(Use caution when approaching. This beast is ferocious and frightening. It may bite if you are not careful.--DG)
Should I be David, king and messiah,
Or Paul, preacher full of fire?
Should I be Peter, a mouth full and free?
Or, do you think, perhaps I could be me?
Should I be someone you admire
Or someone you despise?
Should I live so you open
Or so you close your eyes?
Should I set you aflame?
Should I light you afire?
Should I bring you to the depths
Or lift you ever higher?
Whom shall I be today so that
You may smile for a moment?
Shall I make peace with myself
Or a riot foment?
Shall I make you smile on
Your sad, sad day?
Are you offended if I make you blush
Or if I lead you astray?
You tell me who you want me to be
Because you seem to know better
What’s inside of me.
You know to the letter
What others need to see
And how you can happy
By setting me free.
I’m play-dough.
I’m clay.
Make me into cookies,
Make me into hay.
Whatever makes you smile
Or strikes up your bands,
I’m all you can imagine
A pen in your hands.
DG--'04
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
The Personality Series, pt. 2
The lyrics to the song are very simple:
It’s the beauty of simplicity,
That brings me down to my knees.
I praise you for eternity.
We love you Lord.
We love you Lord.
We Love you.
Those are not in order, but it is the gist of the song. There is something about simplicity that thrills me and eludes me. I am only about a third of the way through Anna Karenina and I have already decided who my favorite character is. It is a man named Levin. He is a farmer, although in 19th century Russia the term ‘farmer’ has a much different meaning that it does in 21st century America. He is wealthy and owns a lot land, but he is not above going out into the fields and working side by side with the peasants. He enjoys talking with them, eating with them, and working with them. He sees himself among them and envies their lives. Tolstoy writes of Levin,
Levin felt envious of this health and mirthfulness; he long to take part in the expression of this joy of life. But he could do nothing, and had to lie and look on and listen. When the peasants, with their singing, had vanished out of sight and hearing, a weary feeling of despondency at his own isolation, his physical inactivity, his alienation from this world, came over Levin. (251)
The peasants dance and sing and enjoy their work. They have each other and enjoy each other. Life is simple, in Levin’s eyes, for the peasants he employs to mow his fields. He longs for their life and joins in the mowing of fields. In other paragraph, Tolstoy writes,
Often Levin had admired this life, often he had a sense of envy of the men who led this life; but to-day for the first time, especially under the influence of what he had seen in the attitude of Ivan Parmenov to his young wife, the idea had presented itself definitely to his mind that it was in his power to exchange the dreary, artificial, idle and individualistic life he was leading for this laborious, pure, and socially delightful life. (251)
Levin concludes that he will make an effort towards the simple life,
All the thoughts and feelings he had passed through fell into three separate trains of thought. One was the renunciation of the old life, of his utterly useless education. This renunciation gave him satisfaction, and was easy and simple. Another series of thoughts and mental images related to the life he longed to live now. The simplicity, the purity, the sanity of this life he felt clearly, and he was convinced he would find in it the content, the peace, and the dignity, of the lack of which he was so miserably conscious….All my old dreams of home-life were absurd, not the real thing…It’s all ever so much simpler and better…” (252)
I won’t give away what happens, but something happens before the end of the chapter I quoted from that is disturbing. Nevertheless, I get it. I understand Levin’s thoughts, the emotions running through his mind, the terrible struggle to understand how to make a go of a world where everything is so damn complicated. He longs for simplicity and I long with him.
It’s the beauty of simplicity,
That brings me down to my knees.
I praise you for eternity.
We love you Lord.
We love you Lord.
We Love you.
Those are not in order, but it is the gist of the song. There is something about simplicity that thrills me and eludes me. I am only about a third of the way through Anna Karenina and I have already decided who my favorite character is. It is a man named Levin. He is a farmer, although in 19th century Russia the term ‘farmer’ has a much different meaning that it does in 21st century America. He is wealthy and owns a lot land, but he is not above going out into the fields and working side by side with the peasants. He enjoys talking with them, eating with them, and working with them. He sees himself among them and envies their lives. Tolstoy writes of Levin,
Levin felt envious of this health and mirthfulness; he long to take part in the expression of this joy of life. But he could do nothing, and had to lie and look on and listen. When the peasants, with their singing, had vanished out of sight and hearing, a weary feeling of despondency at his own isolation, his physical inactivity, his alienation from this world, came over Levin. (251)
The peasants dance and sing and enjoy their work. They have each other and enjoy each other. Life is simple, in Levin’s eyes, for the peasants he employs to mow his fields. He longs for their life and joins in the mowing of fields. In other paragraph, Tolstoy writes,
Often Levin had admired this life, often he had a sense of envy of the men who led this life; but to-day for the first time, especially under the influence of what he had seen in the attitude of Ivan Parmenov to his young wife, the idea had presented itself definitely to his mind that it was in his power to exchange the dreary, artificial, idle and individualistic life he was leading for this laborious, pure, and socially delightful life. (251)
Levin concludes that he will make an effort towards the simple life,
All the thoughts and feelings he had passed through fell into three separate trains of thought. One was the renunciation of the old life, of his utterly useless education. This renunciation gave him satisfaction, and was easy and simple. Another series of thoughts and mental images related to the life he longed to live now. The simplicity, the purity, the sanity of this life he felt clearly, and he was convinced he would find in it the content, the peace, and the dignity, of the lack of which he was so miserably conscious….All my old dreams of home-life were absurd, not the real thing…It’s all ever so much simpler and better…” (252)
I won’t give away what happens, but something happens before the end of the chapter I quoted from that is disturbing. Nevertheless, I get it. I understand Levin’s thoughts, the emotions running through his mind, the terrible struggle to understand how to make a go of a world where everything is so damn complicated. He longs for simplicity and I long with him.
______________________________
I watched a little bit of Mike Wallace’s 60 Minutes interview with former NFL running back Ricky Williams. Ricky walked away from a contract that would have paid him $5 million dollars this year. Personally, I did not buy a lot of what Ricky was selling because I think that Ricky just wants to get high from smoking pot—a fact that he admitted to in the interview. But the interview also revealed that he spent some time living in a tent community where he woke up every day and read books. The interview pointed out that Ricky wanted a less complicated life, but that less complicated life is afforded him by the millions he made before he retired from the NFL.
Still, aside from all the dope smoking and yoga and ‘searching for the self’ crap that he was spilling, I get it. I understand that desire, that longing, that yearning for something simpler. (I still think Ricky wants to smoke dope and hated that the NFL prohibited him from doing so.) I imagine a life that is uncomplicated by the use of hatred, unfettered from the grip of money, and unrestrained by the chains of ecclesiastical boredom. I want a life that is undiminished by the tired reasoning of people who think they are my parents—as if I need more parental supervision—and believe they need to save me by making me into clones of themselves or worse. I don’t believe that life is meant to be as complicated as it is. And, to clarify my point, I don’t think religion is meant to be as complicated as it is. I desire what Paul wrote should be our desire, that is, ‘to live quiet and peaceful lives in godliness and holiness.’ I want to do my work, and, frankly, not be bothered by people who dislike the way I choose to go about doing it.
I watched a little bit of Mike Wallace’s 60 Minutes interview with former NFL running back Ricky Williams. Ricky walked away from a contract that would have paid him $5 million dollars this year. Personally, I did not buy a lot of what Ricky was selling because I think that Ricky just wants to get high from smoking pot—a fact that he admitted to in the interview. But the interview also revealed that he spent some time living in a tent community where he woke up every day and read books. The interview pointed out that Ricky wanted a less complicated life, but that less complicated life is afforded him by the millions he made before he retired from the NFL.
Still, aside from all the dope smoking and yoga and ‘searching for the self’ crap that he was spilling, I get it. I understand that desire, that longing, that yearning for something simpler. (I still think Ricky wants to smoke dope and hated that the NFL prohibited him from doing so.) I imagine a life that is uncomplicated by the use of hatred, unfettered from the grip of money, and unrestrained by the chains of ecclesiastical boredom. I want a life that is undiminished by the tired reasoning of people who think they are my parents—as if I need more parental supervision—and believe they need to save me by making me into clones of themselves or worse. I don’t believe that life is meant to be as complicated as it is. And, to clarify my point, I don’t think religion is meant to be as complicated as it is. I desire what Paul wrote should be our desire, that is, ‘to live quiet and peaceful lives in godliness and holiness.’ I want to do my work, and, frankly, not be bothered by people who dislike the way I choose to go about doing it.
___________________________
In the personality series, pt 1, I wrote about my hatred (read: extreme distrust and fear) of things like doctors and barbers and optometrists. Sometimes, I want to simply be left alone. I want to enjoy the wife of my youth, my quiver full of sons and every now and again I want to enjoy a good book. I don’t think that is too much to ask. Let me explain a few things that complicate this.
The first thing that complicates my life is religion. Please don’t misunderstand me or take me out of context. I love God and I love Jesus. I serve God and I want to ‘practice my faith’, whatever that means. My worldview is very much Scriptural and I am skeptical of all things that diminish, contradict or belittle the Scripture or my Lord. I am a Christian and that will not change. I am a preacher, and that will not change. But, I don’t even like the word religion and there are quite a few Christian people that I would just as soon not know, for example, faith healers. I could do without them. I could also do without so-called ‘prophecy experts.’ I could do without mean people in the church. These are the ones whose intentions are so pure that their soul shows through, but they don’t have a clue. They criticize and backbite all in their effort to maintain the purity of the church. Children must not run. Children must be quiet, and it is their job to tell children to be quiet always and ever. Children must be just like them: never smiling, never laughing, and never raising a hand in worship. I could do without busybodies in the church. No, I have no use for them. And yet, for some reason, these, and a few others, are the very people who make up the church. You know what? I have no use for myself in the church. I love Jesus and I am a member of his church, but I would just as soon be salt and light in a way that is somewhat detached from the mess that we call church.
Therein is the problem, Jesus has made it pretty clear that we need each other. If I was ever to quit church, though, it would not be because of Jesus, but it would be because of some of his people. Unfortunately, that will not happen, that is, I could never leave the church. For all my angst, I am part of the church, I am a part of the problem, and I am a part of the solution. I cannot say to the arm, ‘Go Away, I have no use for you.’ And to leave myself would be to commit spiritual suicide. No, I need the church and I am needy enough to admit it, but the church does not need me. I think the Church would be better off if more people had that idea about church: They need it, it does not need them. I learned that lesson when I was a senior in high school and thought for certain that the high school band needed me. I was really surprised when the band director told me that the band would get along quite well without me.
Many people do not believe they need the church. Many people think they need to shape the church. I say the church is what the church is: A collection of misfits who fit in nowhere else in the world. We are broken, sinful, flawed creatures who have no business in the church and, considering the way we treat each other at times, we scarcely understand the grace that brought us into the church in the first place. And yet, the church is. I think we need to learn to be the church and understand that we are all there by the same grace.
Another thing that complicates life is wealth in the Church. Truth be told, I long for the sort of Christian practice that does not involve what Americans believe to be important: gadgets, large buildings, fancy stuff, big staffs of employees that conduct daily and weekly staff meetings, and a whole bunch of technological garbage. I am interested in a simple church, a poor church, and bankrupt church that has nothing and no one but Jesus. In my opinion, wealth has not helped the church, but hindered it. People think they can drop a pretty penny in the plate and that is the Christian service or Christian duty as if the poor people in their community are not. Churches should not be deciding what to do with millions of dollars and churches should not be building buildings worth millions of dollars. Churches should be simpler and less complicated. I understand why Jesus said, “You will always have the poor among you,” because even if that perfume had been sold for the poor someone would have decided that a better way to spend it would have been on a building or a program that needed employees. However, this again is where the people think that the Church is simply a place to go and not something that they are. No, the money would not have been spent on the poor, but on the church. The church is far too self-centered to ever think that we could eradicate the problem of the poor. Wealth is far too complicated for the church; I don’t believe we are as good ‘a stewards as we think we are.
For some reason, my personality is not only afraid of wealth in the church but utterly despises it. I wonder what people thought was worse: The fact that Catholic priests have been labeled as pedophiles (which some are) or the fact that the Catholic Church literally has millions of dollars to pay off the victims? Personally I find reason to be both afraid and hateful of money in this situation because if they can pay off something as heinous as pedophilia, I begin to wonder what else they have paid off or what else they can pay off with their millions. I know people will argue, but money—oh, that we were like Peter who said, “Silver and gold I have none, but what I have I give you, in the Name of Jesus Christ rise up and walk.” But I fear that now we would rather give people silver and gold because we don’t have a Jesus to give them let alone a miracle in His Name. It is a vexing issue with me and one that I don’t suppose I will ever be able to make more public than I am doing just now.
Still another thing that complicates life is technology.
I’m not like them,
I can’t pretend
The sun is gone,
But I have a light;
The day is done
I’m having fun.
I think I’m dumb,
Or maybe just happy.
I think just happy.
I think I’m just happy.
--Kurt Cobain
I must be too; dumb, that is. I want to enjoy simple things in life, but I confess that I am dumb and I cannot pretend that it doesn’t bother me. It does. I like simple things like books and music—it doesn’t even have to be music on a CD or DVD—vinyl works for me just the same. I appreciate a good harmony and a cunning melody. I don’t mind melodrama in music nor do I mind monotony. I enjoy music. I enjoy books. Books are simple. They unfold in the hands and take the mind into worlds that even Steven Spielberg cannot take us. Books are multi-dimensional and live without constraints or limits. Books involve all the senses: one must feel the page, smell the salty air, see the horizon, hear the crashing waves, and taste the juicy peach and let its juice run down their face. Of books the Bible says there is no end. I think that is the very thing that I love most about books. I could never hope to exhaust the world’s supply of words. I think I happiest when I’m reading books because then I don’t have to answer to anybody for the way I feel or react or respond to what I have read. I don’t have to fake it; I can just be.
I enjoy writing. I use a bit of technology to write, but if I had to I could do without it too. Before I became rich enough to afford my own computers and things I used to simply write in notebooks, many of them. I have saved them all, too. I have them stored in a file cabinet in my office. There is the history of my life concentrated inside the pages of spiral ring notebooks. I used to keep it to myself, but now I use technology to publish it for the world. Writing is a simple pleasure, and I confess that it is in writing that I am least opposed to the use of technology. Reading and writing go hand in hand. I read so I can write; I write so others can read. It is impossible and selfish to have one without the other. Technology, unfortunately, I think, has softened our taste for literature—real literature, real literary effort. Now I think we hunger simply for the fantastic, the story, the package. Case in point? How many read Tolkien, or even hear of him, before Peter Jackson made his books into movies? And the marketing of the stories is not to spur interest in the books, but to make money on the merchandise. I’m not disappointed the books were made into, faithful and wonderful, film versions. I just hope the books don’t fade away and become dust within a couple of years.
In the personality series, pt 1, I wrote about my hatred (read: extreme distrust and fear) of things like doctors and barbers and optometrists. Sometimes, I want to simply be left alone. I want to enjoy the wife of my youth, my quiver full of sons and every now and again I want to enjoy a good book. I don’t think that is too much to ask. Let me explain a few things that complicate this.
The first thing that complicates my life is religion. Please don’t misunderstand me or take me out of context. I love God and I love Jesus. I serve God and I want to ‘practice my faith’, whatever that means. My worldview is very much Scriptural and I am skeptical of all things that diminish, contradict or belittle the Scripture or my Lord. I am a Christian and that will not change. I am a preacher, and that will not change. But, I don’t even like the word religion and there are quite a few Christian people that I would just as soon not know, for example, faith healers. I could do without them. I could also do without so-called ‘prophecy experts.’ I could do without mean people in the church. These are the ones whose intentions are so pure that their soul shows through, but they don’t have a clue. They criticize and backbite all in their effort to maintain the purity of the church. Children must not run. Children must be quiet, and it is their job to tell children to be quiet always and ever. Children must be just like them: never smiling, never laughing, and never raising a hand in worship. I could do without busybodies in the church. No, I have no use for them. And yet, for some reason, these, and a few others, are the very people who make up the church. You know what? I have no use for myself in the church. I love Jesus and I am a member of his church, but I would just as soon be salt and light in a way that is somewhat detached from the mess that we call church.
Therein is the problem, Jesus has made it pretty clear that we need each other. If I was ever to quit church, though, it would not be because of Jesus, but it would be because of some of his people. Unfortunately, that will not happen, that is, I could never leave the church. For all my angst, I am part of the church, I am a part of the problem, and I am a part of the solution. I cannot say to the arm, ‘Go Away, I have no use for you.’ And to leave myself would be to commit spiritual suicide. No, I need the church and I am needy enough to admit it, but the church does not need me. I think the Church would be better off if more people had that idea about church: They need it, it does not need them. I learned that lesson when I was a senior in high school and thought for certain that the high school band needed me. I was really surprised when the band director told me that the band would get along quite well without me.
Many people do not believe they need the church. Many people think they need to shape the church. I say the church is what the church is: A collection of misfits who fit in nowhere else in the world. We are broken, sinful, flawed creatures who have no business in the church and, considering the way we treat each other at times, we scarcely understand the grace that brought us into the church in the first place. And yet, the church is. I think we need to learn to be the church and understand that we are all there by the same grace.
Another thing that complicates life is wealth in the Church. Truth be told, I long for the sort of Christian practice that does not involve what Americans believe to be important: gadgets, large buildings, fancy stuff, big staffs of employees that conduct daily and weekly staff meetings, and a whole bunch of technological garbage. I am interested in a simple church, a poor church, and bankrupt church that has nothing and no one but Jesus. In my opinion, wealth has not helped the church, but hindered it. People think they can drop a pretty penny in the plate and that is the Christian service or Christian duty as if the poor people in their community are not. Churches should not be deciding what to do with millions of dollars and churches should not be building buildings worth millions of dollars. Churches should be simpler and less complicated. I understand why Jesus said, “You will always have the poor among you,” because even if that perfume had been sold for the poor someone would have decided that a better way to spend it would have been on a building or a program that needed employees. However, this again is where the people think that the Church is simply a place to go and not something that they are. No, the money would not have been spent on the poor, but on the church. The church is far too self-centered to ever think that we could eradicate the problem of the poor. Wealth is far too complicated for the church; I don’t believe we are as good ‘a stewards as we think we are.
For some reason, my personality is not only afraid of wealth in the church but utterly despises it. I wonder what people thought was worse: The fact that Catholic priests have been labeled as pedophiles (which some are) or the fact that the Catholic Church literally has millions of dollars to pay off the victims? Personally I find reason to be both afraid and hateful of money in this situation because if they can pay off something as heinous as pedophilia, I begin to wonder what else they have paid off or what else they can pay off with their millions. I know people will argue, but money—oh, that we were like Peter who said, “Silver and gold I have none, but what I have I give you, in the Name of Jesus Christ rise up and walk.” But I fear that now we would rather give people silver and gold because we don’t have a Jesus to give them let alone a miracle in His Name. It is a vexing issue with me and one that I don’t suppose I will ever be able to make more public than I am doing just now.
Still another thing that complicates life is technology.
I’m not like them,
I can’t pretend
The sun is gone,
But I have a light;
The day is done
I’m having fun.
I think I’m dumb,
Or maybe just happy.
I think just happy.
I think I’m just happy.
