed to be? Is it only poignant words prayed that hold sway over your life throughout all your days? Or is it the expression of a change of heart that takes place allowing us to expel the things of this world in eager expectation of the things to come? Is it vainly seeking rescue from Hell (as it was with me at the fearful age of 8)? Or is it praying the theme of a life given over in humility to a great and gracious God?
I look at the life of Gandhi and Rabbi Heschel and other great figures whom we assume never "acquired the faith" and therefore shall spend eternity in torment. Maybe so. But if the way a life is lived is to be any proof of the desires of one's heart and the passion of one's soul, Gandhi is truly redeemed, whether he mumbled a sinner's prayer or not. And we ... we are damned. I worry about whether or not I will find a job in Houston once I graduate? Gandhi worried about the masses of Untouchable's littering the streets of the cities of India. Much of the quiet moments of thinking during my day is focused on my future with Leigh, where we might live, what the future holds for us. Gandhi's quiet moments were spent considering new ways to unite all the people of his country in love and mutual respect, across even violent religious lines. I sweat over how I might prove myself a talented writer and an innovative minister. Gandhi calmly spent his time praying and weaving his own clothes. I occasionally erupt into anger when I want to be recognized as right. Gandhi softly said, "An eye for an eye only ends up making the whole world blind."
Who is truly humbled before God? Who is truly saved?
Thank you, God, that there is never-ending grace. I cannot earn it, and nothing I offer can ever affect it, even the most soul-stirring of prayers.
Why do great souls like Gandhi, Buddha, and Rabbi Abraham Heschel go to hell, after all they have done to direct humanity away from selfishness and into the recognition of the transcendent, transforming love of God? The obvious answer - the answer I grew up with - is that this has nothing to do with what they did in life. What they did was highly commendable, but Ephesians 2:8-9 blares out the truth all the same, "For by grace you have been saved through faith; and that not of yourselves, it is the gift of God; not as a result of works, so that no one may boast." As Christians, especially as Protestants, we hold to this truth with an iron fist. We clarify it as meaning one thing: there is nothing we can do to earn salvation. However, what is remarkably absent from this true and wonderful statement is the "way" that we can find salvation. Christians today inject a doctrine after this verse, and it normally takes the form of praying for the forgiveness of all your sins and accepting Jesus' death on the cross as the atoning sacrifice that covers us from the consequence of sin, which is death. I am not denying this doctrine. I am questioning its placement and its form.
Ephesians 2:8-9 rejects the idea of earning salvation by living in such a way as to impress God. In reality, salvation comes only as a free gift, bestowed upon all whom he chooses to save, no strings attached, no prerequisites required. However, the Church has established a prerequisite of its own - the salvation prayer. Though the original form of this prayer was of complete supplication, complete rejection of all worth and merit, it has become a "work" of its own. If you don't "do" it, you don't get in to Heaven. It has become the initial hurdle to leap over as you "run the race" (1st Cor. 9:24).
What is the salvation prayer supposed to be? Is it only poignant words prayed that hold sway over your life throughout all your days? Or is it the expression of a change of heart that takes place allowing us to expel the things of this world in eager expectation of the things to come? Is it vainly seeking rescue from Hell (as it was with me at the fearful age of 8)? Or is it praying the theme of a life given over in humility to a great and gracious God?
I look at the life of Gandhi and Rabbi Heschel and other great figures whom we assume never "acquired the faith" and therefore shall spend eternity in torment. Maybe so. But if the way a life is lived is to be any proof of the desires of one's heart and the passion of one's soul, Gandhi is truly redeemed, whether he mumbled a sinner's prayer or not. And we ... we are damned. I worry about whether or not I will find a job in Houston once I graduate? Gandhi worried about the masses of Untouchable's littering the streets of the cities of India. Much of the quiet moments of thinking during my day is focused on my future with Leigh, where we might live, what the future holds for us. Gandhi's quiet moments were spent considering new ways to unite all the people of his country in love and mutual respect, across even violent religious lines. I sweat over how I might prove myself a talented writer and an innovative minister. Gandhi calmly spent his time praying and weaving his own clothes. I occasionally erupt into anger when I want to be recognized as right. Gandhi softly said, "An eye for an eye only ends up making the whole world blind."
