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

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

Wednesday, August 04, 2004

A Little Grace Goes a Long Way

I recently sat down and started creatively thinking of ways that I could express grace. I tried to think of grace in terms of senses: Sight, sound, touch, taste and smell. Grace, I think, pervades every aspect of our existence whether we know it or not. We should know it; we should participate in it.

I once read a quote, perhaps by Mark Twain, that grace is 'the fragrance given off by the flower crushed by a heel.' Grace is that which we are beneficiaries of in spite of the fact that we hardly deserve it. In fact, grace is that overwhelming sense of humility because we have been the undeserving recipients of someone's blessing--in spite of ourselves. Grace is given to us always because we need it, not because we deserve it.

Grace is magical, but not in some devilish, black way. Grace is the Sun that we know is present even when dark clouds cover the sky. Grace is not stealth either. Grace makes bold, loquacious announcements of its presence. It is not shy. It is loud, and sometimes, so concerned to make its presence known, it is rather burdensome. One tries to escape from it only to find its grip being strengthened like a Chinese finger puzzle: The more you pull away, the tighter it becomes.

I personally find it impossible to escape grace. I see it everywhere I look, in the large in the small, in the beautiful in the ugly. So I have attempted to carve some of these images for you with a keyboard and in words. I hope this will not be exhaustive for you but only serve to show you how grace is always around us even when we least expect it, and probably where we do not expect it.

Grace is the callous that forms on hands that work.

Grace is like that stars that break apart the blackness of night.

Grace is like returning to your mattress after a week of camping and sleeping on the earth.

Grace is the reassuring touch of a loved one when you are afraid.

Grace is a hot shower after a long, sweaty day in the garden.

Grace is recognizing every minute of every day that we are not okay, and being okay with that.

Grace is the flavor of water after a long day in the sun.

Grace is a cup of tea on a cool, dreary day.

Grace is the fresh breeze that blows away the stench of death

Grace is the sound of rain drops pattering the ground after a season of dust and drought.

Grace is being loved by someone you fear.

Grace is the smile God shows towards his enemies.

Grace is a rainbow before a storm. (After the storm it is faithfulness.)

Grace is like the grass and flowers that grow in a cemetery.

Grace is hearing a bump in the night and finding the children still in bed.

Grace is being in just the right place in the universe to benefit from the power of the sun without being destroyed.

Grace is the juice that runs down your chin after you bite into an apple.

Grace is finding out that your computer has auto-save function enabled.

Grace is loving someone that is clearly a lunatic. Or being loved by someone who knows that you are a clearly a lunatic.

Grace is the hug of a child who has been disciplined.

Grace is the sex after a fight.

Grace is the cool breeze that blows in the window at night.

Grace is to sin what calamine lotion is to poison ivy.

Grace is like applauding before a movie starts.

Grace is being in the same ballpark as a pitcher who throws a perfect game.

Grace is getting paid before you do any sort of work.

Grace is the laughter in the midst of tears.

Grace is the blood that flows out of an open wound.

Grace is the tears that flow from eyes polluted with dust and debris.

Grace is the rose that grows among the thorns.

Grace is the blackberry growing on a thorny bush surrounded by poison ivy.

Grace is the eye of a hurricane.

Grace is eyes that open in the morning after being crusted over during the night.

Grace is like a cloud in the sky over a desert.

Grace is the honeycomb inside the nest of bees.

Grace is the story inside a black and white film.

Grace is the forgiveness that we are assured comes as a result of the work of Jesus.

With each passing breath, we are bound more tightly to the grace God expends. God's grace is not only an amazing thing--it is beautiful. It takes the ugliness of humanity and wraps it in find velvet and silk and clean linen--the materials that kings use. Grace is the new life inside of a mother. That God allows humanity, creation, to continue is the greatest grace we find each day. His patience, anticipating that more will follow Jesus, is the most profound grace I can imagine.