--Kurt Cobain
I must be too; dumb, that is. I want to enjoy simple things in life, but I confess that I am dumb and I cannot pretend that it doesn’t bother me. It does. I like simple things like books and music—it doesn’t even have to be music on a CD or DVD—vinyl works for me just the same. I appreciate a good harmony and a cunning melody. I don’t mind melodrama in music nor do I mind monotony. I enjoy music. I enjoy books. Books are simple. They unfold in the hands and take the mind into worlds that even Steven Spielberg cannot take us. Books are multi-dimensional and live without constraints or limits. Books involve all the senses: one must feel the page, smell the salty air, see the horizon, hear the crashing waves, and taste the juicy peach and let its juice run down their face. Of books the Bible says there is no end. I think that is the very thing that I love most about books. I could never hope to exhaust the world’s supply of words. I think I happiest when I’m reading books because then I don’t have to answer to anybody for the way I feel or react or respond to what I have read. I don’t have to fake it; I can just be.
I enjoy writing. I use a bit of technology to write, but if I had to I could do without it too. Before I became rich enough to afford my own computers and things I used to simply write in notebooks, many of them. I have saved them all, too. I have them stored in a file cabinet in my office. There is the history of my life concentrated inside the pages of spiral ring notebooks. I used to keep it to myself, but now I use technology to publish it for the world. Writing is a simple pleasure, and I confess that it is in writing that I am least opposed to the use of technology. Reading and writing go hand in hand. I read so I can write; I write so others can read. It is impossible and selfish to have one without the other. Technology, unfortunately, I think, has softened our taste for literature—real literature, real literary effort. Now I think we hunger simply for the fantastic, the story, the package. Case in point? How many read Tolkien, or even hear of him, before Peter Jackson made his books into movies? And the marketing of the stories is not to spur interest in the books, but to make money on the merchandise. I’m not disappointed the books were made into, faithful and wonderful, film versions. I just hope the books don’t fade away and become dust within a couple of years.
________________________________
So far the Personality Series has taken me in directions that I was not quite certain I would go. In part 3, I hope to explore some more of these things that complicate life. I’m not unhappy about these things, but I am seriously trying to figure out a working theology. I am interested in a simple life. I’ll leave off part 2 with the words that Tolstoy used to describe his hero, Levin:
Long before, Levin had felt dissatisfaction with his own position in regard to the land. He saw where his boat leaked, but he did not look for the leak, perhaps purposely deceiving himself. (Nothing would be left him if he lost faith in it.) But now he could deceive himself no longer. The farming of the land, as he was managing it, had become not merely unattractive but revolting to him, and he could take no further interest in it. (293)
I suspect that inside of us all there is a struggle for this balance. I’m still struggling. Would that the simple life were just so simple as to wake in the morning and say, “I Love you, Lord,” and lay down at night and say, “Thank you, Lord.” Would that.
So far the Personality Series has taken me in directions that I was not quite certain I would go. In part 3, I hope to explore some more of these things that complicate life. I’m not unhappy about these things, but I am seriously trying to figure out a working theology. I am interested in a simple life. I’ll leave off part 2 with the words that Tolstoy used to describe his hero, Levin:
Long before, Levin had felt dissatisfaction with his own position in regard to the land. He saw where his boat leaked, but he did not look for the leak, perhaps purposely deceiving himself. (Nothing would be left him if he lost faith in it.) But now he could deceive himself no longer. The farming of the land, as he was managing it, had become not merely unattractive but revolting to him, and he could take no further interest in it. (293)
I suspect that inside of us all there is a struggle for this balance. I’m still struggling. Would that the simple life were just so simple as to wake in the morning and say, “I Love you, Lord,” and lay down at night and say, “Thank you, Lord.” Would that.
Thursday, December 02, 2004
Dancing Down Penn Avenue
This was also posted at the Daily Devotions portion of my church website.
Recently, I have been thinking a lot about worship. I wrote about bees dancing in their hives. I wrote about soldiers worshipping in fighting holes in the sand floors of Iraq. Worship has been on my mind because it is always on my heart. I make every effort to use every waking moment of every day as an opportunity to worship. It makes no difference if I am writing a devotion, singing along with a CD, reading poetry to my sons, or praying—I believe that worship is not only something we offer, but it is an attitude in which we approach each moment. As one songwriter says, “I’m free because I’m living hallelujah.” (Sarah Kelly)
I’d like to contrast two pictures for you today. The first is in an advertisement I pulled out of the Church mailbox just a few minutes ago. The advertisement is a large newsletter type publication from The McKnight Group. The McKnight Group specializes in ‘design, architecture, and construction.’ They bill themselves as ‘church health specialists.’ I know very little about them save for what I have read in this publication. The newsletter I received focuses on a certain church that partnered with McKnight to construct a new building to meet the growing needs of a congregation that had an average attendance of around 700 people.
There are several pictures of the new facilities. There is a ‘new Gathering Place,’ and the worship team ‘appreciates their spacious, adaptable platform.’ There is also a picture of the ‘Great Hall’ which is like a giant foyer with a reception desk that looks like something out of an airport. A picture of the auditorium is captioned, “Services are enhanced with a state of the art sound and light booth.” All this is wonderful.
Don’t get me wrong. I think technology is cool and useful in the advancement of the Kingdom. I just think sometimes entirely too much time and money are spent on such edifices, such monuments to human ingenuity and ‘vision.’ Don’t get me wrong. I think humans do some cool stuff; however, I think it is merely a sign of our love of all things shiny and new. We construct big, shiny, technologically advanced buildings in the Name of God. And we enjoy them immensely. “The Most High does not live in houses made by men.”
I contrast this with a short excerpt from An American Childhood by Annie Dillard who found herself caught up in the moment one afternoon when she was a child:
I was running down the Penn Avenue sidewalk, revving up for an act of faith. I was conscious and self-conscious. I knew well that people could not fly—as well as anyone knows it—but I also knew the kicker: that, as the books put it, with faith all things are possible.
Just once I wanted a task that required all the joy I had. Dad after day I had noticed that if I waited long enough, my strong unexpressed joy would dwindle and dissipate inside me, over many hours, like a fire subsiding, and I would at last calm down. Just this once I wanted to let it rip. Flying rather famously required the extra energy of belief, and this, too, I had in superabundance.
…
I ran the sidewalk at full tilt. I waved my arms every higher and fast; blood balled in my fingertips. I knew I was foolish. I knew I was too old really to believe in this as a child would, out of ignorance; instead I was experimenting as a scientist would, testing both the thing itself and the limits of my own courage in trying it miserably self-conscious in full view of the whole world. You can’t test courage cautiously, so I ran hard and wave my arms hard, happy.
Up ahead I saw a business-suited pedestrian. He was coming stiffly toward me down the walk. Who could ever forget this first test, this stranger, this thin young man appalled? I banished the temptation to straighten up and walk right. He flattened himself against a brick wall as I passed flailing—although I had left him plenty of room. He had refused to meet my exultant eye. He look away, evidently embarrassed. How surprisingly easy it was to ignore him! What I was letting rip, in fact, was my willingness to look foolish, in his eyes and my own. Having chosen this foolishness, I was a free being. How could the world ever stop me, how could I betray myself, it I was not afraid?
…
I crossed Homewood and ran up the block. The joy multiplied as I ran—I ran never actually quite leaving the ground—and multiplied still as I felt my stride begin to fumble and my knees begin to quiver and stall. The joy multiplied even as I slowed bumping to a walk. I was all but splitting, all but shooting sparks. Blood coursed free inside my lungs and bones, a light-shot stream like air. I couldn’t feel the pavement at all.
I was too aware to do this, and had done it anyway. What could touch me now? For what were the people on Penn Avenue to me, or what was I to myself, really, but a witness to any boldness I could muster, or any cowardice if it came to that, any giving up on heaven for the sake of dignity on earth? I had not seen a great deal accomplished in the name of dignity, ever. (107-109)
I think we build big, impressive shiny buildings because we are embarrassed. We think that our God is too dignified to worship in small, brick, badly lighted buildings without all the technological advances of the 00’s. Or that He is too dignified to be laid in a manger or take on human flesh. Or maybe we are too dignified. Maybe we don’t like worshipping in small, badly lighted, old places. Perhaps…perhaps, we need to lighten up a little.
“David said to Michal, “It was before the LORD, who chose me rather than your father or anyone from his house when he appointed me ruler over the LORD's people Israel--I will celebrate before the LORD. I will become even more undignified than this, and I will be humiliated in my own eyes.”
Recently, I have been thinking a lot about worship. I wrote about bees dancing in their hives. I wrote about soldiers worshipping in fighting holes in the sand floors of Iraq. Worship has been on my mind because it is always on my heart. I make every effort to use every waking moment of every day as an opportunity to worship. It makes no difference if I am writing a devotion, singing along with a CD, reading poetry to my sons, or praying—I believe that worship is not only something we offer, but it is an attitude in which we approach each moment. As one songwriter says, “I’m free because I’m living hallelujah.” (Sarah Kelly)
I’d like to contrast two pictures for you today. The first is in an advertisement I pulled out of the Church mailbox just a few minutes ago. The advertisement is a large newsletter type publication from The McKnight Group. The McKnight Group specializes in ‘design, architecture, and construction.’ They bill themselves as ‘church health specialists.’ I know very little about them save for what I have read in this publication. The newsletter I received focuses on a certain church that partnered with McKnight to construct a new building to meet the growing needs of a congregation that had an average attendance of around 700 people.
There are several pictures of the new facilities. There is a ‘new Gathering Place,’ and the worship team ‘appreciates their spacious, adaptable platform.’ There is also a picture of the ‘Great Hall’ which is like a giant foyer with a reception desk that looks like something out of an airport. A picture of the auditorium is captioned, “Services are enhanced with a state of the art sound and light booth.” All this is wonderful.
Don’t get me wrong. I think technology is cool and useful in the advancement of the Kingdom. I just think sometimes entirely too much time and money are spent on such edifices, such monuments to human ingenuity and ‘vision.’ Don’t get me wrong. I think humans do some cool stuff; however, I think it is merely a sign of our love of all things shiny and new. We construct big, shiny, technologically advanced buildings in the Name of God. And we enjoy them immensely. “The Most High does not live in houses made by men.”
I contrast this with a short excerpt from An American Childhood by Annie Dillard who found herself caught up in the moment one afternoon when she was a child:
I was running down the Penn Avenue sidewalk, revving up for an act of faith. I was conscious and self-conscious. I knew well that people could not fly—as well as anyone knows it—but I also knew the kicker: that, as the books put it, with faith all things are possible.
Just once I wanted a task that required all the joy I had. Dad after day I had noticed that if I waited long enough, my strong unexpressed joy would dwindle and dissipate inside me, over many hours, like a fire subsiding, and I would at last calm down. Just this once I wanted to let it rip. Flying rather famously required the extra energy of belief, and this, too, I had in superabundance.
…
I ran the sidewalk at full tilt. I waved my arms every higher and fast; blood balled in my fingertips. I knew I was foolish. I knew I was too old really to believe in this as a child would, out of ignorance; instead I was experimenting as a scientist would, testing both the thing itself and the limits of my own courage in trying it miserably self-conscious in full view of the whole world. You can’t test courage cautiously, so I ran hard and wave my arms hard, happy.
Up ahead I saw a business-suited pedestrian. He was coming stiffly toward me down the walk. Who could ever forget this first test, this stranger, this thin young man appalled? I banished the temptation to straighten up and walk right. He flattened himself against a brick wall as I passed flailing—although I had left him plenty of room. He had refused to meet my exultant eye. He look away, evidently embarrassed. How surprisingly easy it was to ignore him! What I was letting rip, in fact, was my willingness to look foolish, in his eyes and my own. Having chosen this foolishness, I was a free being. How could the world ever stop me, how could I betray myself, it I was not afraid?
…
I crossed Homewood and ran up the block. The joy multiplied as I ran—I ran never actually quite leaving the ground—and multiplied still as I felt my stride begin to fumble and my knees begin to quiver and stall. The joy multiplied even as I slowed bumping to a walk. I was all but splitting, all but shooting sparks. Blood coursed free inside my lungs and bones, a light-shot stream like air. I couldn’t feel the pavement at all.
I was too aware to do this, and had done it anyway. What could touch me now? For what were the people on Penn Avenue to me, or what was I to myself, really, but a witness to any boldness I could muster, or any cowardice if it came to that, any giving up on heaven for the sake of dignity on earth? I had not seen a great deal accomplished in the name of dignity, ever. (107-109)
I think we build big, impressive shiny buildings because we are embarrassed. We think that our God is too dignified to worship in small, brick, badly lighted buildings without all the technological advances of the 00’s. Or that He is too dignified to be laid in a manger or take on human flesh. Or maybe we are too dignified. Maybe we don’t like worshipping in small, badly lighted, old places. Perhaps…perhaps, we need to lighten up a little.
“David said to Michal, “It was before the LORD, who chose me rather than your father or anyone from his house when he appointed me ruler over the LORD's people Israel--I will celebrate before the LORD. I will become even more undignified than this, and I will be humiliated in my own eyes.”
Friday, October 22, 2004
The Other Day: Thoughts on Winners and Losers
The other day I watched a televised professional sporting event. I don’t remember if it was NASCAR, the baseball championship series’, or NFL. At this time of year there is plenty to watch, plenty to enjoy, plenty to see as it relates to professional sports. It is a shame that I spend so much time watching professional sports when the leaves are turning into rainbows. It is a shame that I spend so much time watching professional sports, televised, when I have a yard still full of blooming flowers. The marigolds are still in full bloom, spectacular. We still have sunflowers that bloomed late rising into short air. I think the seeds fell out of birdfeeders and realized they only had a short period of time to grow before winter arrived. So they did. There are also mums in abundance: Red, white, yellow. We have mums everywhere thanks to a most excellent gift from a friend; they are glorious in their color.
We have other flowers blooming around the yard. I wish I knew the names of the flowers. There is a light wispy purple flower that sort of likes an Echinacea flower. There was one purple flower that looked like a Jamaican with a lot of short, tightly compressed dread locks, but it seems to have died now or at least faded away. There were some yellow ones that appeared the same way. I should take the time to get to know these flowers personally. Perhaps spend some time with them, enjoy a drink of sunlight together, sit and talk about the weather for a spell. I imagine most flowers disliking the nearing cold much more than I do. If I could, seriously, I would dig every single flower out of the earth and bring it in for the winter.
Then again, maybe I wouldn’t. I would like to see them again next year. Next year I will spend some time with them. Richard Dawkins, eminent scientist, ardent Darwinist, passionate atheist, believes that flowers exist merely for the sake of their own DNA—they are selfish. That seems to me to be rather short sighted. Flowers have so much more to offer, maybe not for me or us, but at least for the bees that like to sleep in their soft beds get high on their pollen. (I love watching bees gather so much pollen they can hardly fly and when they do it is sort of like a drunken stagger—if one can fly a drunken stagger.) Flowers have to mean more than DNA. Do flowers serve DNA? Or does DNA serve flowers? Dawkins opts for the former; I opt for the latter.
When I started, I was telling you about a sporting event that I watched the other day. At the end of the sporting even there was a winner. The winner cheered and smiled and jumped and acted as if he had just been awarded life eternal—I couldn’t think of anything that would rival life eternal, well maybe for the atheist non-existence. I sat and watched the winner jump around for a few minutes; I watched him being mobbed by his teammates; I saw the jubilation in his eyes—jubilation that only comes from winning. There is certainly no comparable elation that comes from losing. Losing adds weight to the heart, the soul, to the shoulders of the loser. Losing is crushing, humiliating and downright shameful. Winning lifts weight and gives wings to the winner. Who does not want to win? Who wants to lose? No one likes losing, no one likes a loser, and no one wants to spend time on a losing team. Winning, someone said the other night, is the cure for all ills. It is a tired mantra, to be sure, but it is true nonetheless.
Why is winning so preferable to losing? Why do we avoid losing as if it were some sort of plague? Some professional teams have caught this plague and have had it for a while, wonderfully. (By the way, why have children’s games been made into professional money making machines?) They cannot shake it no matter how many antibiotics they consume, inoculations they receive. The only cure for losing is winning. There is no magic drug, no amount of money, no particular person who will cure losing. It has to be cured by winning. Why is winning so preferable to losing?
Even in the games we do play as or with children or that children play among themselves winning is the priority. The object of playing a game, monopoly, for example, is not the enjoyment of being together with others who also enjoy playing, it is winning. Anyone who has ever lost at Monopoly will tell you that losing that game is the worst thing on the planet. They will never admit that they had nothing to do with the way the dice fell out of their hands and bounced on the table. Dice are fickle. How many lives have been interminably altered by the roll of a die or the tumble of the dice? Dice have an uncanny way of choosing winners and losers (think of Queequeg in Moby Dick). This is especially true when playing monopoly. I roll a five instead of a six and end upon New York Avenue with a hotel instead of Free Parking; I pay $1050 instead of collecting ten rounds of taxes and fees in the center of the board; I go bankrupt instead of becoming a thousanair. Dice are strange that way. I don’t think my mother has ever lost a game of Monopoly in her life. She has dice that prefer her hand instead of anyone else’s. Frankly, I enjoy playing Monopoly; I hate losing Monopoly. Still, anyone who has ever played knows that if you get stuck with Mediterranean and Baltic you are not going to beat the one who holds Park Place and Boardwalk. “If winning is not the object, why keep score?” Or, as in the case of Monopoly, “Why count the money?” Something tells me that winning does matter.
The Red Sox beat the Yankees tonight. They came back from a 3-0 deficit to win four straight games en route to the World Series. Those were 25 of the happiest men on the face of the earth tonight. Try to tell them winning does not matter.
Winning is a way of life. Personally, I hate losing, but I suffer it. I’m not a very good loser. I don’t fail well, but I have spent the majority of my earthly days losing. I have lost so often, succeeded so infrequently, that one might think I am a master at it, that I have written books about it. Sorry. I never played for a winning baseball team as a kid. I never played for a winning basketball team in high school. I lost every 1 mile race I ran in high school track and I still have no idea why the track coach let me do the long jump. I never played football in high school, but my high school team hardly ever won. I played soccer in the 4th or 5th grade; lost there too. I have been the minister of three different churches since college: failed, failed, failing. Somehow I have the idea that failing is equivalent to losing. I play golf sometimes and every time I play I lose to a man twice my age. I never made it to Eagle Scout like my dad. I did not last in the Marine Corps like my brother. I bailed on graduate school before I finished my first semester. At one of the churches I ministered to a friend had a nickname for me: Loser.
In this world, we have a penchant for making a competition out of everything. Television networks compete for viewers and ratings. I just started reading a book about 9 men who made a competition out of racing sailboats around the world. The Red Sox beat the Yankees the population at large received many assurances from radio personalities that they would not, could not come back. I think the sun and moon are in competition with each other too. Light and dark are waging a war. War is a competition: who will win? Competition is about who can do the most, the best, or the quickest. Children are constantly racing or battling or in competition with one another over the most, it appears to adults, unimportant things imaginable: who can finish dinner first, who can take the quickest shower, who can race to the top of the steps the fastest. They compete over everything. Adults are not much better as is proved by noting the line-up of television programming available each day. I have recently become rather interested in a television show called Iron Chef, a Japanese television program about a competition involving, what else, cooking. At the end of each show, the voice over says, “Whose cuisine will reign supreme?” I have to laugh at the corny English voice-overs. And the cuisines may reign supreme to the tasters, but to me the cuisines look like something I scrape off the bottom of my shoe and discard in the wastebasket. The competition is, nevertheless, interesting to watch.