Who is truly humbled before God? Who is truly saved?
Thank you, God, that there is never-ending grace. I cannot earn it, and nothing I offer can ever affect it, even the most soul-stirring of prayers.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
A Good Death
There is most certainly the stuff of wonder intricately woven within the stuff of astonishing tragedy. Never has this truth been more clear to me than in this past week.
On Sunday, October 30, 2005, Kyle Lake died a good death. Kyle, who is pastor of University Baptist Church in Waco and a burgeoning author, was considered by hundreds to be an inspiring preacher, a loving husband and father, an energetic athlete and friend, a mentor, counselor, and wonderful example of someone who knew how to live life well.
I would have become Kyle's friend next year. We had spent an hour or so one afternoon talking about the possibility of me going into a mentorship under him - this is part of the degree plan I follow at Truett. I am interested in college ministry as it relates to the local church, and felt Kyle would be a great choice for a guide in such things. Over coffee one afternoon in late June, we shared with one another our views on ministry and the calling of a Christian - I found him to be insightful and intelligent and very, very fun. I looked forward to getting to know him better.
As I sat in the funeral service last Tuesday and listened to friends and family recount humorous and poignant stories of his life, I lamented that I did not have the chance to get to know Kyle better. Some might offer that this is a good thing, because I don't have to go through as severe a devastation at the loss. My response to that would be, Never exchange a relationship for an escape from experiencing pain - that is a tragic trade.
Kyle died a good death. He was electrocuted while preparing to perform the sacrament of baptism. It was terrible and heartrending, and it came at the most devastating time (he was only 33!), but it was a good death. There is no better way for him to have left his church than in the act of bringing someone into the Church. Seeing it one way, his life indeed came full circle. He is a testimony to us all, an example of a true minister of God.
Perhaps the most astonishing thing was not Kyle's sudden death, but what was shared at his funeral - the conclusion to what would be the last sermon Kyle would ever write. It is a closing statement like no other. In the word of my friend, Janalee, it is truly "divine." I humbly use this blog now as an opportunity to share Kyle's last words with all of you.
Live. And Live Well.
BREATHE. Breathe in and Breathe deeply. Be PRESENT. Do not be past. Do not be future. Be now.
On a crystal clear, breezy 70 degree day, roll down the windows and FEEL the wind against your skin. Feel the warmth of the sun.
If you run, then allow those first few breaths on a cool Autumn day to FREEZE your lungs and do not just be alarmed, be ALIVE.
Get knee-deep in a novel and LOSE track of time.
If you bike, pedal HARD ... and if you crash then crash well.
Feel the SATISFACTION of a job well done ... a paper well-written, a project thoroughly completed, a play well-performed.
If you must wipe the snot from your 3-year old’s nose, don’t be disgusted if the Kleenex didn’t catch it all ... because soon he’ll be wiping his own.
If you'’ve recently experienced loss, then GRIEVE. And Grieve well.
At the table with friends and family, LAUGH. If you're eating and laughing at the same time, then might as well laugh until you puke. And if you eat, then SMELL. The aromas are not impediments to your day. Steak on the grill, coffee beans freshly ground, cookies in the oven. And TASTE. Taste every ounce of flavor. Taste every ounce of friendship. Taste every ounce of Life. Because-it-is-most-definitely-a-Gift.
I will miss you, Kyle. Someday soon I will indeed become your friend.
On Sunday, October 30, 2005, Kyle Lake died a good death. Kyle, who is pastor of University Baptist Church in Waco and a burgeoning author, was considered by hundreds to be an inspiring preacher, a loving husband and father, an energetic athlete and friend, a mentor, counselor, and wonderful example of someone who knew how to live life well.
I would have become Kyle's friend next year. We had spent an hour or so one afternoon talking about the possibility of me going into a mentorship under him - this is part of the degree plan I follow at Truett. I am interested in college ministry as it relates to the local church, and felt Kyle would be a great choice for a guide in such things. Over coffee one afternoon in late June, we shared with one another our views on ministry and the calling of a Christian - I found him to be insightful and intelligent and very, very fun. I looked forward to getting to know him better.
As I sat in the funeral service last Tuesday and listened to friends and family recount humorous and poignant stories of his life, I lamented that I did not have the chance to get to know Kyle better. Some might offer that this is a good thing, because I don't have to go through as severe a devastation at the loss. My response to that would be, Never exchange a relationship for an escape from experiencing pain - that is a tragic trade.
Kyle died a good death. He was electrocuted while preparing to perform the sacrament of baptism. It was terrible and heartrending, and it came at the most devastating time (he was only 33!), but it was a good death. There is no better way for him to have left his church than in the act of bringing someone into the Church. Seeing it one way, his life indeed came full circle. He is a testimony to us all, an example of a true minister of God.
Perhaps the most astonishing thing was not Kyle's sudden death, but what was shared at his funeral - the conclusion to what would be the last sermon Kyle would ever write. It is a closing statement like no other. In the word of my friend, Janalee, it is truly "divine." I humbly use this blog now as an opportunity to share Kyle's last words with all of you.
Live. And Live Well.
BREATHE. Breathe in and Breathe deeply. Be PRESENT. Do not be past. Do not be future. Be now.
On a crystal clear, breezy 70 degree day, roll down the windows and FEEL the wind against your skin. Feel the warmth of the sun.
If you run, then allow those first few breaths on a cool Autumn day to FREEZE your lungs and do not just be alarmed, be ALIVE.
Get knee-deep in a novel and LOSE track of time.
If you bike, pedal HARD ... and if you crash then crash well.
Feel the SATISFACTION of a job well done ... a paper well-written, a project thoroughly completed, a play well-performed.
If you must wipe the snot from your 3-year old’s nose, don’t be disgusted if the Kleenex didn’t catch it all ... because soon he’ll be wiping his own.
If you'’ve recently experienced loss, then GRIEVE. And Grieve well.
At the table with friends and family, LAUGH. If you're eating and laughing at the same time, then might as well laugh until you puke. And if you eat, then SMELL. The aromas are not impediments to your day. Steak on the grill, coffee beans freshly ground, cookies in the oven. And TASTE. Taste every ounce of flavor. Taste every ounce of friendship. Taste every ounce of Life. Because-it-is-most-definitely-a-Gift.
I will miss you, Kyle. Someday soon I will indeed become your friend.
Monday, May 09, 2005
Willie
She is a woman in my church, an elderly, slightly diminuitive lady with short gray hair, a sharply southern, throaty singing voice, and a love for hymns. She cannot be more than five feet tall, so this means that there is not much you can see of her when she stands behind the pulpit to lead the hymns and share one of her many cherished songs on Sunday mornings. There is just her metronomic hand keeping rhythm and her calmly pious face as she voices verse after verse, her expression seeming pleasantly lost somewhere between the past moment in time in which the hymn was written and the present reality of Sunday morning worship in which we all sit and sing along.
Willie is cherished by the congregation as much as she cherishes her hymns. Come Christmas, she is called on several times to sing "O Holy Night" in her haunting, southern style. The pitch of her voice would ne'er make a record producer's head turn, but it commands the attention of every person in our sanctuary, young and old. It is shrill, but a beautiful shrillness that summons to your mind a tapestry of southern heritage. I can picture Willie's mother or grandmother sitting with her at an old, upright piano, teaching her the hymns that were probably not that old back then. She doesn't correct her daughter's unique voice; she simply nods and sings along and tells Willie how gorgeous she has performed the verses.