There are other competition shows on television too: The Great Race, Fear Factor, Survivor, Big Brother, the Swan, Who Wants to Marry a Millionaire?, America’s Next Top Model, The Price is Right, Millionaire, Jeopardy, and a whole host of others to numerous to mention here. The object of every show is the same: come out on top, be the winner, be first. There’s even a show on now about who can lose the most weight. I think the most obvious competition going on is between the networks: Who can come up with the stupidest new competition and call it ‘Worth Watching’ or ‘Must See TV’? I have no use for any of that garbage.
Why the preoccupation with winning? Why does winning matter so much? Why am successful if I win, and, pejoratively, a loser if I lose? I made it this far did I not? I mean, there are hundreds and thousands, perhaps millions, of species that did not survive this long on the evolutionary ladder, or stair, or slide. I could have been a large wooly mammoth that slipped on a banana peel and fell through the ice only to be trapped like a fly in an ice cube. I could have been a too dumb dinosaur that looked at the pretty rocks falling from the sky and decided to go on eating instead of seeking shelter. I could have been one of the poor citizens of Pompeii trapped in the plumes of Vesuvius’ belch. I could have been a small child skipping rope on a sidewalk, unaware of the airplanes heading my way, and unaware of the rush of heat that would soon overwhelm Hiroshima or Nagasaki on an August day in 1945. I could have been. I could have been that gnat that I crushed against the table a while back, this past summer. Instead I am me. I could have been a Jewish man, or woman, or child, or dog living in Europe during the 1930’s and 1940’s. And of all the times I could have lost I did not. I could have been one of the several million sperms that did not reach my mothers egg. I could have been the object of a woman’s ‘choice.’ I guess one could say that since I made it this far I am ahead of the game. My selfish genes have given me new hope, although tomorrow someone’s car may take it away. Then, all the selfish genes in the world will amount to little more than dust and bones to be scattered into the breeze. Genes don’t help much when 2000 lbs of twisted steel and shattered glass are crushing bones and shredding muscle, tissues and cells.
Winning is not all there is to life. Who wants to one of the Jurors that declared O.J. Simpson a ‘winner’? For that matter, would you want to be the sort of winner that O.J. is? Who wants to draw the shortest straw? Are there any real winners when it comes to war? Sometimes winning comes with and at a terrible price. I would hate to be a winner in a draft lottery. I would hate to be the winner of an early retirement decree. I’m not certain I would have wanted to win the draw for who would pilot the plane that dropped bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. I wonder if the pilot of Enola Gay had any misgivings about being chosen the 'winner' of that contest? I would hate to be the winner of a dead pool. I would hate to be the winner of a ‘let’s see who can fall to earth the fastest without a parachute’ contest. My point is that there are some things, however absurd they may sound, that it would be better to lose. Although, a ‘let’s see who can fall to earth the fastest without a parachute contest’ probably involves quite a few losers, and not nearly enough winners. But I digress.
I like winning and I hate losing. I have done very little of the former, and a great deal of the latter. I cannot say that I am particularly thrilled with the way things have gone so far, but I don’t have much choice in the matter. CS Lewis lamented that he was not very athletic or interested in sports as a schoolboy; he was no loser. I am very interested in athletic competition; I am no winner. I would hate to have been one the millions of intermediary, deformed, species that did not make the last great leap into evolutionary survival. There was a bunch of losers. Can you imagine being the intermediary species between an early Trilobite and a later mole, or an early form of sponge and a later homo sapien? Can you imagine being one of those awkward species that lived sometime between being a giant, lumbering, flightless brachiosaur and a tiny, soaring sparrow? That must have been tough. Those intermediary species that scientists have been telling us must exist must have been strange looking things. Imagine for a moment the duckbilled platypus. Now, imagine the intermediary species. What gene would be selfish with that? That was definitely a Blind Watchmaker. I wonder sometimes if perhaps I am an intermediary species. It would make perfectly logical sense: I am a loser.
I looked out the window today. I walked through the yard too. I am interested in the multitude of flowers that are still growing and blooming in my back, side and front yard. Mums. Marigolds. Sunflowers. Xenias. Echinacea. Four O’Clocks. Bachelor Buttons. And several others that I cannot name. Even my garden pepper plants are still working, making blossoms, producing fruit. In my book they are winners. They have survived. They have held out through the wind, the rain, the fluctuating temperatures, the night, the day, the light, the dark, the animals, the droughts and the floods. They started as mere seeds smashed into the darkness of the soil. Then, through a cataclysmic event, they burst out of their seed pods, up through the soil, and took their first breath of air. They are the winners. They started as small seeds and grew into enormous trees that the birds and bees and grasshoppers and spiders nested in and perched on all summer long. They reproduced. Now the reproduction phase is over—the bees are quite gone for the year—and I suspect that they are lingering in the flower stage simply for the enjoyment of not having to work any more. Now it is their time. Now they can be beautiful for sake of beauty. I think we are winners when we no longer compete to win but to simply enjoy the thrill of the race, the heat of competition, the applause and songs of praise that come from the gallery: Bravo! Hear-Hear! Hooray! Go! Or, if you happen to be a flower: Beautiful! Gorgeous! Spectacular! Wow! (But this should not be construed so as to mean that we quit trying to be the winner. It is always good to crush the opposition under and unflinching, internal, compulsion for victory. Darwin or one of his clones called it Survival of the Fittest. As if the unfit could survive!)
My day is nearly finished. I don’t know that I am entirely enthusiastic about it being finished. I could easily enjoy 10 or 15 more hours so that I could read or write. As it is, right now, I am watching and listening to my son as he plays a video game and tries to win. Winning! I beat a game tonight too, although, to be sure, I really lost: at the end of the game the cumulative time a player spends playing the game is flashed across the screen. I am not sure I am a winner for having spent that much time playing a game.
Some people that all there is to life is winning. They have a misunderstanding, I think, about the nature of losing. I believe that both are necessary to bring about a healthy human and both are necessary to bring about a healthy society. Many people are winners every single day. Many are losers. What I am trying to learn, and what I am trying to instill in my children, is that there is such a thing as being a good loser and being a good winner. Winning certainly matters or ‘they’ would not keep score. Losing matters too. One of them comes to us naturally; the other has to be learned. And if it has to be learned, then there must be a teacher.
We have other flowers blooming around the yard. I wish I knew the names of the flowers. There is a light wispy purple flower that sort of likes an Echinacea flower. There was one purple flower that looked like a Jamaican with a lot of short, tightly compressed dread locks, but it seems to have died now or at least faded away. There were some yellow ones that appeared the same way. I should take the time to get to know these flowers personally. Perhaps spend some time with them, enjoy a drink of sunlight together, sit and talk about the weather for a spell. I imagine most flowers disliking the nearing cold much more than I do. If I could, seriously, I would dig every single flower out of the earth and bring it in for the winter.
Then again, maybe I wouldn’t. I would like to see them again next year. Next year I will spend some time with them. Richard Dawkins, eminent scientist, ardent Darwinist, passionate atheist, believes that flowers exist merely for the sake of their own DNA—they are selfish. That seems to me to be rather short sighted. Flowers have so much more to offer, maybe not for me or us, but at least for the bees that like to sleep in their soft beds get high on their pollen. (I love watching bees gather so much pollen they can hardly fly and when they do it is sort of like a drunken stagger—if one can fly a drunken stagger.) Flowers have to mean more than DNA. Do flowers serve DNA? Or does DNA serve flowers? Dawkins opts for the former; I opt for the latter.
_____________________________________
When I started, I was telling you about a sporting event that I watched the other day. At the end of the sporting even there was a winner. The winner cheered and smiled and jumped and acted as if he had just been awarded life eternal—I couldn’t think of anything that would rival life eternal, well maybe for the atheist non-existence. I sat and watched the winner jump around for a few minutes; I watched him being mobbed by his teammates; I saw the jubilation in his eyes—jubilation that only comes from winning. There is certainly no comparable elation that comes from losing. Losing adds weight to the heart, the soul, to the shoulders of the loser. Losing is crushing, humiliating and downright shameful. Winning lifts weight and gives wings to the winner. Who does not want to win? Who wants to lose? No one likes losing, no one likes a loser, and no one wants to spend time on a losing team. Winning, someone said the other night, is the cure for all ills. It is a tired mantra, to be sure, but it is true nonetheless.
Why is winning so preferable to losing? Why do we avoid losing as if it were some sort of plague? Some professional teams have caught this plague and have had it for a while, wonderfully. (By the way, why have children’s games been made into professional money making machines?) They cannot shake it no matter how many antibiotics they consume, inoculations they receive. The only cure for losing is winning. There is no magic drug, no amount of money, no particular person who will cure losing. It has to be cured by winning. Why is winning so preferable to losing?
Even in the games we do play as or with children or that children play among themselves winning is the priority. The object of playing a game, monopoly, for example, is not the enjoyment of being together with others who also enjoy playing, it is winning. Anyone who has ever lost at Monopoly will tell you that losing that game is the worst thing on the planet. They will never admit that they had nothing to do with the way the dice fell out of their hands and bounced on the table. Dice are fickle. How many lives have been interminably altered by the roll of a die or the tumble of the dice? Dice have an uncanny way of choosing winners and losers (think of Queequeg in Moby Dick). This is especially true when playing monopoly. I roll a five instead of a six and end upon New York Avenue with a hotel instead of Free Parking; I pay $1050 instead of collecting ten rounds of taxes and fees in the center of the board; I go bankrupt instead of becoming a thousanair. Dice are strange that way. I don’t think my mother has ever lost a game of Monopoly in her life. She has dice that prefer her hand instead of anyone else’s. Frankly, I enjoy playing Monopoly; I hate losing Monopoly. Still, anyone who has ever played knows that if you get stuck with Mediterranean and Baltic you are not going to beat the one who holds Park Place and Boardwalk. “If winning is not the object, why keep score?” Or, as in the case of Monopoly, “Why count the money?” Something tells me that winning does matter.
_____________________________________
The Red Sox beat the Yankees tonight. They came back from a 3-0 deficit to win four straight games en route to the World Series. Those were 25 of the happiest men on the face of the earth tonight. Try to tell them winning does not matter.
______________________________________
Winning is a way of life. Personally, I hate losing, but I suffer it. I’m not a very good loser. I don’t fail well, but I have spent the majority of my earthly days losing. I have lost so often, succeeded so infrequently, that one might think I am a master at it, that I have written books about it. Sorry. I never played for a winning baseball team as a kid. I never played for a winning basketball team in high school. I lost every 1 mile race I ran in high school track and I still have no idea why the track coach let me do the long jump. I never played football in high school, but my high school team hardly ever won. I played soccer in the 4th or 5th grade; lost there too. I have been the minister of three different churches since college: failed, failed, failing. Somehow I have the idea that failing is equivalent to losing. I play golf sometimes and every time I play I lose to a man twice my age. I never made it to Eagle Scout like my dad. I did not last in the Marine Corps like my brother. I bailed on graduate school before I finished my first semester. At one of the churches I ministered to a friend had a nickname for me: Loser.
____________________________________
In this world, we have a penchant for making a competition out of everything. Television networks compete for viewers and ratings. I just started reading a book about 9 men who made a competition out of racing sailboats around the world. The Red Sox beat the Yankees the population at large received many assurances from radio personalities that they would not, could not come back. I think the sun and moon are in competition with each other too. Light and dark are waging a war. War is a competition: who will win? Competition is about who can do the most, the best, or the quickest. Children are constantly racing or battling or in competition with one another over the most, it appears to adults, unimportant things imaginable: who can finish dinner first, who can take the quickest shower, who can race to the top of the steps the fastest. They compete over everything. Adults are not much better as is proved by noting the line-up of television programming available each day. I have recently become rather interested in a television show called Iron Chef, a Japanese television program about a competition involving, what else, cooking. At the end of each show, the voice over says, “Whose cuisine will reign supreme?” I have to laugh at the corny English voice-overs. And the cuisines may reign supreme to the tasters, but to me the cuisines look like something I scrape off the bottom of my shoe and discard in the wastebasket. The competition is, nevertheless, interesting to watch.
There are other competition shows on television too: The Great Race, Fear Factor, Survivor, Big Brother, the Swan, Who Wants to Marry a Millionaire?, America’s Next Top Model, The Price is Right, Millionaire, Jeopardy, and a whole host of others to numerous to mention here. The object of every show is the same: come out on top, be the winner, be first. There’s even a show on now about who can lose the most weight. I think the most obvious competition going on is between the networks: Who can come up with the stupidest new competition and call it ‘Worth Watching’ or ‘Must See TV’? I have no use for any of that garbage.
Why the preoccupation with winning? Why does winning matter so much? Why am successful if I win, and, pejoratively, a loser if I lose? I made it this far did I not? I mean, there are hundreds and thousands, perhaps millions, of species that did not survive this long on the evolutionary ladder, or stair, or slide. I could have been a large wooly mammoth that slipped on a banana peel and fell through the ice only to be trapped like a fly in an ice cube. I could have been a too dumb dinosaur that looked at the pretty rocks falling from the sky and decided to go on eating instead of seeking shelter. I could have been one of the poor citizens of Pompeii trapped in the plumes of Vesuvius’ belch. I could have been a small child skipping rope on a sidewalk, unaware of the airplanes heading my way, and unaware of the rush of heat that would soon overwhelm Hiroshima or Nagasaki on an August day in 1945. I could have been. I could have been that gnat that I crushed against the table a while back, this past summer. Instead I am me. I could have been a Jewish man, or woman, or child, or dog living in Europe during the 1930’s and 1940’s. And of all the times I could have lost I did not. I could have been one of the several million sperms that did not reach my mothers egg. I could have been the object of a woman’s ‘choice.’ I guess one could say that since I made it this far I am ahead of the game. My selfish genes have given me new hope, although tomorrow someone’s car may take it away. Then, all the selfish genes in the world will amount to little more than dust and bones to be scattered into the breeze. Genes don’t help much when 2000 lbs of twisted steel and shattered glass are crushing bones and shredding muscle, tissues and cells.
___________________________________
Winning is not all there is to life. Who wants to one of the Jurors that declared O.J. Simpson a ‘winner’? For that matter, would you want to be the sort of winner that O.J. is? Who wants to draw the shortest straw? Are there any real winners when it comes to war? Sometimes winning comes with and at a terrible price. I would hate to be a winner in a draft lottery. I would hate to be the winner of an early retirement decree. I’m not certain I would have wanted to win the draw for who would pilot the plane that dropped bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. I wonder if the pilot of Enola Gay had any misgivings about being chosen the 'winner' of that contest? I would hate to be the winner of a dead pool. I would hate to be the winner of a ‘let’s see who can fall to earth the fastest without a parachute’ contest. My point is that there are some things, however absurd they may sound, that it would be better to lose. Although, a ‘let’s see who can fall to earth the fastest without a parachute contest’ probably involves quite a few losers, and not nearly enough winners. But I digress.
I like winning and I hate losing. I have done very little of the former, and a great deal of the latter. I cannot say that I am particularly thrilled with the way things have gone so far, but I don’t have much choice in the matter. CS Lewis lamented that he was not very athletic or interested in sports as a schoolboy; he was no loser. I am very interested in athletic competition; I am no winner. I would hate to have been one the millions of intermediary, deformed, species that did not make the last great leap into evolutionary survival. There was a bunch of losers. Can you imagine being the intermediary species between an early Trilobite and a later mole, or an early form of sponge and a later homo sapien? Can you imagine being one of those awkward species that lived sometime between being a giant, lumbering, flightless brachiosaur and a tiny, soaring sparrow? That must have been tough. Those intermediary species that scientists have been telling us must exist must have been strange looking things. Imagine for a moment the duckbilled platypus. Now, imagine the intermediary species. What gene would be selfish with that? That was definitely a Blind Watchmaker. I wonder sometimes if perhaps I am an intermediary species. It would make perfectly logical sense: I am a loser.
I looked out the window today. I walked through the yard too. I am interested in the multitude of flowers that are still growing and blooming in my back, side and front yard. Mums. Marigolds. Sunflowers. Xenias. Echinacea. Four O’Clocks. Bachelor Buttons. And several others that I cannot name. Even my garden pepper plants are still working, making blossoms, producing fruit. In my book they are winners. They have survived. They have held out through the wind, the rain, the fluctuating temperatures, the night, the day, the light, the dark, the animals, the droughts and the floods. They started as mere seeds smashed into the darkness of the soil. Then, through a cataclysmic event, they burst out of their seed pods, up through the soil, and took their first breath of air. They are the winners. They started as small seeds and grew into enormous trees that the birds and bees and grasshoppers and spiders nested in and perched on all summer long. They reproduced. Now the reproduction phase is over—the bees are quite gone for the year—and I suspect that they are lingering in the flower stage simply for the enjoyment of not having to work any more. Now it is their time. Now they can be beautiful for sake of beauty. I think we are winners when we no longer compete to win but to simply enjoy the thrill of the race, the heat of competition, the applause and songs of praise that come from the gallery: Bravo! Hear-Hear! Hooray! Go! Or, if you happen to be a flower: Beautiful! Gorgeous! Spectacular! Wow! (But this should not be construed so as to mean that we quit trying to be the winner. It is always good to crush the opposition under and unflinching, internal, compulsion for victory. Darwin or one of his clones called it Survival of the Fittest. As if the unfit could survive!)
___________________________________
My day is nearly finished. I don’t know that I am entirely enthusiastic about it being finished. I could easily enjoy 10 or 15 more hours so that I could read or write. As it is, right now, I am watching and listening to my son as he plays a video game and tries to win. Winning! I beat a game tonight too, although, to be sure, I really lost: at the end of the game the cumulative time a player spends playing the game is flashed across the screen. I am not sure I am a winner for having spent that much time playing a game.
Some people that all there is to life is winning. They have a misunderstanding, I think, about the nature of losing. I believe that both are necessary to bring about a healthy human and both are necessary to bring about a healthy society. Many people are winners every single day. Many are losers. What I am trying to learn, and what I am trying to instill in my children, is that there is such a thing as being a good loser and being a good winner. Winning certainly matters or ‘they’ would not keep score. Losing matters too. One of them comes to us naturally; the other has to be learned. And if it has to be learned, then there must be a teacher.
Thursday, October 07, 2004
The Personality Series, pt. 1
“Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in our troubles, so that we can comfort those in trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God.” 2 Corinthians 1:3-4
______________________________________
I have not publicly written of the issue that I must write about today. It is a sensitive area for me, one that I am not even certain at this point I wish to discuss. Nevertheless my heart is heaving inside of me and I feel especially compelled to write a few thoughts down and share them with you.
You may not want to continue if you feel a place of compassion for sexual predators or perverts. You may not want to continue reading if you don’t want my take on the issue. You may not want to continue reading if you think it is funny. For the record, there is nothing, absolutely nothing, funny about sexual deviants: not catholic priests, not Michael Jackson and his ilk, not serial killers, not pornographers, not any single one of them individually or collectively.
I write this first person because it is about me. It is part of my story. It is not all of it, but it is small part that I hope to expand later. For now, this is enough. I write this because I need to, I want to, and my heart is telling me that I have to. You don’t have to read this, like this or agree with this--so don't write me telling me how wrong or stupid I am for my opinions on my weblog. But here it is nonetheless.
_________________________________
I went to the optometrist yesterday. I have to go at least once per year in order to keep my contact lens prescription valid and operational. I have to confess: It is a terribly traumatic ordeal every time I go. I hate it. I hate it because the optometrist has to sit about 2 inches from my face. Then he has to sit right in front of me and lean into my ‘personal space.’ I am not one for modern psycho-babble, but I get very uncomfortable when he climbs out of his box and into mine.