Today, Willie sang two hymns at the funeral of one of the deacons of our church. It occured to me how long she must have known the man, who had been a member of the church for over forty years. I was struck with the poignancy of it all. How much emotion must have gone into the singing of those hymns. She had sung "Amazing Grace" and "The Old Rugged Cross" many times before, but today they were meant as a tribute. A tribute to a wonderful man and his great Savior.
There are hymns she does not know, some that I or our pastor occasionally pick for the service, that she will admit in front of the entire congregation that she is unsure how to sing. Sometimes she will call out one hymn and accidentally sing the words of the one adjacent to it in the hymnbook. This can go on for several verses, but she doesn't stop. Getting lost in the words is more important to her than listening for the right musical cues or watching the congregation to make sure we are keeping up. I believe she would confidently tell you this if she was not so humble. It is hardly a wonder the church loves her. It is certainly a wonder someone like her exists.
In many ways, this post is merely a sketch of a woman I realize deserves her own tribute. But I also imagine what it would be like in the church today if more of us sought to be like Willie. Few of us have a voice for music that can captivate a congregation, but I believe all of us have something to offer that can serve as a diamond amidst the rough of this sojourn we tarry through on earth. The key is finding out what that is, though I don't think we necessarily have to be as proactive as many motivational speakers and badly-written lifestyle books stress we must. I don't think Willie ever intentionally decided to be the person my church sees. I think she just does what comes natural, and has been living as such for many years. What comes natural to her is that hauntingly shrill voice of beauty, and the way those timeless words of hymnody roll from her tongue.
If we truly seek to do what is natural, I think God will handle the rest. Of such are the true people of God. Of such is the Church.
A Baptist chapel in Kennebunkport
Willie is cherished by the congregation as much as she cherishes her hymns. Come Christmas, she is called on several times to sing "O Holy Night" in her haunting, southern style. The pitch of her voice would ne'er make a record producer's head turn, but it commands the attention of every person in our sanctuary, young and old. It is shrill, but a beautiful shrillness that summons to your mind a tapestry of southern heritage. I can picture Willie's mother or grandmother sitting with her at an old, upright piano, teaching her the hymns that were probably not that old back then. She doesn't correct her daughter's unique voice; she simply nods and sings along and tells Willie how gorgeous she has performed the verses.
Today, Willie sang two hymns at the funeral of one of the deacons of our church. It occured to me how long she must have known the man, who had been a member of the church for over forty years. I was struck with the poignancy of it all. How much emotion must have gone into the singing of those hymns. She had sung "Amazing Grace" and "The Old Rugged Cross" many times before, but today they were meant as a tribute. A tribute to a wonderful man and his great Savior.
There are hymns she does not know, some that I or our pastor occasionally pick for the service, that she will admit in front of the entire congregation that she is unsure how to sing. Sometimes she will call out one hymn and accidentally sing the words of the one adjacent to it in the hymnbook. This can go on for several verses, but she doesn't stop. Getting lost in the words is more important to her than listening for the right musical cues or watching the congregation to make sure we are keeping up. I believe she would confidently tell you this if she was not so humble. It is hardly a wonder the church loves her. It is certainly a wonder someone like her exists.
In many ways, this post is merely a sketch of a woman I realize deserves her own tribute. But I also imagine what it would be like in the church today if more of us sought to be like Willie. Few of us have a voice for music that can captivate a congregation, but I believe all of us have something to offer that can serve as a diamond amidst the rough of this sojourn we tarry through on earth. The key is finding out what that is, though I don't think we necessarily have to be as proactive as many motivational speakers and badly-written lifestyle books stress we must. I don't think Willie ever intentionally decided to be the person my church sees. I think she just does what comes natural, and has been living as such for many years. What comes natural to her is that hauntingly shrill voice of beauty, and the way those timeless words of hymnody roll from her tongue.
If we truly seek to do what is natural, I think God will handle the rest. Of such are the true people of God. Of such is the Church.
A Baptist chapel in Kennebunkport
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