I hate going to the dentist. I hate going to the doctor. I hate going to places where there is simply no avoiding being touched, probed or in someway violated by another human being.
There is another place, or person, I absolutely refuse to visit. It is the barber. To this day I don’t go to the barber for a haircut. When I was younger, I hated going too: I let my hair grow long. Now I am older: I keep my head shaved. It was a barber that did me in, one (two, three, four, five, etc.) time (s). Who knew any better? What was I supposed to do? What was I supposed to say? How was I supposed to defend myself? And now I have to live with it every single day; it never goes away.
It had something to do with that large, white apron that the barber used to wrap around my neck, drape over my body, and cover over my soul. To me it was sort of a death shroud, and to be sure, I died a little more with each visit. The drape was not so much, as he claimed it to be, a protection against falling, snipped hair that would make me itch, as much as it was a camouflage, a concealment, of his own clandestine activities. For me it was no redoubt against the tiny filaments of dead flesh that were trimmed from my skull. He always looked me straight in the eye when he talked to me. I hated the way he carefully wrapped that drape around my neck—being ever so careful not to pinch my skin or choke my throat—“Is that too tight?” he would compassionately ask. His kind, soft eyes that betrayed no hint of corruption and jealousy always melted away any inhibition and fear in me. Isn’t that what they were meant to do? But his hands knew exactly where they wanted to be—it was as if he detached his mind from his hands—and what they wanted to do. He was careful not to cut me with razors or straight edges or hack off a hidden mole. He made certain that his clippers never snagged my hair. He always gave me Juicy Fruit gum when I left. Those scars I could live with, easily.
I despise going those places and to those people even today in spite of the fact that those I go to now had nothing to do with my war then. It is an internal fear of being vulnerable and under someone else’s power. I despise that weakened feeling, that insipid distrust of all things flesh and not my own. How can I trust anyone? Who has earned that trust? Has everyone been painted black because of the sin of one or two?
Here I am thirty four years old, afraid of barbers and spreading the angst, however innocently and inadvertently, to my own children by not taking them to the barber. The responsibilities of cutting hair are mine. And I never use that long drape that wraps tightly around the neck and spreads like a tarpaulin over a pile of bones. I hated that drape and cringed at the thought of being tightened around my neck. I still cringe even at the mere thought of that drape being ‘adjusted’ or ‘situated’ or ‘fixed’. I still fear those eyes. I still fear anyone who speaks in a sing song voice as if his life were merely a song he were singing, as if each breath were merely a note to be hummed, as if each step were merely a downbeat in some sick, twisted, deviant score of hatred and disease.
_______________________________
I don’t think God put me in a place on purpose so that I would be molested. What sort of God would do that? But He has taken an otherwise traumatic and devastating experience and redeemed it for his purposes. I did not go searching for a pedophile nor was I hurled by divine fiat into his chair. However, I will not allow myself to be destroyed because of it. Furthermore, and perhaps more importantly, I am able to help those who are in need. I can protect children, my children, any children, from the likes of those who would seek to devastate their lives. God not only redeemed me; He redeemed everything about me too. I would be a sinner if I did not protect the children God has entrusted to me.
I become physically ill, spiritually disturbed when I hear of or read of some human being that has taken advantage of a child’s innocence, or vulnerability and corrupted or violated him in such a way as to produce scars that will remain beyond this life and run deeper than the flesh. There is nothing funny about that female school teacher who raped her young student. I don’t understand, first of all, and I cannot keep from becoming somewhat enraged, although my rage is closer akin to profound sadness than to real rage. Imagine being so angry that you wish you could reach into the television screen and choke the life from the violator and then realizing that you can do no such thing. That sort of approximates the feeling. It is the same feeling the child has too: helpless and powerless like Edmond Dantes who, after being thrown into prison, ‘passed through all the degrees of misfortune that prisoners, forgotten in their dungeon, suffer.’ He, it is written in The Count of Monte Cristo, “…dashed himself furiously against the walls of his prison, attacked everything, and chiefly himself, and the least thing—a grain of sand, a straw, or a breath of air that annoyed him.” Hopeless rage.
__________________________________________
Sometimes, in my voyages, when I was a man and commanded other men, I have seen the heavens become overcast, the sea rage and foam, the storm arise, and, like a monstrous bird, cover the sky with its wings. Then I felt that my vessel was a vain refuge that trembled and shook before the tempest. Soon the fury of the waves, and the sight of the sharp rocks, announced the approach of death, and death then terrified me, and I used all my skill and intelligence as a man and a sailor to escape it. But I did so because I was happy, because I had not courted death, because this repose on a be of rocks and sea-weed seemed terrible, because I was unwilling that I, a creature made for the service of God, should serve for food to the gulls and ravens. But now it is different. I have lost all that bound me to life; death smiles and invites me to repose; I die after my own manner, I die exhausted and broken-spirited, as I fall asleep when I have paced three thousand times round my cell. (Edmond Dantes in The Count of Monte Cristo)
_______________________________________________
______________________________________
I have not publicly written of the issue that I must write about today. It is a sensitive area for me, one that I am not even certain at this point I wish to discuss. Nevertheless my heart is heaving inside of me and I feel especially compelled to write a few thoughts down and share them with you.
You may not want to continue if you feel a place of compassion for sexual predators or perverts. You may not want to continue reading if you don’t want my take on the issue. You may not want to continue reading if you think it is funny. For the record, there is nothing, absolutely nothing, funny about sexual deviants: not catholic priests, not Michael Jackson and his ilk, not serial killers, not pornographers, not any single one of them individually or collectively.
I write this first person because it is about me. It is part of my story. It is not all of it, but it is small part that I hope to expand later. For now, this is enough. I write this because I need to, I want to, and my heart is telling me that I have to. You don’t have to read this, like this or agree with this--so don't write me telling me how wrong or stupid I am for my opinions on my weblog. But here it is nonetheless.
_________________________________
I went to the optometrist yesterday. I have to go at least once per year in order to keep my contact lens prescription valid and operational. I have to confess: It is a terribly traumatic ordeal every time I go. I hate it. I hate it because the optometrist has to sit about 2 inches from my face. Then he has to sit right in front of me and lean into my ‘personal space.’ I am not one for modern psycho-babble, but I get very uncomfortable when he climbs out of his box and into mine.
I hate going to the dentist. I hate going to the doctor. I hate going to places where there is simply no avoiding being touched, probed or in someway violated by another human being.
There is another place, or person, I absolutely refuse to visit. It is the barber. To this day I don’t go to the barber for a haircut. When I was younger, I hated going too: I let my hair grow long. Now I am older: I keep my head shaved. It was a barber that did me in, one (two, three, four, five, etc.) time (s). Who knew any better? What was I supposed to do? What was I supposed to say? How was I supposed to defend myself? And now I have to live with it every single day; it never goes away.
It had something to do with that large, white apron that the barber used to wrap around my neck, drape over my body, and cover over my soul. To me it was sort of a death shroud, and to be sure, I died a little more with each visit. The drape was not so much, as he claimed it to be, a protection against falling, snipped hair that would make me itch, as much as it was a camouflage, a concealment, of his own clandestine activities. For me it was no redoubt against the tiny filaments of dead flesh that were trimmed from my skull. He always looked me straight in the eye when he talked to me. I hated the way he carefully wrapped that drape around my neck—being ever so careful not to pinch my skin or choke my throat—“Is that too tight?” he would compassionately ask. His kind, soft eyes that betrayed no hint of corruption and jealousy always melted away any inhibition and fear in me. Isn’t that what they were meant to do? But his hands knew exactly where they wanted to be—it was as if he detached his mind from his hands—and what they wanted to do. He was careful not to cut me with razors or straight edges or hack off a hidden mole. He made certain that his clippers never snagged my hair. He always gave me Juicy Fruit gum when I left. Those scars I could live with, easily.
I despise going those places and to those people even today in spite of the fact that those I go to now had nothing to do with my war then. It is an internal fear of being vulnerable and under someone else’s power. I despise that weakened feeling, that insipid distrust of all things flesh and not my own. How can I trust anyone? Who has earned that trust? Has everyone been painted black because of the sin of one or two?
Here I am thirty four years old, afraid of barbers and spreading the angst, however innocently and inadvertently, to my own children by not taking them to the barber. The responsibilities of cutting hair are mine. And I never use that long drape that wraps tightly around the neck and spreads like a tarpaulin over a pile of bones. I hated that drape and cringed at the thought of being tightened around my neck. I still cringe even at the mere thought of that drape being ‘adjusted’ or ‘situated’ or ‘fixed’. I still fear those eyes. I still fear anyone who speaks in a sing song voice as if his life were merely a song he were singing, as if each breath were merely a note to be hummed, as if each step were merely a downbeat in some sick, twisted, deviant score of hatred and disease.
_______________________________
I don’t think God put me in a place on purpose so that I would be molested. What sort of God would do that? But He has taken an otherwise traumatic and devastating experience and redeemed it for his purposes. I did not go searching for a pedophile nor was I hurled by divine fiat into his chair. However, I will not allow myself to be destroyed because of it. Furthermore, and perhaps more importantly, I am able to help those who are in need. I can protect children, my children, any children, from the likes of those who would seek to devastate their lives. God not only redeemed me; He redeemed everything about me too. I would be a sinner if I did not protect the children God has entrusted to me.
I become physically ill, spiritually disturbed when I hear of or read of some human being that has taken advantage of a child’s innocence, or vulnerability and corrupted or violated him in such a way as to produce scars that will remain beyond this life and run deeper than the flesh. There is nothing funny about that female school teacher who raped her young student. I don’t understand, first of all, and I cannot keep from becoming somewhat enraged, although my rage is closer akin to profound sadness than to real rage. Imagine being so angry that you wish you could reach into the television screen and choke the life from the violator and then realizing that you can do no such thing. That sort of approximates the feeling. It is the same feeling the child has too: helpless and powerless like Edmond Dantes who, after being thrown into prison, ‘passed through all the degrees of misfortune that prisoners, forgotten in their dungeon, suffer.’ He, it is written in The Count of Monte Cristo, “…dashed himself furiously against the walls of his prison, attacked everything, and chiefly himself, and the least thing—a grain of sand, a straw, or a breath of air that annoyed him.” Hopeless rage.
__________________________________________
Sometimes, in my voyages, when I was a man and commanded other men, I have seen the heavens become overcast, the sea rage and foam, the storm arise, and, like a monstrous bird, cover the sky with its wings. Then I felt that my vessel was a vain refuge that trembled and shook before the tempest. Soon the fury of the waves, and the sight of the sharp rocks, announced the approach of death, and death then terrified me, and I used all my skill and intelligence as a man and a sailor to escape it. But I did so because I was happy, because I had not courted death, because this repose on a be of rocks and sea-weed seemed terrible, because I was unwilling that I, a creature made for the service of God, should serve for food to the gulls and ravens. But now it is different. I have lost all that bound me to life; death smiles and invites me to repose; I die after my own manner, I die exhausted and broken-spirited, as I fall asleep when I have paced three thousand times round my cell. (Edmond Dantes in The Count of Monte Cristo)
_______________________________________________
There is also the idea that in order to minister to people properly, one must be close to people. One must be willing to touch, feel, and be close to others. This is something that I find practically impossible to do. I waffle on this very point of ministry. Ministry is necessarily about being up close and personal with people. John describes how ministry with Jesus meant touching, hearing, seeing—employing the senses. The essence of pastoral ministry is being among the sheep—knowing the sheep enough, even more, to call them by name. It means the allowing of abstract emotional upheaval to play a role in the concrete plains of ‘yes’ and ‘no.’ I have a difficult time with emotions which is one reason why I suppose I am not well suited to ministry in the pastoral sense. I can hardly deal with my own emotional turmoil let alone that of others.
Again, I point to the ministry of Jesus who came down and tabernacled among ‘us’. He put on this filthy madness we call flesh and bled, and sweat, and belched, and probably had some kind of funky middle-eastern body odor. John relishes this as a blessing: That which we have seen with our eyes, and touched. The Son of Thunder delighted in this personal, pastoral presence—His touch. When he wrote the Revelation, one of the most poignant scenes is when John is afraid and Jesus puts his hand on him and encourages him to not be afraid. I would have a hard time being Jesus or John in that situation; I have a hard time being Jesus or John in my situation.
________________________________________
I’d like to think that I have mastered my life, but I have not even come close. I have not even failed well.
________________________________________
I don’t understand how a human being can see a child—the beautiful innocence and boundless joy and creatively imaginative and perfect soul—and want to destroy it. Why turn these tiny plants into flowers that will ‘blossom in a puddle of mud’? Why hurt them? Why ruin them? Why corrupt them? Why view them as mere objects of personal satisfaction instead of as God’s gracious way of saying, “Life shall continue.” Humans fail to hear the voice of God, but then again, there is not too many who are listening. Humans fail to see the grace of God, but then again, there are not too many who are looking. But when a person sees a child, how can that person not see the face of God? And if they see the face of God, how can they dare approach it with such contempt, arrogance? Jesus correctly pronounced: “Woe to those who cause these little ones to stumble. It would be better for them to have a millstone tied about their neck and be cast into the deep.”
It is unlikely that I will ever approach a comprehension of this aspect of humanity. I can understand, while certainly not approving or condoning, stealing. I can understand, while certainly not approving or condoning, speeding. I can understand, to a certain extent and in certain circumstances, taking the life of another human being. (But please understand that my view of murderers is not rosy, and, to be sure, they are not far removed from pedophiles.) But I cannot, under any circumstance begin to even come close to understanding the mind and heart of a human that would even think of violating a child in any way. That is probably a run-on; but how else to make someone understand how perfect is my disgust and contempt for such people?
________________________________________
Now that I have vomited, I can explain one last aspect of ministry necessary in such situations. It is called grace. Someone must show the grace of God to such people. Someone must minister to them in the name of Christ. Someone must teach them the Redemption Story. Someone must cut off their hands so they can at least enter the Kingdom maimed for that is better than to continue on in their way and enter Darkness with both hands.
Some reading this may think I am well beyond my area of expertise here. They may suggest after such a reading that I am clearly a lunatic, that I clearly have no idea what I am talking about, and that when it gets down to brass tacks I ought to forget about my contempt and my compassion. Trust me when I say that it is highly unlikely that I am the one who is being called or sent to such contemptible people. That is one group of swine that I cannot cast my pearls before. However, this is not to say ‘they’ are beyond the reach, the touch, of Christ. There is, obviously, someone who does have the heart and the courage and the love to say to the sinner, “Thou art loosed.” After all, who among us is not a sinner? Who among us has not fallen short of God’s glory? Who among us has attained any sort of perfection? Who among us would not be going to hell if not for a person who said, “There is a swine I will cast my pearls before?” In this sense, grace is available and there are, without doubt, some beautiful feet that will carry God’s message of grace to those lost souls who were probably mere children at one time in their own lives.
____________________________________________
That’s all I can say for now. It is hard for me to write these thoughts; harder for me to post them for someone else to read. All I know, and believe it or now there are a million and one things crowding inside of my mind, is that I wish my life had seen different experiences. I cannot look back on this with favor and say, ‘Oh what a grand lesson I learned.’ However, I can make it my goal in life, with my every waking breath, to protect other children from the ravages of predators whose smiling faces and glistening eyes welcome us into the safety of their world—where in the darkness they slit our throats and eat our souls.
God have mercy on them because it might be simply beyond my ability to do so.
I don’t understand how a human being can see a child—the beautiful innocence and boundless joy and creatively imaginative and perfect soul—and want to destroy it. Why turn these tiny plants into flowers that will ‘blossom in a puddle of mud’? Why hurt them? Why ruin them? Why corrupt them? Why view them as mere objects of personal satisfaction instead of as God’s gracious way of saying, “Life shall continue.” Humans fail to hear the voice of God, but then again, there is not too many who are listening. Humans fail to see the grace of God, but then again, there are not too many who are looking. But when a person sees a child, how can that person not see the face of God? And if they see the face of God, how can they dare approach it with such contempt, arrogance? Jesus correctly pronounced: “Woe to those who cause these little ones to stumble. It would be better for them to have a millstone tied about their neck and be cast into the deep.”
It is unlikely that I will ever approach a comprehension of this aspect of humanity. I can understand, while certainly not approving or condoning, stealing. I can understand, while certainly not approving or condoning, speeding. I can understand, to a certain extent and in certain circumstances, taking the life of another human being. (But please understand that my view of murderers is not rosy, and, to be sure, they are not far removed from pedophiles.) But I cannot, under any circumstance begin to even come close to understanding the mind and heart of a human that would even think of violating a child in any way. That is probably a run-on; but how else to make someone understand how perfect is my disgust and contempt for such people?
________________________________________
Now that I have vomited, I can explain one last aspect of ministry necessary in such situations. It is called grace. Someone must show the grace of God to such people. Someone must minister to them in the name of Christ. Someone must teach them the Redemption Story. Someone must cut off their hands so they can at least enter the Kingdom maimed for that is better than to continue on in their way and enter Darkness with both hands.
Some reading this may think I am well beyond my area of expertise here. They may suggest after such a reading that I am clearly a lunatic, that I clearly have no idea what I am talking about, and that when it gets down to brass tacks I ought to forget about my contempt and my compassion. Trust me when I say that it is highly unlikely that I am the one who is being called or sent to such contemptible people. That is one group of swine that I cannot cast my pearls before. However, this is not to say ‘they’ are beyond the reach, the touch, of Christ. There is, obviously, someone who does have the heart and the courage and the love to say to the sinner, “Thou art loosed.” After all, who among us is not a sinner? Who among us has not fallen short of God’s glory? Who among us has attained any sort of perfection? Who among us would not be going to hell if not for a person who said, “There is a swine I will cast my pearls before?” In this sense, grace is available and there are, without doubt, some beautiful feet that will carry God’s message of grace to those lost souls who were probably mere children at one time in their own lives.
____________________________________________
That’s all I can say for now. It is hard for me to write these thoughts; harder for me to post them for someone else to read. All I know, and believe it or now there are a million and one things crowding inside of my mind, is that I wish my life had seen different experiences. I cannot look back on this with favor and say, ‘Oh what a grand lesson I learned.’ However, I can make it my goal in life, with my every waking breath, to protect other children from the ravages of predators whose smiling faces and glistening eyes welcome us into the safety of their world—where in the darkness they slit our throats and eat our souls.
God have mercy on them because it might be simply beyond my ability to do so.
Blobs of Dirt
Hey friends here are some things I was thinking about the other day. I have a long post to put up here, maybe even today, when I can get it burned to a CD. Enjoy.
What will become of this death
lingering on my street?
I hear his voice sing sweetly
in every person I meet.
________________
Where is the darkness, the
hatred I feel?
ANd what is this disease
I work so to conceal?
________________
Why is my heart heavy
inside of my chest?
Why, when I know better,
will I not welcome rest?
________________
This place is a hive of
sound wave festivity.
Where fingers and minds
are shaped for creativity.
________________
My mind is all twisted
Contorted and shy.
Like the rain diseased clouds
that hide the sun from my eyes.
________________
Every now and again
I want to say, 'shit'.
And throw a temper tantrum,
or girly hissy fit.
________________
There remains an element of mystery in this world. Do we need to know everything? Do we want to know everything? I have a simply explanation that goes like this:
He revealed more than we can understand.
He revealed less than we desire.
He revealed enough to make His point.
________________
My happiness is not the chief end of life, not the main objective of God, and not the constant thought of the universe.
________________
Marigolds transformed my yard into a small place of delight. They are gorgeous, beautiful and deserve to be the pavement we walk on in the New Jerusalem. The blosssoms remain for a long time and seem unperturbed by the cold, heat or drought.
________________
In the desert gold is without value. Water is priceless.
________________
"I feel obliged to admit that I believe not because of but in spite of miracles." Teilhard de Chardin
________________
We should take time out of each day to describe the clouds.
More later.
What will become of this death
lingering on my street?
I hear his voice sing sweetly
in every person I meet.
________________
Where is the darkness, the
hatred I feel?
ANd what is this disease
I work so to conceal?
________________
Why is my heart heavy
inside of my chest?
Why, when I know better,
will I not welcome rest?
________________
This place is a hive of
sound wave festivity.
Where fingers and minds
are shaped for creativity.
________________
My mind is all twisted
Contorted and shy.
Like the rain diseased clouds
that hide the sun from my eyes.
________________
Every now and again
I want to say, 'shit'.
And throw a temper tantrum,
or girly hissy fit.
________________
There remains an element of mystery in this world. Do we need to know everything? Do we want to know everything? I have a simply explanation that goes like this:
He revealed more than we can understand.
He revealed less than we desire.
He revealed enough to make His point.
________________
My happiness is not the chief end of life, not the main objective of God, and not the constant thought of the universe.
________________
Marigolds transformed my yard into a small place of delight. They are gorgeous, beautiful and deserve to be the pavement we walk on in the New Jerusalem. The blosssoms remain for a long time and seem unperturbed by the cold, heat or drought.
________________
In the desert gold is without value. Water is priceless.
________________
"I feel obliged to admit that I believe not because of but in spite of miracles." Teilhard de Chardin
________________
We should take time out of each day to describe the clouds.
More later.
Thursday, September 23, 2004
I'm Ready to Sing
I have a new neighbor. He and his wife just moved in a couple of weeks ago. I have not met them yet.
My new neighbor is a hunter and likes to practice his bow shooting off his back porch. I am not a big fan of this practice but I don’t suppose there is much I will say or can do.
I was amused the other day when I looked into his backyard and saw a new target had been set up behind the rather obvious hay-filled square with tiny circles painted on its surface. The new target is a big brown turkey, the kind you might see in the wild. It is a handsome bird, and quite resembles a real live Tom.
It is rather a strange thing to see this rather strange Styrofoam turkey standing as ‘idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean’ in my neighbor’s yard. Birds are not lifeless, statues. They are fluid, free and flying. What sort of a bird stands still? (A dead one.) I would guess that such a turkey in the wilderness would be a rather easy target. Give that turkey some real legs and motivation and see how easy of a target it would be!
_________________________
I lived in a small town in West Virginia for a while where the main staple of economic life is the Turkey and Chicken business. Our front yard was perpetually white from all the feathers that blew off the truckloads of poultry that rolled by our house at all hours of the night and day. If I had lived in that town a day past when we left I would probably have become a vegetarian. Frankly, it was a sickening thing to see all those birds trapped in steel cages on the back of tractor trailers.
It was bad enough knowing that they were not being taken to a zoo or a nice marshy pond; it was even worse knowing that everyone in town either raised the birds or worked at the slaughterhouse. I am not anti-raising/selling/slaughtering/eating poultry. But it sure was a sad sight to see every day. Even today, although I have sworn off vegetarianism, I still have trouble eating turkey and chicken.
_________________________
I drove to Mentor today with the boys. I was distracted and in some sort of trance, I think. I had some errands to run—like, I really needed an eye exam. Happily we drove along the road until we came to the exit required to take us to the appropriate store where we would conduct our business.
We arrived rather quickly at the necessary exit. I blinked my intentions to the cars around and pulled my vehicle into the off ramp lane. I decreased my rate of speed and casually rolled around the cloverleaf exit ramp. At the top of the ramp I brought the vehicle to a stop with a deft use of my right foot. (I pressed the brake pedal.) As I came to a standstill I happened to let my eyes wander forward and upward. As I did I caught glimpse of something hovering in circles some distance away. It was some sort of bird, likely a hawk of some species. I watched for about 15 seconds or so.
I thought to myself that that bird had it made. Flying around up there in the sky, high above all the madness that is life, just enjoying the cool breeze beneath his wings, the bird crystallized, even if for a mere moment, what I long for most in life. He had none of the worries I had. He was not thinking of needing new contact lenses or a new shower curtain. He was not thinking of the light turning green so he could move on to the next one. He just flew and flew.
He was free. His next paycheck was not a concern. He did not have to worry about being on time or late for work. He was free to come and go as he pleased. He did not care about the music I was listening to, or whether or not he had the latest greatest new compact disk. He only concern was simply to fly and be free.
____________________________
I had to work in the yard the other day. Trimming weeds one last time. Putting things away. Cleaning gutters. Etc.
I had to take down all the bird feeders and dump out the hummingbird food. I had to prepare the yard and myself for the reality that the birds will gone for several months.
____________________________
It is nearly fall—I suspect that today is the first day of fall—and you know what I miss the most? The birds seem to have gone. There are a few left here and there—across the street I have been enjoying a large flock of Canadian Geese—even the Canadian Geese like living in America—but mostly they are gone. I have not seen any hummingbirds recently nor have I seen any goldfinches or orioles. A few cardinals remain at hand, but the robins seem to have flown the coup so to speak. The other day I noticed about a thousand birds sitting on the electrical wires across the street, but I sure couldn’t tell you what kind birds they were. They were birds.
______________________________
Funny thing is, I only just noticed today that the birds have been absent. I so enjoy their songs. Maybe I have just tuned them out for a while or maybe I just forgot about them. There have not been too many open window days around the house recently because the temperature has been unbelievably low and I don’t want to turn the furnace on just yet. So, maybe there are birds and I simply have not had the time to notice them; or, maybe they are gone after all.
________________________________
Birds have it made. They fly and thus get to enjoy the world from a different perspective. They sing and thus the whole earth is full of their music. They mostly travel with friends and thus show us the benefits of numbers. If I could be any other creature than what I am now, I would choose to be a bird. Not because I would get to fly, but maybe because I would get to perch on an electrical wire and not get shocked; or, better yet, because we have been told that not a sparrow falls to the ground apart from the Father’s knowledge. That’s special. Imagine being such an intricate part of creation, such a cared for species that not a single one falls dead without God knowing it. (Although, I believe I have remarked elsewhere that this undoubtedly means that God spends a good portion of his ‘day’ thinking about death, and marking in His mind all the sparrows that did fall. I am not certain I would like to have that job.)
______________________________
I don’t want to rush the fall and winter because I like the cooler weather, but I kind of cannot wait until spring. I can’t wait to get out all the birdfeeders and buy seeds all summer long so I can feed them—as if they need my help to find food. (Remember, they don’t reap or store up in barns and yet they are fed by God.) I cannot wait to hear their songs again. If it is terrible to have to count all those dead birds each day, certainly it must be, at minimum, offset by the songs He hears all year long without ceasing. That is a trade-off I would be willing to take.
I was thinking about birds today while I listened to some music. “They that wait upon the Lord, shall renew their strength…they will soar on wings like eagles…”
It seems that it is always about birds. “All the birds of the sky are singing/you got to understand/Eleutheria.” (Lenny Kravitz)
That’s it. Eleutheria. (It’s a Greek word that means ‘freedom’.)
Freedom. If I said, ‘This is for the birds’ I would be lying.
Eleutheria is for me; and you, if you want it.
That’s what I am trying to say.
I’m ready to—sing. (I’m afraid to fly.)
My new neighbor is a hunter and likes to practice his bow shooting off his back porch. I am not a big fan of this practice but I don’t suppose there is much I will say or can do.
I was amused the other day when I looked into his backyard and saw a new target had been set up behind the rather obvious hay-filled square with tiny circles painted on its surface. The new target is a big brown turkey, the kind you might see in the wild. It is a handsome bird, and quite resembles a real live Tom.
It is rather a strange thing to see this rather strange Styrofoam turkey standing as ‘idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean’ in my neighbor’s yard. Birds are not lifeless, statues. They are fluid, free and flying. What sort of a bird stands still? (A dead one.) I would guess that such a turkey in the wilderness would be a rather easy target. Give that turkey some real legs and motivation and see how easy of a target it would be!
_________________________
I lived in a small town in West Virginia for a while where the main staple of economic life is the Turkey and Chicken business. Our front yard was perpetually white from all the feathers that blew off the truckloads of poultry that rolled by our house at all hours of the night and day. If I had lived in that town a day past when we left I would probably have become a vegetarian. Frankly, it was a sickening thing to see all those birds trapped in steel cages on the back of tractor trailers.
It was bad enough knowing that they were not being taken to a zoo or a nice marshy pond; it was even worse knowing that everyone in town either raised the birds or worked at the slaughterhouse. I am not anti-raising/selling/slaughtering/eating poultry. But it sure was a sad sight to see every day. Even today, although I have sworn off vegetarianism, I still have trouble eating turkey and chicken.
_________________________
I drove to Mentor today with the boys. I was distracted and in some sort of trance, I think. I had some errands to run—like, I really needed an eye exam. Happily we drove along the road until we came to the exit required to take us to the appropriate store where we would conduct our business.
We arrived rather quickly at the necessary exit. I blinked my intentions to the cars around and pulled my vehicle into the off ramp lane. I decreased my rate of speed and casually rolled around the cloverleaf exit ramp. At the top of the ramp I brought the vehicle to a stop with a deft use of my right foot. (I pressed the brake pedal.) As I came to a standstill I happened to let my eyes wander forward and upward. As I did I caught glimpse of something hovering in circles some distance away. It was some sort of bird, likely a hawk of some species. I watched for about 15 seconds or so.
I thought to myself that that bird had it made. Flying around up there in the sky, high above all the madness that is life, just enjoying the cool breeze beneath his wings, the bird crystallized, even if for a mere moment, what I long for most in life. He had none of the worries I had. He was not thinking of needing new contact lenses or a new shower curtain. He was not thinking of the light turning green so he could move on to the next one. He just flew and flew.
He was free. His next paycheck was not a concern. He did not have to worry about being on time or late for work. He was free to come and go as he pleased. He did not care about the music I was listening to, or whether or not he had the latest greatest new compact disk. He only concern was simply to fly and be free.
____________________________
I had to work in the yard the other day. Trimming weeds one last time. Putting things away. Cleaning gutters. Etc.
I had to take down all the bird feeders and dump out the hummingbird food. I had to prepare the yard and myself for the reality that the birds will gone for several months.
____________________________
It is nearly fall—I suspect that today is the first day of fall—and you know what I miss the most? The birds seem to have gone. There are a few left here and there—across the street I have been enjoying a large flock of Canadian Geese—even the Canadian Geese like living in America—but mostly they are gone. I have not seen any hummingbirds recently nor have I seen any goldfinches or orioles. A few cardinals remain at hand, but the robins seem to have flown the coup so to speak. The other day I noticed about a thousand birds sitting on the electrical wires across the street, but I sure couldn’t tell you what kind birds they were. They were birds.
______________________________
Funny thing is, I only just noticed today that the birds have been absent. I so enjoy their songs. Maybe I have just tuned them out for a while or maybe I just forgot about them. There have not been too many open window days around the house recently because the temperature has been unbelievably low and I don’t want to turn the furnace on just yet. So, maybe there are birds and I simply have not had the time to notice them; or, maybe they are gone after all.
________________________________
Birds have it made. They fly and thus get to enjoy the world from a different perspective. They sing and thus the whole earth is full of their music. They mostly travel with friends and thus show us the benefits of numbers. If I could be any other creature than what I am now, I would choose to be a bird. Not because I would get to fly, but maybe because I would get to perch on an electrical wire and not get shocked; or, better yet, because we have been told that not a sparrow falls to the ground apart from the Father’s knowledge. That’s special. Imagine being such an intricate part of creation, such a cared for species that not a single one falls dead without God knowing it. (Although, I believe I have remarked elsewhere that this undoubtedly means that God spends a good portion of his ‘day’ thinking about death, and marking in His mind all the sparrows that did fall. I am not certain I would like to have that job.)
______________________________
I don’t want to rush the fall and winter because I like the cooler weather, but I kind of cannot wait until spring. I can’t wait to get out all the birdfeeders and buy seeds all summer long so I can feed them—as if they need my help to find food. (Remember, they don’t reap or store up in barns and yet they are fed by God.) I cannot wait to hear their songs again. If it is terrible to have to count all those dead birds each day, certainly it must be, at minimum, offset by the songs He hears all year long without ceasing. That is a trade-off I would be willing to take.
I was thinking about birds today while I listened to some music. “They that wait upon the Lord, shall renew their strength…they will soar on wings like eagles…”
It seems that it is always about birds. “All the birds of the sky are singing/you got to understand/Eleutheria.” (Lenny Kravitz)
That’s it. Eleutheria. (It’s a Greek word that means ‘freedom’.)
Freedom. If I said, ‘This is for the birds’ I would be lying.
Eleutheria is for me; and you, if you want it.
That’s what I am trying to say.
I’m ready to—sing. (I’m afraid to fly.)
Friday, September 10, 2004
Staring at a Light Box and Mumbling Offensive Words
I don't have much to say right now. It is late and my eyes are much more comfortable closed than open. I just want you to know that I am thinking of you right now. I don't know why, but you are on my mind. In fact, the thought of you is loud and clear.
A cool breeze is blowing through the 3 inch gap between the window pane and the window sill. It reminds me of the hurt and hate present in the broadside of the board certain school teachers used when they felt my behavior poor enough to warrant whacks on the backside. One of those teachers, God rest his soul, died about 6 years ago.
I saw a bumper sticker the other day. It said, "Focus on your own damn family."
I preached at a church in West Virginia when I was younger. One day and irate member of the church spoke in clear English: "You are an asshole." I thought that was nice thinking that it was much preferable to be an asshole than a whole ass. But that's just me.
Do these words offend you?
I saw another bumper sticker that read: "Pray the rosary to end abortion." I'm still trying to figure out exactly what that means. Perhaps you can tell me. If you get the chance. Perhaps the rosary will get up and give us a speech or two, or intercede at the throne of God for us, or whisper into the ears of abortion doctors and nurses. Can a rosary have that much power? God would probably settle for people praying: "God is Great, God is good, let us thank Him for our Food. Amen."
I understand why you hurt, but not why you hate. I understand why you want to heal, but not why you want to heave. I understand why you want to create, but not why you want to kill. I understand why you want to live, but not why you want to lie. You are a paradox, and enigma, a mystery. You confound me with your steely eyes, but your soft side is intriguing.
This is the place where no one can make me fit their molds of their expectations. In this world I am free to be free, free to fly, free to fail, free to flip you the bird. But I won't because I know how I feel when someone flips me the bird. I don't like it one bit.
Do these words offend you?
Is there any reason at all to maintain composure? Is there not a time when it is perfectly acceptable to strip down to the naked skin and dance in the rain? Confessions of a closet nudist. I'll bet that shakes you up a bit. I am fully clothed at the moment because there is no rain, and I don't feel like dancing.
I am waiting for the fall, the orange and yellow leaves. I am waiting to go. I am waiting to die. I am waiting to live. I am waiting to try. I am waiting for the day when my taste buds will awaken to the flavor of broccoli and cauliflower. I don't think it will happen anytime soon because I simply cannot bring myself to cram that funk into my gaping hole. Friday's has good broccoli-cheese soup. I like to dip bread in it.
Is it wrong to be melancholy all the time? Do I really have to love those I don't even know? Is it possible that we are all wrong? Is it possible, just possible, that grace is bigger than even we can imagine? Is it possible that when we eat the bread and drink the cup we are eating the flesh and drinking the blood of Christ? What if we are?
Do these words offend you?
Do these words offend you?
Do these words offend you?
Have you ever wanted to just curse at the top of your lungs? Have you ever hoped that the sadness inside was not really sadness but more like dark yellow mustard? Have you ever had the urge to break something in two and have the magical power to put it back together again so well that no one could tell the difference?
I like to stare out my window in the morning. I write so that I will not sin. I fill my brain all day long and then turn on the faucet at night and wash it all down the drain.
Are you more afraid that someone might hate you or that you might hate someone?
Do these words offend you?
I wish I could heal.
A cool breeze is blowing through the 3 inch gap between the window pane and the window sill. It reminds me of the hurt and hate present in the broadside of the board certain school teachers used when they felt my behavior poor enough to warrant whacks on the backside. One of those teachers, God rest his soul, died about 6 years ago.
I saw a bumper sticker the other day. It said, "Focus on your own damn family."
I preached at a church in West Virginia when I was younger. One day and irate member of the church spoke in clear English: "You are an asshole." I thought that was nice thinking that it was much preferable to be an asshole than a whole ass. But that's just me.
Do these words offend you?
I saw another bumper sticker that read: "Pray the rosary to end abortion." I'm still trying to figure out exactly what that means. Perhaps you can tell me. If you get the chance. Perhaps the rosary will get up and give us a speech or two, or intercede at the throne of God for us, or whisper into the ears of abortion doctors and nurses. Can a rosary have that much power? God would probably settle for people praying: "God is Great, God is good, let us thank Him for our Food. Amen."
I understand why you hurt, but not why you hate. I understand why you want to heal, but not why you want to heave. I understand why you want to create, but not why you want to kill. I understand why you want to live, but not why you want to lie. You are a paradox, and enigma, a mystery. You confound me with your steely eyes, but your soft side is intriguing.
This is the place where no one can make me fit their molds of their expectations. In this world I am free to be free, free to fly, free to fail, free to flip you the bird. But I won't because I know how I feel when someone flips me the bird. I don't like it one bit.
Do these words offend you?
Is there any reason at all to maintain composure? Is there not a time when it is perfectly acceptable to strip down to the naked skin and dance in the rain? Confessions of a closet nudist. I'll bet that shakes you up a bit. I am fully clothed at the moment because there is no rain, and I don't feel like dancing.
I am waiting for the fall, the orange and yellow leaves. I am waiting to go. I am waiting to die. I am waiting to live. I am waiting to try. I am waiting for the day when my taste buds will awaken to the flavor of broccoli and cauliflower. I don't think it will happen anytime soon because I simply cannot bring myself to cram that funk into my gaping hole. Friday's has good broccoli-cheese soup. I like to dip bread in it.
Is it wrong to be melancholy all the time? Do I really have to love those I don't even know? Is it possible that we are all wrong? Is it possible, just possible, that grace is bigger than even we can imagine? Is it possible that when we eat the bread and drink the cup we are eating the flesh and drinking the blood of Christ? What if we are?
Do these words offend you?
Do these words offend you?
Do these words offend you?
Have you ever wanted to just curse at the top of your lungs? Have you ever hoped that the sadness inside was not really sadness but more like dark yellow mustard? Have you ever had the urge to break something in two and have the magical power to put it back together again so well that no one could tell the difference?
I like to stare out my window in the morning. I write so that I will not sin. I fill my brain all day long and then turn on the faucet at night and wash it all down the drain.
Are you more afraid that someone might hate you or that you might hate someone?
Do these words offend you?
I wish I could heal.
Saturday, September 04, 2004
Does God Heal, pt. 3
The story begins rather strangely with a phone call from a man who lives in Georgia. I don't know the man personally. I knew his mother. She was the reason for the call: she was nearing the end, or the beginning, and he was calling to ask about funeral arrangements. Less than a week after our initial conversation he called back. She had died and it was time to finalize the arrangements and make preparations for her interment.
We agreed to a small service at a local funeral home where his mother had already pre-arranged her funeral. There would be no flowers--or at least very few, short calling hours, and merely a graveside service. I would conduct the service, which would be even shorter than my normal funeral services. There would be no music, no 21-Gun salute, no final respects. It would be simple, short and to the point: "I am gone, get on with your lives." Or, "Why are you looking for living in 6 foot deep hole in the ground? I am not here." Finally, after the funeral we would return to the church building for an early lunch consisting of sandwiches, beverages, and fa few other side dishes.
I only knew his mother for about a year and a half before she grew weak and was somewhat forced to move to Georgia to live with her son. She had four sons. One was killed in Vietnam, two live close by, and the third, an adopted son, lives in Georgia. I don't know that any of her sons are necessarily religious although I suspect that she taught them all and expected that they would grow in their faith. Time does funny things to people's faith. I suppose my own family is and will be no different, so please don't interpret what I just wrote as a cheap shot or criticism.
His mother, as a I said, had four sons. One is dead and the other three are still alive. One son, who lives nearby (and anyone who knows me knows who I am talking about), attends worship at a church in Akron called Grace Cathedral. It is at the Grace Cathedral that he, some time ago, 'got his miracle.' He was, if I recall correctly, having heart problems and one day the preacher at that particular church healed him of his heart problems. As I said, repeated his own words, 'he got his miracle.' Since he 'got his miracle' he has moved his family to Akron to be near the congregation and, presumably, the preacher who healed him of his heart problems. I don't know much about him, but I will pause long enough to say this: getting back to his ministry at the church was extremely important to him. So much so that he did not even stay for lunch with the family after the funeral. Everyone sets their own priorities.
On Thursday of the same week, I hosted a meeting at my church office. For the last several months I have invited ministers from area churches to meet with me for prayer, Bible study and fellowship. This month we gathered and our assigned chapter for the month was Acts 4. Chapter 4 of Acts is the theological justification for the miraculous healing of a man more than 40 years old. The man is described in Acts 3 as a man 'crippled from birth.' After the healing, Peter and John were brought before the 'religious' leaders of the day and questioned at length, not necessarily about the miracle, but about the authority by which they performed the miracle. It was an, almost, condescending statement, "We are the religious leaders. We want to know when we gave you authority to do this? Why do you think you can do this without consulting us first. Why did you bypass our authority in favor of someone else's?" Then Peter very eloquently, in the power of the Spirit, says that Jesus is the power by which the man was healed and it was in his Name that authority was granted to heal. As such, Peter implies, we did not need to consult with anyone; Jesus told us to, and we did.
This past Thursday, I sat around a square table with a group of men who are obviously much more intelligent than I, and debated this very chapter. Most of our thoughts swirled around the prayer that the church prayed near the end of the chapter where they asked God to 'stretch out his hand and heal and perform miraculous signs and wonders through the name of the Holy servant Jesus.' I asked a simple question: "Can the church today legitimately pray this prayer?" That is, does it make sense for the church to pray this prayer? This is sort a roundabout way of asking, "Does God still heal?" We talked and talked and arrived at no, at least for me anyhow, satisfying answers.
One preacher said, "Yes, God does still heal. And we see his miraculous work every time a person comes to salvation in Jesus."
Another said, "Yes and no."
I said, "Yes, he does, but what the first preacher is saying is miraculous is anything but." So we arrived at nowhere and stayed there for a very long time.
Be sure to turn back to this page and read again about this delightful issue. I have a few more things to say on this matter and I will be happy to share them with you over the next several days.
DG
We agreed to a small service at a local funeral home where his mother had already pre-arranged her funeral. There would be no flowers--or at least very few, short calling hours, and merely a graveside service. I would conduct the service, which would be even shorter than my normal funeral services. There would be no music, no 21-Gun salute, no final respects. It would be simple, short and to the point: "I am gone, get on with your lives." Or, "Why are you looking for living in 6 foot deep hole in the ground? I am not here." Finally, after the funeral we would return to the church building for an early lunch consisting of sandwiches, beverages, and fa few other side dishes.
I only knew his mother for about a year and a half before she grew weak and was somewhat forced to move to Georgia to live with her son. She had four sons. One was killed in Vietnam, two live close by, and the third, an adopted son, lives in Georgia. I don't know that any of her sons are necessarily religious although I suspect that she taught them all and expected that they would grow in their faith. Time does funny things to people's faith. I suppose my own family is and will be no different, so please don't interpret what I just wrote as a cheap shot or criticism.
His mother, as a I said, had four sons. One is dead and the other three are still alive. One son, who lives nearby (and anyone who knows me knows who I am talking about), attends worship at a church in Akron called Grace Cathedral. It is at the Grace Cathedral that he, some time ago, 'got his miracle.' He was, if I recall correctly, having heart problems and one day the preacher at that particular church healed him of his heart problems. As I said, repeated his own words, 'he got his miracle.' Since he 'got his miracle' he has moved his family to Akron to be near the congregation and, presumably, the preacher who healed him of his heart problems. I don't know much about him, but I will pause long enough to say this: getting back to his ministry at the church was extremely important to him. So much so that he did not even stay for lunch with the family after the funeral. Everyone sets their own priorities.
_________________________________
On Thursday of the same week, I hosted a meeting at my church office. For the last several months I have invited ministers from area churches to meet with me for prayer, Bible study and fellowship. This month we gathered and our assigned chapter for the month was Acts 4. Chapter 4 of Acts is the theological justification for the miraculous healing of a man more than 40 years old. The man is described in Acts 3 as a man 'crippled from birth.' After the healing, Peter and John were brought before the 'religious' leaders of the day and questioned at length, not necessarily about the miracle, but about the authority by which they performed the miracle. It was an, almost, condescending statement, "We are the religious leaders. We want to know when we gave you authority to do this? Why do you think you can do this without consulting us first. Why did you bypass our authority in favor of someone else's?" Then Peter very eloquently, in the power of the Spirit, says that Jesus is the power by which the man was healed and it was in his Name that authority was granted to heal. As such, Peter implies, we did not need to consult with anyone; Jesus told us to, and we did.
This past Thursday, I sat around a square table with a group of men who are obviously much more intelligent than I, and debated this very chapter. Most of our thoughts swirled around the prayer that the church prayed near the end of the chapter where they asked God to 'stretch out his hand and heal and perform miraculous signs and wonders through the name of the Holy servant Jesus.' I asked a simple question: "Can the church today legitimately pray this prayer?" That is, does it make sense for the church to pray this prayer? This is sort a roundabout way of asking, "Does God still heal?" We talked and talked and arrived at no, at least for me anyhow, satisfying answers.
One preacher said, "Yes, God does still heal. And we see his miraculous work every time a person comes to salvation in Jesus."
Another said, "Yes and no."
I said, "Yes, he does, but what the first preacher is saying is miraculous is anything but." So we arrived at nowhere and stayed there for a very long time.
Be sure to turn back to this page and read again about this delightful issue. I have a few more things to say on this matter and I will be happy to share them with you over the next several days.
DG
Does God Heal? pt. 2
Friends,
Believe me when I say that I need to write about this. There is a gnawing inside my stomach that is compelling me to spew these thoughts all over the screen. Before I delve into part one allow me to make a disclaimer or two or three.
First, you should know that I am no expert. I do not profess to understand all of the metaphysical or theological arguments that can and sometimes are made in defense of or in opposition to divine healing.
Second, you should know that I do not know that I have ever been personally healed by a so-called faith healer or by an apostle or prophet or by God Himself. I have been sick quite a few times, but usually I have waited it out and that has done the trick.
Third, you should know that I do believe in the God who does miracles. I could not believe in the Bible if I did not believe in miracles since the Bible is full of miracles the most important of which is the resurrection of Jesus. And I am not fully human if that is not true.
Fourth, you should know that I do think it matters what we believe concerning this issue. I think the main reason why it matters is because many preachers have built an entire theological and evangelistic construct around the notion that they have the miraculous gift of healing. I do not personally believe that they do and thus I am inclined to believe that they are deceiving people and preaching an invalidated message.
Now, this is not say that God does not use cracked pots. On the contrary, God will use whatever vessel He needs or desires to use to get His Gospel into people's lives. I am proof of this statement's veracity.
What I am saying is: Ultimately, we are talking, in one way or another, about grace. I have spent the better portion of my 34 years of life testing the boundaries of God's grace. I have not exhausted His grace--yet. He still loves me. And if I am certain of anything in this life I am certain of God's love for me. God's solemn declaration through the pen of Paul is this: Nothing can separate us from the love of God that is found in Christ Jesus.
However, what is the means by which we come in contact with the grace of God? Is it miracles? Is it divine intervention? Is it being healed? Is it 'getting our miracle' as if a miracle were sitting on the shelf at the local grocery store just waiting to be picked up by the curious or needy buyer? I don't think miracles work like that. I don't think God has great warehouses of body parts just waiting to ship down to the highest bidder. Could we possibly trivialize the miraculous God more?
Furthermore, does God use miracles today in the same way He used them then? Then the Scripture clearly states that apostles did miracles as signs or proof from God that their message was valid, authentic, and truth. Does God do this today? Has His methods shifted? Does He use miracles for anything more than blessing a person's life? I have opinions, but very few answers. I do hope to explore some of this with you in the near future.
This is not meant to be a diatribe. It is not meant to breed skepticism. It is not meant to undermine the faith of anyone who has had a subjective experience of God's healing grace. I don't know, which is the final disclaimer, who has and who has not experienced a healing miracle. This is not meant to be a solemn constitution or declaration of agnosticism. This is not meant to be a theological treatise. If anything, it will ask more questions than it answers, and for this I will apologize in advance.
What I mean to do is simply explore some thoughts I had this past week when, in two thoroughly different settings, the subject of the miraculous was broached. In one setting I was able to speak boldly and somewhat confidently about my position. In the other setting I had to tread lightly on broken glass. At the end of one situation, I was applauded by a few who said that I had done well. At the end of the other, I parted company from those I had disagreed with feeling as if a giant rift had been cracked in the plates of Christian faith.
As I reflect back on both situations, I find I am quite discontent with the outcome of both. In neither situation did I find that I felt better when I had spoken to those who asked and those who listened. I suppose that is the way it will always be when we are discussing, quietly or vehemently, our position on what God's Word is saying on a particular subject. Is there only black and white? Is there room for the middle of the road? Are both positions correct? Just exactly what are we to believe when the question of whether or not God heals comes up in conversation? I don't know the answer to that last question. However, I am very much willing to explore what it could be.
So read along and interact with me. This could be fun.
DG
Believe me when I say that I need to write about this. There is a gnawing inside my stomach that is compelling me to spew these thoughts all over the screen. Before I delve into part one allow me to make a disclaimer or two or three.
First, you should know that I am no expert. I do not profess to understand all of the metaphysical or theological arguments that can and sometimes are made in defense of or in opposition to divine healing.
Second, you should know that I do not know that I have ever been personally healed by a so-called faith healer or by an apostle or prophet or by God Himself. I have been sick quite a few times, but usually I have waited it out and that has done the trick.
Third, you should know that I do believe in the God who does miracles. I could not believe in the Bible if I did not believe in miracles since the Bible is full of miracles the most important of which is the resurrection of Jesus. And I am not fully human if that is not true.
Fourth, you should know that I do think it matters what we believe concerning this issue. I think the main reason why it matters is because many preachers have built an entire theological and evangelistic construct around the notion that they have the miraculous gift of healing. I do not personally believe that they do and thus I am inclined to believe that they are deceiving people and preaching an invalidated message.
Now, this is not say that God does not use cracked pots. On the contrary, God will use whatever vessel He needs or desires to use to get His Gospel into people's lives. I am proof of this statement's veracity.
What I am saying is: Ultimately, we are talking, in one way or another, about grace. I have spent the better portion of my 34 years of life testing the boundaries of God's grace. I have not exhausted His grace--yet. He still loves me. And if I am certain of anything in this life I am certain of God's love for me. God's solemn declaration through the pen of Paul is this: Nothing can separate us from the love of God that is found in Christ Jesus.
However, what is the means by which we come in contact with the grace of God? Is it miracles? Is it divine intervention? Is it being healed? Is it 'getting our miracle' as if a miracle were sitting on the shelf at the local grocery store just waiting to be picked up by the curious or needy buyer? I don't think miracles work like that. I don't think God has great warehouses of body parts just waiting to ship down to the highest bidder. Could we possibly trivialize the miraculous God more?
Furthermore, does God use miracles today in the same way He used them then? Then the Scripture clearly states that apostles did miracles as signs or proof from God that their message was valid, authentic, and truth. Does God do this today? Has His methods shifted? Does He use miracles for anything more than blessing a person's life? I have opinions, but very few answers. I do hope to explore some of this with you in the near future.
This is not meant to be a diatribe. It is not meant to breed skepticism. It is not meant to undermine the faith of anyone who has had a subjective experience of God's healing grace. I don't know, which is the final disclaimer, who has and who has not experienced a healing miracle. This is not meant to be a solemn constitution or declaration of agnosticism. This is not meant to be a theological treatise. If anything, it will ask more questions than it answers, and for this I will apologize in advance.
What I mean to do is simply explore some thoughts I had this past week when, in two thoroughly different settings, the subject of the miraculous was broached. In one setting I was able to speak boldly and somewhat confidently about my position. In the other setting I had to tread lightly on broken glass. At the end of one situation, I was applauded by a few who said that I had done well. At the end of the other, I parted company from those I had disagreed with feeling as if a giant rift had been cracked in the plates of Christian faith.
As I reflect back on both situations, I find I am quite discontent with the outcome of both. In neither situation did I find that I felt better when I had spoken to those who asked and those who listened. I suppose that is the way it will always be when we are discussing, quietly or vehemently, our position on what God's Word is saying on a particular subject. Is there only black and white? Is there room for the middle of the road? Are both positions correct? Just exactly what are we to believe when the question of whether or not God heals comes up in conversation? I don't know the answer to that last question. However, I am very much willing to explore what it could be.
So read along and interact with me. This could be fun.
DG
Friday, September 03, 2004
Does God Heal?
Friends,
Later on today or tomorrow, check back for a short exercise in futility. I will not be answering the question, just exploring some inklings that started whispering in my mind yesterday when I was at a minister's meeting. (Those can be so dull!) Anyhow, we talked and talked and arrived at no satisfactory conclusions (satisfactory to my mind) because one of us was on the right, one on the left and one straight down the middle. So later, when time permits, I will be exploring some of these inklings. Someone said yesterday that the greatest miracle that God still performs in our day is the conversion of someone to Christ, the implication being that God still needs to validate the message of the Gospel with accompanying signs and wonders. I will explore this thought too, becasue it seems to me that faith comes by hearing not by miracles and it also seems to me that the changed life is the validation of the Gospel--not a supposed miracle that caused the life to be changed. However, I am not Thomas Jefferson or some other agnostic who disbelieves in miracles and supernatural; I am concerned that I don't mistake the work of magicians as the work of the Spirit. Anyhow, I must educate my children now. Bye.
DG
Later on today or tomorrow, check back for a short exercise in futility. I will not be answering the question, just exploring some inklings that started whispering in my mind yesterday when I was at a minister's meeting. (Those can be so dull!) Anyhow, we talked and talked and arrived at no satisfactory conclusions (satisfactory to my mind) because one of us was on the right, one on the left and one straight down the middle. So later, when time permits, I will be exploring some of these inklings. Someone said yesterday that the greatest miracle that God still performs in our day is the conversion of someone to Christ, the implication being that God still needs to validate the message of the Gospel with accompanying signs and wonders. I will explore this thought too, becasue it seems to me that faith comes by hearing not by miracles and it also seems to me that the changed life is the validation of the Gospel--not a supposed miracle that caused the life to be changed. However, I am not Thomas Jefferson or some other agnostic who disbelieves in miracles and supernatural; I am concerned that I don't mistake the work of magicians as the work of the Spirit. Anyhow, I must educate my children now. Bye.
DG
Like Flowers
I wrote some thoughts the other day about sunflowers. Long before I wrote that, I wrote a short poem that I found the other day on that same wall I mentioned above or below. Enjoy.
Lord,
Teach us like flowers
to lower our heads.
Even though crowned
In glorious splendor,
Which today
brightens gardens
And tomorrow is dead.
Soli Deo Gloria
DG
(With my sincere affection for Alfred, Lord Tennyson.)
Lord,
Teach us like flowers
to lower our heads.
Even though crowned
In glorious splendor,
Which today
brightens gardens
And tomorrow is dead.
Soli Deo Gloria
DG
(With my sincere affection for Alfred, Lord Tennyson.)
Just Wondering
We have a half-room in our house. We were tearing off the old wall paper so we could paint it. I took the occasion to scribble some poems on the paper before it was completely removed. Here is one that I sort of liked.
I wonder what a bird thinks of
The first time he has to fly.
Is he nervous or afraid
or laughing
Because it took so long to try?
I wonder what it is like
The first time He is pushed
from his nest--
The place where he has lived
and eaten;
The place where he enjoyed
his rest?
I wonder what it is like
The first time he is lifted
by a breeze.
Does he turn and smile at
at his mamma?
Does He hope his dad to please?
I wonder what it is like
To feel wind beneath soft wings.
Is it anything like the freedom
and hope
That a life in Jesus brings?
I wonder what it's like
To see life from above the earth;
To know all days from a different view
from the very day of birth?
I wonder what it is like
To soar across the sky?
I wonder what it's like
To be born a creature
who knows from birth
That he was born to fly?
Soli Deo Gloria
DG
I wonder what a bird thinks of
The first time he has to fly.
Is he nervous or afraid
or laughing
Because it took so long to try?
I wonder what it is like
The first time He is pushed
from his nest--
The place where he has lived
and eaten;
The place where he enjoyed
his rest?
I wonder what it is like
The first time he is lifted
by a breeze.
Does he turn and smile at
at his mamma?
Does He hope his dad to please?
I wonder what it is like
To feel wind beneath soft wings.
Is it anything like the freedom
and hope
That a life in Jesus brings?
I wonder what it's like
To see life from above the earth;
To know all days from a different view
from the very day of birth?
I wonder what it is like
To soar across the sky?
I wonder what it's like
To be born a creature
who knows from birth
That he was born to fly?
Soli Deo Gloria
DG
Saturday, August 28, 2004
Existence
I wrote this the other day after I finished reading a description of the modern attitude towards life and living. I don't subscribe to this philosophy, of course, but I figured first person would be the best way to express it. Like most of the poetry I publish here this poem is scribbled first in a spiral bound notebook and it is unfinished and unedited. Maybe I will fix that later, maybe not.
I want to be alone
With no one close or near.
Perhaps a quiet, whitewashed
Room
With no windows or doors to fear.
I want to be my own
Company throughout the day.
Perhaps share a few
Words
Or a story or two with myself,
But not with you.
I want to enjoy my presence,
And--how wonderful it is!--
What a delight it is to avoid
Others'
Pedantic adolescence.
I want to share myself with
Myself today. I have so much to
Offer.
All I need is what I have;
I need no other lover.
I want a quiet moment or two,
To laugh at a joke I told
Myself
The other day when I needed a smile
And a hand to hold.
I want the space around me to empty
Except when I want to cry.
And I want no one around while I'm living.
But,
The world must be paralyzed
When I decide to die.
Soli Deo Gloria
DG--August 27, 2004
I want to be alone
With no one close or near.
Perhaps a quiet, whitewashed
Room
With no windows or doors to fear.
I want to be my own
Company throughout the day.
Perhaps share a few
Words
Or a story or two with myself,
But not with you.
I want to enjoy my presence,
And--how wonderful it is!--
What a delight it is to avoid
Others'
Pedantic adolescence.
I want to share myself with
Myself today. I have so much to
Offer.
All I need is what I have;
I need no other lover.
I want a quiet moment or two,
To laugh at a joke I told
Myself
The other day when I needed a smile
And a hand to hold.
I want the space around me to empty
Except when I want to cry.
And I want no one around while I'm living.
But,
The world must be paralyzed
When I decide to die.
Soli Deo Gloria
DG--August 27, 2004
Shattered Pretension
It was raining today, and my office work was finished. So I thought i would spend a little time time jotting down a few thoughts. The rain cascading down was inspiring and a healthy alternative to silence. Playing on computer was some absolutely gorgeous worship music. The musicians were: David Crowder, Jars of Clay, Delirious?, and Chris Rice. I hope you enjoy my thoughts.
I love listening to music. I love a good song that I can sing along with. I love to sing music too. In my mind there is nothing that sounds better to my ears, and nothing that stirs the emotions in my heart, than a well written, well performed, well harmonized piece of music; sometimes it is simply the voice of the singer that captivates my attention.. Sometimes I hear a song that I wish would never end just because of the magical harmonies and spiritual melodies. Music—the Sound of Music—stirs the heart and speaks with a voice that barely needs to be uttered. I used to think that the louder the music the better because I wanted the music to drown out all the crap that surrounded my pitiful, pathetic existence. Now I want the music to be just right--Goldilocks like--not too loud, not too soft. I want it to be balanced well so that I can distinguish notes, instruments, and voice inflection. I want to hear harmonies and melodies, crescendos, staccatos, the flats and sharps, and all sorts of musical intonations.
Sometimes I find a song that I so enjoy that I put it on repeat and listen to it over and over again without growing weary or bored of its sounds and inflections. (I never yawn when I am listening; yawning is commonplace when I am watching.) There is something beautiful about the way voices blend and separate. There is something divine about the way an instrument barely heard carries a song and that without its presence the song would surely fall to pieces. Music is not something that is written on paper, as if those little black splotches were music. No. Music lives in the heart and rises on the wind. Music breathes and rests; it runs and walks; it speaks in multiple layers. Music is not meant to be heard; it is meant to be listened to. The Liner notes to The David Crowder Band's CD Can You Here Us? sums it up nicely: "...our prayer is that be more than a collection of songs in a pleasant digital format, but extensions of lives lived for Him."
Music is created and lives in the imagination of the heart. Who knows how many unique songs exist in the hearts of people yet set free? Can there be a number attached to such an idea? I think not. If Solomon said that of the writing of books there is no end, I think we can apply that equally truly to the writing of music. Music knows no bounds and frequents all the crevices and cracks of the world. Everyone has a song to sing, some just yet don't know all the notes. I confess that for a long time I did not know the notes and that it was only in Christ that the score became clear and understandable. Suddenly, the music made sense. The chorus to Crowder's song You're Everything goes along this way, "To raise me up from this grave, touch my tongue and then I'll sing, Heal my limbs then joyfully I'll run to you." Not only did Christ teach me the music, not only did He write the score, He also taught me to sing.
I have grown a lot since I was first introduced to music. Of course I needed to grow. But I confess: I am a lot more and less selective about my listening choices now than I was in the past. Then there were only two styles I liked: loud and louder. Now, I appreciate all sorts of music, because I have learned that all music has some value--from classical to opera to jazz to blues to country (selective country) to classic rock to some modern praise music to the old classics in the dusty hymnbooks that line the backs of the pews in most houses of worship (I still cannot listen to R & B, Rap, most country, and most Pop—although, I still try to tolerate it for the sake of my sons who find that sort of music rather appealing—oh, the boys and I watched a Biography video of Ella Fitzgerald the other day, now she understood music!). Only the truly ignorant do away with the hymnbook. I still, to this day, can barely get through How Great Thou Art without my eyes welling up in tears like an oil well about to burst--I always shed tears when we sing this song in worship of God. But who wouldn’t? "And when I think, of God His Son not sparing. Sent Him to die, I scarce can take it in." Who doesn't find that absolutely devastating? Music, thus, is no longer merely a way to avoid responsibility or reality. Music is an opportunity, created out of someone else’s imagination, for the senses to be awakened to the brighter (sometimes darker) realities all about us. Music awakens us to life. It sparks the senses and rattles the soul. Music breaks down pretension and shatters illusion. Music brings us all to a common place. But, music has to appeal to something more than the baseness of our existence, and music that does not is not likely to endure for any significant period of time. This is why I expanded my listening choices. As I matured, I found that the music that simply awakened my libido or my anger or my rage was worthless music, but the music that awakened my heart and soul and eyes and ears and, indeed, all my senses, to the beauties and wonders of life is worth my time to listen to and worth the money I spend to own it. Music that does nothing more than pander to the lust of my eyes, the lust of others' flesh and the pride of life is worthless. Music that stirs the heart and soul to a fresh, childlike wonder and awe is priceless. I think in my heart that if someone were to give me the awful choice: blindness or deafness, I would have to choose the former. I could live without seeing the horror and misery of this world; but I could not live without hearing it.
I like a song by the David Crowder Band: I Need Words. It is a prayer that opens up the CD Can You Hear Us Now? It is beautiful because it speaks to the need all musicians have: the need of words that come not from within, but from above, words that are bigger than the feeling inside, words that speak to more than the flesh, words that speak to more than passions of unrighteousness. He also says, rightfully, that once the words have been given, he needs a voice to sing the words, that is, to make music. Why? Because true music cannot even be hummed apart from the power of the Spirit of God. If God gives us music, God must give us a voice to make music too, to express it in harmony and melody. The song expresses the musicians’ deep desire to sing about something lasting, something that matters, something that is packed with meaning (as opposed to something that is empty and meaningless apart from the flesh), and something that stirs up the soul and heart and not flesh. When I was young I would say, “I don’t even listen to the lyrics. I just like the music.” Now that I am older I realize how utterly absurd such a statement is. The two cannot be separated when they are in the same place. Furthermore, you know all those lyrics I did not listen to? I still have them memorized and sing them when they play across my radio. Scary. All those years I spent imbibing the sweet nectar of instability and irrationality from musicians who were themselves unstable and irrational were essentially wasted. I could have been memorizing songs that did not pander to my baseness. I could have been n memorizing lyrics that aroused reverence and awe and wonder and joy. I think it matters greatly what we commit to memory; and, to be sure, I have committed to memory quite a bit of slop that I wish I could erase with the click of the delete button. I honestly believe that one of the reasons I have had to spend so many of my earthly days in gloom and sadness is because of what I have allowed to pass through my ears and eyes into my mind and heart. (Someone said, "The eye is the lamp of the body. If the eye is dark, how great is teh darkness inside.") One can only hear so many songs about suicide before one concludes that it is a viable alternative to the brisk insanity and horror that is all around us. Most children will disagree with that assessment, but I think most adults will agree.
Why am I rambling on an on about this? Everyone has their own musical tastes and probably no two people enjoy exactly the same styles. Well, I am listening to some music today and it is stirring my soul. Furthermore, I will lead the worship in a couple of days. I have come to a point in my life where I actually enjoy leading worship as much as I enjoy preaching. Singing has become such an integral part of my life that scarcely a moment goes by in my day when my heart, soul or mouth is not engage in some sort of melodic expression of praise or thanksgiving. I find it impossible to escape from the music that surrounds us. I hear music everywhere: the rain that beats down on the roof of the church building, in the crickets that sing at night, in the locusts that scream, in the birds that whistle, in the snakes that rattle, in the dog that barks, in the wind that howls, in the waves that crash on the beach, in the leaves that applaud, in the thunder that claps and in the lightning that streaks across the sky. I hear music in the voice of my wife when she talks to me in that goofy, shmoopy sort of voice. I hear music in the laughter of my sons. What a wonder children are to the ears and heart! What a silent, sad world this would be without the voices of children to shred our defenses, tear down our walls, strip us of pretense, destroy our propriety, and bring delight where there where there is despair, light to where there is darkness, and smiles where there are only tears. Woe to those who silence the music made by children. Woe to those who silence the screams and tears and 'stupidity' of children. I heard it said, "Woe to those who cause these little ones to stumble." Yes, woe...
There is another reason why I am thinking of this today. That is simply this: Music will be carried with us when we leave this place. I am not saying music is somehow eternal, only that there are some special songs prepared by God for those who will listen. Something we can be certain of in the book of Revelation is that those who are Sealed in Christ will learn a new song: “And they sang a new song before the throne and before the four living creatures and elders. No one could learn the song except the 144,000 who had been redeemed from the earth.”
I love music. I love to sing—not to hear myself sing, but to offer words to my Lord that I cannot offer to Him in any other way. I think this is what I enjoy second most about being a Christian: I get to sing all the time and no one questions why I am doing it. They know why: There is a song in my heart. “He put a new song in my mouth, a hymn of praise to our God.” I would be the worst of all sinners if a song existed in my heart and I stifled it. I would be the worst of all sinners if I closed my mouth and the rocks were forced to cry out in song. I would be the worst of all sinners if the song that God put in my heart were made to remain there instead of being released to rise on the wind to His Presence. What else can I do? Sing I must. And sing I will.
But I am not just going to sing. I am going to listen. You see, as I have heard it said, God gave us two ears so that we would listen twice as much as we talk. It seems to me that we should be a people of music too—a people who spend twice as much time listening to good music as we do singing it. “By day the Lord directs His love, at night His song is with me—a prayer to the God of my life.”
Thanks for reading my ramblings. My hope is that you will make some time today to listen to some music or perhaps make some music. Make music in your heart and raise your voice to the Great King.
I love listening to music. I love a good song that I can sing along with. I love to sing music too. In my mind there is nothing that sounds better to my ears, and nothing that stirs the emotions in my heart, than a well written, well performed, well harmonized piece of music; sometimes it is simply the voice of the singer that captivates my attention.. Sometimes I hear a song that I wish would never end just because of the magical harmonies and spiritual melodies. Music—the Sound of Music—stirs the heart and speaks with a voice that barely needs to be uttered. I used to think that the louder the music the better because I wanted the music to drown out all the crap that surrounded my pitiful, pathetic existence. Now I want the music to be just right--Goldilocks like--not too loud, not too soft. I want it to be balanced well so that I can distinguish notes, instruments, and voice inflection. I want to hear harmonies and melodies, crescendos, staccatos, the flats and sharps, and all sorts of musical intonations.
Sometimes I find a song that I so enjoy that I put it on repeat and listen to it over and over again without growing weary or bored of its sounds and inflections. (I never yawn when I am listening; yawning is commonplace when I am watching.) There is something beautiful about the way voices blend and separate. There is something divine about the way an instrument barely heard carries a song and that without its presence the song would surely fall to pieces. Music is not something that is written on paper, as if those little black splotches were music. No. Music lives in the heart and rises on the wind. Music breathes and rests; it runs and walks; it speaks in multiple layers. Music is not meant to be heard; it is meant to be listened to. The Liner notes to The David Crowder Band's CD Can You Here Us? sums it up nicely: "...our prayer is that be more than a collection of songs in a pleasant digital format, but extensions of lives lived for Him."
Music is created and lives in the imagination of the heart. Who knows how many unique songs exist in the hearts of people yet set free? Can there be a number attached to such an idea? I think not. If Solomon said that of the writing of books there is no end, I think we can apply that equally truly to the writing of music. Music knows no bounds and frequents all the crevices and cracks of the world. Everyone has a song to sing, some just yet don't know all the notes. I confess that for a long time I did not know the notes and that it was only in Christ that the score became clear and understandable. Suddenly, the music made sense. The chorus to Crowder's song You're Everything goes along this way, "To raise me up from this grave, touch my tongue and then I'll sing, Heal my limbs then joyfully I'll run to you." Not only did Christ teach me the music, not only did He write the score, He also taught me to sing.
I have grown a lot since I was first introduced to music. Of course I needed to grow. But I confess: I am a lot more and less selective about my listening choices now than I was in the past. Then there were only two styles I liked: loud and louder. Now, I appreciate all sorts of music, because I have learned that all music has some value--from classical to opera to jazz to blues to country (selective country) to classic rock to some modern praise music to the old classics in the dusty hymnbooks that line the backs of the pews in most houses of worship (I still cannot listen to R & B, Rap, most country, and most Pop—although, I still try to tolerate it for the sake of my sons who find that sort of music rather appealing—oh, the boys and I watched a Biography video of Ella Fitzgerald the other day, now she understood music!). Only the truly ignorant do away with the hymnbook. I still, to this day, can barely get through How Great Thou Art without my eyes welling up in tears like an oil well about to burst--I always shed tears when we sing this song in worship of God. But who wouldn’t? "And when I think, of God His Son not sparing. Sent Him to die, I scarce can take it in." Who doesn't find that absolutely devastating? Music, thus, is no longer merely a way to avoid responsibility or reality. Music is an opportunity, created out of someone else’s imagination, for the senses to be awakened to the brighter (sometimes darker) realities all about us. Music awakens us to life. It sparks the senses and rattles the soul. Music breaks down pretension and shatters illusion. Music brings us all to a common place. But, music has to appeal to something more than the baseness of our existence, and music that does not is not likely to endure for any significant period of time. This is why I expanded my listening choices. As I matured, I found that the music that simply awakened my libido or my anger or my rage was worthless music, but the music that awakened my heart and soul and eyes and ears and, indeed, all my senses, to the beauties and wonders of life is worth my time to listen to and worth the money I spend to own it. Music that does nothing more than pander to the lust of my eyes, the lust of others' flesh and the pride of life is worthless. Music that stirs the heart and soul to a fresh, childlike wonder and awe is priceless. I think in my heart that if someone were to give me the awful choice: blindness or deafness, I would have to choose the former. I could live without seeing the horror and misery of this world; but I could not live without hearing it.
I like a song by the David Crowder Band: I Need Words. It is a prayer that opens up the CD Can You Hear Us Now? It is beautiful because it speaks to the need all musicians have: the need of words that come not from within, but from above, words that are bigger than the feeling inside, words that speak to more than the flesh, words that speak to more than passions of unrighteousness. He also says, rightfully, that once the words have been given, he needs a voice to sing the words, that is, to make music. Why? Because true music cannot even be hummed apart from the power of the Spirit of God. If God gives us music, God must give us a voice to make music too, to express it in harmony and melody. The song expresses the musicians’ deep desire to sing about something lasting, something that matters, something that is packed with meaning (as opposed to something that is empty and meaningless apart from the flesh), and something that stirs up the soul and heart and not flesh. When I was young I would say, “I don’t even listen to the lyrics. I just like the music.” Now that I am older I realize how utterly absurd such a statement is. The two cannot be separated when they are in the same place. Furthermore, you know all those lyrics I did not listen to? I still have them memorized and sing them when they play across my radio. Scary. All those years I spent imbibing the sweet nectar of instability and irrationality from musicians who were themselves unstable and irrational were essentially wasted. I could have been memorizing songs that did not pander to my baseness. I could have been n memorizing lyrics that aroused reverence and awe and wonder and joy. I think it matters greatly what we commit to memory; and, to be sure, I have committed to memory quite a bit of slop that I wish I could erase with the click of the delete button. I honestly believe that one of the reasons I have had to spend so many of my earthly days in gloom and sadness is because of what I have allowed to pass through my ears and eyes into my mind and heart. (Someone said, "The eye is the lamp of the body. If the eye is dark, how great is teh darkness inside.") One can only hear so many songs about suicide before one concludes that it is a viable alternative to the brisk insanity and horror that is all around us. Most children will disagree with that assessment, but I think most adults will agree.
Why am I rambling on an on about this? Everyone has their own musical tastes and probably no two people enjoy exactly the same styles. Well, I am listening to some music today and it is stirring my soul. Furthermore, I will lead the worship in a couple of days. I have come to a point in my life where I actually enjoy leading worship as much as I enjoy preaching. Singing has become such an integral part of my life that scarcely a moment goes by in my day when my heart, soul or mouth is not engage in some sort of melodic expression of praise or thanksgiving. I find it impossible to escape from the music that surrounds us. I hear music everywhere: the rain that beats down on the roof of the church building, in the crickets that sing at night, in the locusts that scream, in the birds that whistle, in the snakes that rattle, in the dog that barks, in the wind that howls, in the waves that crash on the beach, in the leaves that applaud, in the thunder that claps and in the lightning that streaks across the sky. I hear music in the voice of my wife when she talks to me in that goofy, shmoopy sort of voice. I hear music in the laughter of my sons. What a wonder children are to the ears and heart! What a silent, sad world this would be without the voices of children to shred our defenses, tear down our walls, strip us of pretense, destroy our propriety, and bring delight where there where there is despair, light to where there is darkness, and smiles where there are only tears. Woe to those who silence the music made by children. Woe to those who silence the screams and tears and 'stupidity' of children. I heard it said, "Woe to those who cause these little ones to stumble." Yes, woe...
There is another reason why I am thinking of this today. That is simply this: Music will be carried with us when we leave this place. I am not saying music is somehow eternal, only that there are some special songs prepared by God for those who will listen. Something we can be certain of in the book of Revelation is that those who are Sealed in Christ will learn a new song: “And they sang a new song before the throne and before the four living creatures and elders. No one could learn the song except the 144,000 who had been redeemed from the earth.”
I love music. I love to sing—not to hear myself sing, but to offer words to my Lord that I cannot offer to Him in any other way. I think this is what I enjoy second most about being a Christian: I get to sing all the time and no one questions why I am doing it. They know why: There is a song in my heart. “He put a new song in my mouth, a hymn of praise to our God.” I would be the worst of all sinners if a song existed in my heart and I stifled it. I would be the worst of all sinners if I closed my mouth and the rocks were forced to cry out in song. I would be the worst of all sinners if the song that God put in my heart were made to remain there instead of being released to rise on the wind to His Presence. What else can I do? Sing I must. And sing I will.
But I am not just going to sing. I am going to listen. You see, as I have heard it said, God gave us two ears so that we would listen twice as much as we talk. It seems to me that we should be a people of music too—a people who spend twice as much time listening to good music as we do singing it. “By day the Lord directs His love, at night His song is with me—a prayer to the God of my life.”
Thanks for reading my ramblings. My hope is that you will make some time today to listen to some music or perhaps make some music. Make music in your heart and raise your voice to the Great King.
Tuesday, August 24, 2004
Puke Fiction: Right Now (pt. 2)
Right Now (Part 2)
Right now it is raining outside;
Inside it is day.
My chair is comfortable;
I enjoy sitting.
Soon my back will hurt,
This will require standing.
I'm not good at gladhanding.
Right now something is causing
My foot to itch. So much so, does it itch,
That I feel the need to scratch.
But things can change in a heart beat,
or in the twinkle of an eye;
or turn on a dime.
Other things were a mere flash in the pan,
And run like second glass sand through
Our hands.
Scarcely do we bother to pay
Attention
To that which is permanent,
To that which lasts.
Right now.
Sometimes I become inebriated on stupidity. Then again, my cup runeth over.
Soli Deo Gloria
Right now it is raining outside;
Inside it is day.
My chair is comfortable;
I enjoy sitting.
Soon my back will hurt,
This will require standing.
I'm not good at gladhanding.
Right now something is causing
My foot to itch. So much so, does it itch,
That I feel the need to scratch.
But things can change in a heart beat,
or in the twinkle of an eye;
or turn on a dime.
Other things were a mere flash in the pan,
And run like second glass sand through
Our hands.
Scarcely do we bother to pay
Attention
To that which is permanent,
To that which lasts.
Right now.
Sometimes I become inebriated on stupidity. Then again, my cup runeth over.
Soli Deo Gloria
Puke Fiction: Right Now (pt. 1)
Right Now (Probably undone, but unlikely to be finished)
It is cold in here.
A chill wind is showering
Down my back--
and I am somewhat cold,
and shivering.
Someone just died, and
Another lost an arm.
It is difficult to maintain
my composure
when I must protect my sons from harm.
That chill across my shoulders is back.
I suspect it is a little more than
Cold air.
Somewhere there's a body
That just trapsed across my grave.
I wish that I could care.
It is cold in here.
A chill wind is showering
Down my back--
and I am somewhat cold,
and shivering.
Someone just died, and
Another lost an arm.
It is difficult to maintain
my composure
when I must protect my sons from harm.
That chill across my shoulders is back.
I suspect it is a little more than
Cold air.
Somewhere there's a body
That just trapsed across my grave.
I wish that I could care.
Puke Fiction: The Drooped Flower
The Drooped Flower (Unfinished)
Tall stood the flower.
It's radiant arms
Stretching in all directions.
It's perfume wafting upwards
And outwards
On the warm breeze.
It's rainbow of color:
Majestic and Grand,
Far surpassing any royalty of man.
Bees and bugs are nestled into its
Sweet bed of satin--
Undoubtedly drunk on pollen,
So saturated they are unable to leave.
The drooped flower,
Its head hung low.
Bending and lowing like
The cattle in a certain barn,
And, not ironically, for the same reason.
Unlike the observer
Who stands with head held high
Not daring to lower his eye
Or even feign humility
Beneath the sun in the sky.
Tall stood the flower.
It's radiant arms
Stretching in all directions.
It's perfume wafting upwards
And outwards
On the warm breeze.
It's rainbow of color:
Majestic and Grand,
Far surpassing any royalty of man.
Bees and bugs are nestled into its
Sweet bed of satin--
Undoubtedly drunk on pollen,
So saturated they are unable to leave.
The drooped flower,
Its head hung low.
Bending and lowing like
The cattle in a certain barn,
And, not ironically, for the same reason.
Unlike the observer
Who stands with head held high
Not daring to lower his eye
Or even feign humility
Beneath the sun in the sky.
Puke Fiction: My Age Old Itch
Friends,
Here are a few random thoughts I have had over the last couple of weeks. Enjoy. (I had all these on one page, but the blogger program was fouling up and would not space them properly. So, I have separated them into a couple of different posts. Thanks for your patience. JLH)
My Age Old Itch
Here are a few random thoughts I have had over the last couple of weeks. Enjoy. (I had all these on one page, but the blogger program was fouling up and would not space them properly. So, I have separated them into a couple of different posts. Thanks for your patience. JLH)
My Age Old Itch
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
The itch is so far beneath
My skin
That I have to cut open
My flesh
To satisfy it.
And it is never in the same place
Twice.
One time, it is here,
And another time,
It is there.
Sometimes it is in my mind,
Other times in my hair.
I don't want to scratch the itch,
But I want the itch to stop.
It's the nagging sense
That I cannot satisfy it
No matter how hard I scratch,
Or how deeply I cut.
It just does not go away.
How long can I wait
Before I have to relieve myself?
Can't I just pull out my bladder
And sit it on a shelf?
Then I could stare at it all day long,
Instead of feeling like its slave.
And to my body, I belong.
Bowing our Heads
To: My friends.
RE: Humility
One and All:
Maybe I have told you this already, maybe not. I just don't know because I cannot really remember. Like most things, it matters very little if I did or not. What matters is that I am telling you now as a way of introducing you to something that does matter. Does that make any sense? Again, does it matter? No.
I have this large yard of grass surrounding the house in which I live. It is a nice yard of grass, one that anyone would feel comfortable spending a lazy afternoon wandering around in, or lying on, or staring at. I confess that I am quite fond of simply taking a few minutes in the morning to look out my bathroom window at the yard of grass. I enjoy seeing the glistening grass and inhaling the crisp morning air. (I should tell you that I always open the upper portion of the replacement window so that my view is unobstructed. I dislike the obstructed view that requires Superman like vision to see through the glass and screen. The view must be clear, pristine, and unadulterated.)
But I was not satisfied with looking out the bathroom window at mere grass--as if grass were merely mere. If I may digress for but a moment, I would tell you that grass is amazingly beautiful and green. Even grass that has been murdered by man's machines gives off a grace like scent that remains embedded in our olfactory nerve even after the sight of it has been replaced by new grass growing in its place. Who among us does not like the smell of freshly cut (mowed for you city folk) grass? But I digress. What I started to say is that grass is not merely mere, but it, like all of God's world, is fearfully and wonderfully made. I also started to say that grass was not enough for me this year. So I had a plan that involved turning over some soil, ripping up some grass, and planting some seeds. It is these seeds that I would now like to talk about for a moment.
These seeds were tiny when we planted them and I suppose if the seeds still existed the would be equally as small; but the seeds I planted do not exist any longer. They are gone. They have been transformed into something wonderful, something beautiful, something that is just within the realm of descriptive words. I, along with the help of my wife and sons, planted sunflower seeds. We planted hundreds of them, and what a spectacle it is to behold. Our driveway is lined on both sides with hundreds of sunflowers--sometimes there are three or four plants growing out of a single hole. I have my son to thank for that. When we asked him to help plant we neglected to inform him that only one seed needed to go in each hole. Frankly, it looks much better the way he did it. We also have a sunflower garden that, unfortunately, did not do as well this year as it did last year. Finally, we have what I call rogue sunflowers growing all over the yard. These were not planned or planted. They are rogues because the birds dropped seeds which then sprouted and took root. They are glorious.
Another amazing aspect of the plants that are all over the yard is the variety of types. We have sunflowers that are more thank six feet tall. We have others that are only a couple of feet tall. We have sunflowers that have very modest size heads. We have sunflowers that have huge, elephant like heads. We have sunflowers with yellow petals; we have sunflowers with red petals. We have sunflowers that only grow one head; we have sunflowers that grow three, four, five, six, or more heads. We have sunflowers that grew in bunches, and others that grew in solitary. In short, we have bunches of sunflowers growing in the yard. I even have a small sunflower that grew up in my herb garden. It is nestled in-between the globe basil and the oregano. I think it is acting like I cannot see it. It grew real small and hunched over like a dog cowering in the grass while it hides from a cat it is trying to outflank. But I found it because it also grew a rather gorgeous blossom that could not be hidden. It's yellow petals are spectacular.
Bees like the sunflowers. I have seen bees and other bugs take up residence on the heads of the sunflowers. Bees know a good thing when they find it. That's all I really wanted to say about bees--it's funny because they get so loaded down that they can hardly leave to fly back home. Like I said, bees know a good thing when they find it.
I am a big fan of the sunflowers with the huge heads full of seeds. They must be a special type of sunflower. They grow really tall and the stalks that hold them upright are unbelievably strong. I suppose, without measuring, I can estimate the stalks to be about 2 or more inches in diameter and as strong as a tree trunk. They withstand the wind that rips and races across our yard and deal with a consistent amount of tough, driving rain. I admire these sunflowers for their strength, their beauty, and their humility. Humility? Yes, humility. Let me see if I can explain what I mean.
In my garden grows corn, peppers of varying sorts, tomatoes, cucumbers, beans and sunflowers. I planted all the vegetables and fruit; the sunflowers in the garden grew on their own as if planted by an invisible hand that wanted to see them grow and mature. I sense that Providence must have played a Robinson Crusoe corn like role in their birth, and I am happy It did. They are huge reaching way above six feet in height and the heads probably weigh in at several pounds. They are monsters, beautiful monsters, that might frighten the unaware, or the careless. I, for one, tread very carefully around them because they are very special plants. I say they are special because they seem to understand something that most humans scarcely begin to even mention in public or private. We don't like to think that plants and flowers are smarter than us, but sometimes that is the inevitable conclusion one must come to. I did.
These mighty plants with huge leaves, tree-trunk stalks, and 10 pound heads are certainly the monsters of my garden. They are beautiful and lovely, and they seem to know it. For in my garden these most magnificent of creations do not stand erect and proud as if they desire everyone to stare in their direction. Instead, as they grow in height and weight, they begin to humble themselves. Their heads droop down under the crushing weight of their own glory. The more they weigh, the more they droop. They become so heavy that the head of the plant eventually is staring directly at the ground--not even looking up at the very sun that they are named after and that they need to flourish. I have a suspicion that there is more to these plants than meets the eye. I think they are bowing worship.
Oh, I know what you are thinking: "Plants are plants and they do not worship because they have no sense about these things. How can a plant do something that only humans can do? Stop being absurd. Plants do not bow. Plants do not worship. The heads fall down under their own tremendous weight." Yes. You are probably right. I mean, what could I possibly be thinking in ascribing to plants something that humans do? I read something one time, I vaguely remember where, where it says that if the humans beings do not cry out in worship, the rocks will spring to life and do it in our absence. It leads me to wonder: Have humans stopped crying out? Have we so stopped our worship that the rocks and sunflowers have started? Or, maybe that is too deep. Maybe the sunflowers have always buckled under the weight of their glory as reminders to us mere humans that there is, even though we might be something spectacular and pulchritudinous, a reason to humble ourselves. Sunflowers are wonderful, don't get me wrong. But I think they are smarter than we are because they know their beauty is fleeting and that even at the height of their glory, there is still Someone greater than they. We humans are not like sunflowers in any way. We grow tall and give birth to glorious beauty and then spend every morning and evening staring into mirrors to admire and primp ourselves. Much have we to learn from the humble sunflower.
Don't get me wrong. Beautifully is a blessed way to exist. I know many beautiful people who have an uncommon outer beauty that can barely be defined. I believe in my heart that God delights in the beautiful or else He would not have made so many beautiful creatures. Sometimes, however, I wish I was not so arrogant. This is not to say that I am beautiful. It is to say that I am arrogant and all too often unaware of the presence of God. Those sunflowers will stand outside day and night with their heads bowed in some sort of attitude of prayer or worship. I will be counseled from the day I am born until the day I die to walk with my head help up high. I will be told never to be humiliated, never to lower my eyes to another because showing weakness and humility is the wrong message to send to another, and to take as much beating as I can and never, ever deign to confess that I am arrogant and proud. The famous words of a certain terrorist before his execution sums up humanity succinctly: Bloodied, but unbowed.
Confession time: I want to be like the sunflower, the tallest plant in my garden, but also the most humble. I want to grow tall and straight and still have no idea that I am as beautiful as others might think. I want to walk around all day long with my head held low in humble worship and prayer, in an attitude of thankfulness and humility. I wonder what would happen if more people in the world lived like sunflowers instead of like dandelions. Sunflowers grow all summer and survive the elements, the birds, the heat and the cold--and keep their heads down all the while. Dandelions grow straight up with the same yellow magnificence as the sunflower and get walked all over, all day, and eventually are cut down because they are weeds.
I know which sort of plants I will gather seeds from this September. And I suspect that I know where He will gather seeds from someday when He repopulates the earth like Eden. I will look for Sunflowers, not dandelions. He will look for humility and worship, not the bloodied and unbowed.
RE: Humility
One and All:
Maybe I have told you this already, maybe not. I just don't know because I cannot really remember. Like most things, it matters very little if I did or not. What matters is that I am telling you now as a way of introducing you to something that does matter. Does that make any sense? Again, does it matter? No.
I have this large yard of grass surrounding the house in which I live. It is a nice yard of grass, one that anyone would feel comfortable spending a lazy afternoon wandering around in, or lying on, or staring at. I confess that I am quite fond of simply taking a few minutes in the morning to look out my bathroom window at the yard of grass. I enjoy seeing the glistening grass and inhaling the crisp morning air. (I should tell you that I always open the upper portion of the replacement window so that my view is unobstructed. I dislike the obstructed view that requires Superman like vision to see through the glass and screen. The view must be clear, pristine, and unadulterated.)
But I was not satisfied with looking out the bathroom window at mere grass--as if grass were merely mere. If I may digress for but a moment, I would tell you that grass is amazingly beautiful and green. Even grass that has been murdered by man's machines gives off a grace like scent that remains embedded in our olfactory nerve even after the sight of it has been replaced by new grass growing in its place. Who among us does not like the smell of freshly cut (mowed for you city folk) grass? But I digress. What I started to say is that grass is not merely mere, but it, like all of God's world, is fearfully and wonderfully made. I also started to say that grass was not enough for me this year. So I had a plan that involved turning over some soil, ripping up some grass, and planting some seeds. It is these seeds that I would now like to talk about for a moment.
These seeds were tiny when we planted them and I suppose if the seeds still existed the would be equally as small; but the seeds I planted do not exist any longer. They are gone. They have been transformed into something wonderful, something beautiful, something that is just within the realm of descriptive words. I, along with the help of my wife and sons, planted sunflower seeds. We planted hundreds of them, and what a spectacle it is to behold. Our driveway is lined on both sides with hundreds of sunflowers--sometimes there are three or four plants growing out of a single hole. I have my son to thank for that. When we asked him to help plant we neglected to inform him that only one seed needed to go in each hole. Frankly, it looks much better the way he did it. We also have a sunflower garden that, unfortunately, did not do as well this year as it did last year. Finally, we have what I call rogue sunflowers growing all over the yard. These were not planned or planted. They are rogues because the birds dropped seeds which then sprouted and took root. They are glorious.
Another amazing aspect of the plants that are all over the yard is the variety of types. We have sunflowers that are more thank six feet tall. We have others that are only a couple of feet tall. We have sunflowers that have very modest size heads. We have sunflowers that have huge, elephant like heads. We have sunflowers with yellow petals; we have sunflowers with red petals. We have sunflowers that only grow one head; we have sunflowers that grow three, four, five, six, or more heads. We have sunflowers that grew in bunches, and others that grew in solitary. In short, we have bunches of sunflowers growing in the yard. I even have a small sunflower that grew up in my herb garden. It is nestled in-between the globe basil and the oregano. I think it is acting like I cannot see it. It grew real small and hunched over like a dog cowering in the grass while it hides from a cat it is trying to outflank. But I found it because it also grew a rather gorgeous blossom that could not be hidden. It's yellow petals are spectacular.
Bees like the sunflowers. I have seen bees and other bugs take up residence on the heads of the sunflowers. Bees know a good thing when they find it. That's all I really wanted to say about bees--it's funny because they get so loaded down that they can hardly leave to fly back home. Like I said, bees know a good thing when they find it.
I am a big fan of the sunflowers with the huge heads full of seeds. They must be a special type of sunflower. They grow really tall and the stalks that hold them upright are unbelievably strong. I suppose, without measuring, I can estimate the stalks to be about 2 or more inches in diameter and as strong as a tree trunk. They withstand the wind that rips and races across our yard and deal with a consistent amount of tough, driving rain. I admire these sunflowers for their strength, their beauty, and their humility. Humility? Yes, humility. Let me see if I can explain what I mean.
In my garden grows corn, peppers of varying sorts, tomatoes, cucumbers, beans and sunflowers. I planted all the vegetables and fruit; the sunflowers in the garden grew on their own as if planted by an invisible hand that wanted to see them grow and mature. I sense that Providence must have played a Robinson Crusoe corn like role in their birth, and I am happy It did. They are huge reaching way above six feet in height and the heads probably weigh in at several pounds. They are monsters, beautiful monsters, that might frighten the unaware, or the careless. I, for one, tread very carefully around them because they are very special plants. I say they are special because they seem to understand something that most humans scarcely begin to even mention in public or private. We don't like to think that plants and flowers are smarter than us, but sometimes that is the inevitable conclusion one must come to. I did.
These mighty plants with huge leaves, tree-trunk stalks, and 10 pound heads are certainly the monsters of my garden. They are beautiful and lovely, and they seem to know it. For in my garden these most magnificent of creations do not stand erect and proud as if they desire everyone to stare in their direction. Instead, as they grow in height and weight, they begin to humble themselves. Their heads droop down under the crushing weight of their own glory. The more they weigh, the more they droop. They become so heavy that the head of the plant eventually is staring directly at the ground--not even looking up at the very sun that they are named after and that they need to flourish. I have a suspicion that there is more to these plants than meets the eye. I think they are bowing worship.
Oh, I know what you are thinking: "Plants are plants and they do not worship because they have no sense about these things. How can a plant do something that only humans can do? Stop being absurd. Plants do not bow. Plants do not worship. The heads fall down under their own tremendous weight." Yes. You are probably right. I mean, what could I possibly be thinking in ascribing to plants something that humans do? I read something one time, I vaguely remember where, where it says that if the humans beings do not cry out in worship, the rocks will spring to life and do it in our absence. It leads me to wonder: Have humans stopped crying out? Have we so stopped our worship that the rocks and sunflowers have started? Or, maybe that is too deep. Maybe the sunflowers have always buckled under the weight of their glory as reminders to us mere humans that there is, even though we might be something spectacular and pulchritudinous, a reason to humble ourselves. Sunflowers are wonderful, don't get me wrong. But I think they are smarter than we are because they know their beauty is fleeting and that even at the height of their glory, there is still Someone greater than they. We humans are not like sunflowers in any way. We grow tall and give birth to glorious beauty and then spend every morning and evening staring into mirrors to admire and primp ourselves. Much have we to learn from the humble sunflower.
Don't get me wrong. Beautifully is a blessed way to exist. I know many beautiful people who have an uncommon outer beauty that can barely be defined. I believe in my heart that God delights in the beautiful or else He would not have made so many beautiful creatures. Sometimes, however, I wish I was not so arrogant. This is not to say that I am beautiful. It is to say that I am arrogant and all too often unaware of the presence of God. Those sunflowers will stand outside day and night with their heads bowed in some sort of attitude of prayer or worship. I will be counseled from the day I am born until the day I die to walk with my head help up high. I will be told never to be humiliated, never to lower my eyes to another because showing weakness and humility is the wrong message to send to another, and to take as much beating as I can and never, ever deign to confess that I am arrogant and proud. The famous words of a certain terrorist before his execution sums up humanity succinctly: Bloodied, but unbowed.
Confession time: I want to be like the sunflower, the tallest plant in my garden, but also the most humble. I want to grow tall and straight and still have no idea that I am as beautiful as others might think. I want to walk around all day long with my head held low in humble worship and prayer, in an attitude of thankfulness and humility. I wonder what would happen if more people in the world lived like sunflowers instead of like dandelions. Sunflowers grow all summer and survive the elements, the birds, the heat and the cold--and keep their heads down all the while. Dandelions grow straight up with the same yellow magnificence as the sunflower and get walked all over, all day, and eventually are cut down because they are weeds.
I know which sort of plants I will gather seeds from this September. And I suspect that I know where He will gather seeds from someday when He repopulates the earth like Eden. I will look for Sunflowers, not dandelions. He will look for humility and worship, not the bloodied and unbowed.
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