A favorite Christmas tradition growing up was going caroling all through town with my church. The best part was begging my dad (the pastor, and thus by default the proverbial caroling director) to sing Jingle Bells as often as possible, then fighting with my friend Dan over who got to shake the sleigh bells in time.
For some reason my Dad liked to throw "It Came Upon a Midnight Clear" into the rotation, and it always caught the rest of us totally off guard. People knew the song all the way up to the word "clear" and then started very rapidly tapering off giving confused looks to one another while halfway humming or mouthing the word watermelon, but my Dad was determined and just kept belting out every single one of those obscure lyrics until the bitter end of the 4th stanza while the carolers just listened and the homeowner stood at the door totally puzzled and slightly concerned. My sister and I shrugged and giggled.
Ever since, it's been near the very bottom of my personal Greatest Hits of Christmas list. But I turned to the first devotional in this year's family advent guide, and goshdarnit there it was, starting things off with a bang, just like my determined Dad. If there's one way to make sure your kids don't want to do Advent Devotionals, I'd put my money on starting with a rousing rendition of It Came Upon a Midnight Clear. (Better to start with Jingle Bells.)
Still, giving the benefit of the doubt, I read the words. And though they are dense and old-fashioned and a little tough to chew through on first pass, with the same amount of tenacity Dad always needed to carry the choir through, I stuck with it and found them in the end to be vividly poetic, robust, and right on time. Still not the song I would choose (sorry Dad), but with something valuable to say nonetheless. See what you think:
It came upon the midnight clear,
That glorious song of old,
From angels bending near the earth,
To touch their harps of gold:
"Peace on the earth, goodwill to men
From heavens all gracious King!"
The world in solemn stillness lay
To hear the angels sing.
Still through the cloven skies they come,
With peaceful wings unfurled;
And still their heavenly music floats
O'er all the weary world:
Above its sad and lowly plains
They bend on hovering wing,
And ever o'er its Babel sounds
The blessed angels sing.
O ye beneath life's crushing load,
Whose forms are bending low,
Who toil along the climbing way
With painful steps and slow;
Look now, for glad and golden hours
Come swiftly on the wing;
Oh rest beside the weary road
And hear the angels sing.
For lo! the days are hastening on,
By prophets seen of old,
When with the ever-circling years
Shall come the time foretold,
When the new heaven and earth shall own
The Prince of Peace, their King,
And the whole world send back the song
Which now the angels sing.
I don't have to tell you our world is a mess. Maybe it's Facebook, maybe it's Fake News. Maybe it's the President, maybe it's his opponents, or maybe it's just us getting older and being more aware of what's happening around us, worrying about our kids, worrying about the future. I don't know. You know what I'm talking about, though. Whether it's on a Global scale, or a National scale, or just in the individual everyday lives of my coworkers, my family, my friends, my neighbors...things look and things feel darker and heavier and more chaotic than ever.
I don't think things were much better back then, two millennia ago. Sure, the world was smaller and life was slower, which probably helped in a lot of ways, but life and its humans were every bit as dysfunctional. Always have been.
And because of it all, and despite it all, and into it all, God entered. He moved into the neighborhood, stared its darkness in the face.
It Came Across a Midnight Clear speaks of the bold proclamation of Peace that the Angels sang into a dark world that needed it desperately.
In the second stanza, it calls our modern world weary, which I would say is an appropriate descriptor for today. But that same song of Peace continues on, it asserts, even though it is being drown out by "Babel sounds" -- sounds of making a name for ourselves, sounds of arrogance and pride, division and selfishness, conflict and strife. (Gen 11)
In the third stanza, it speaks more personally to those of us who feel "low," who "toil" beneath "life's crushing load" with "painful and slow steps." It invites us, exhorts us, to "rest" and to "hear." To listen for the song again. To be reminded of the beautiful sound of the cosmic fulfillment of God's glorious promise that started at Christmas.
In the fourth stanza, it fixes our gaze where it should be, to our eternal hope in this present age of waiting, when the whole world will finally join the angels in the same song, at last acknowledging the Prince of Peace in a way that will right every wrong once and for all.
The song's not a bad way to start Advent 2018 after all.
I've been thinking of Advent as an act of rebellion against a season and culture that screams to distract us. This carol is begging you to do the same. Not just to rebel against the consumerist mania that reigns between Black Friday and Christmas Eve, but also against the endlessly troubling news cycle and the divisiveness and cynicism that so easily comes with it all year round, against life's crushing load.
If you are feeling the effects that load, if you are feeling that you toil through life with slow and painful steps...do not succumb to the insanity and its despair, but rather take time, make time, fight for time to listen and remember, to "rest beside the weary road and hear the angels sing."
They are still singing: "Glory to God in the Highest! And on Earth, Peace among those with whom He is pleased!" (Luke 2:14)
He who has ears, let him hear!
We look not to the things that are seen, but to the things that are unseen! For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal. (2 Cor 4:16-18)
At the name of Jesus every knee will bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father. (Phil 2:9-11)
In other words, Advent tells us there is still, despite it all, hope for Peace. That sounds foolishly simple and naive, but that is what the Christian tenaciously believes. It looks a lot like a man going all in on soloing four stanzas of an obscure Christmas carol while the rest of the world sings Jingle Bells. So be it. Hear the angels sing, then join in, sing on, don't stop.
Showing posts with label theology. Show all posts
Showing posts with label theology. Show all posts
Thursday, November 29, 2018
Sunday, August 20, 2017
Sunday Morning Thoughts
We go to a church that, despite some diversity, is White enough that we don't feel pressed to comment or find a response to these current events in a public way. We are white and yes "privileged" enough that most of us are able to ignore what's happening or just dismiss it as "noise" from the media.
So this left me wondering this morning what our response should be. What does the gospel say about white supremacy, racism, and hate? What does the gospel say in response to last weekend and the events that will surely continue? Does it say anything????
Because if there is something to say, let us say it.
Here's my best shot. This is what swirled in my head on the drive to church:
1. The good news of the Gospel is bad news for Nazis: God revealed himself as a Jewish man. Jesus was part of a marginalized minority; he quickly became a political refugee and grew up to be a homeless outlier hated by the Elite. He was a man of sorrows, acquainted with suffering and grief.
2. Acts 14:17 speaks of God's common grace to all people saying "He did good by giving you rains from heaven and fruitful seasons, satisfying your hearts with food and gladness." For those of us who enjoy what is referred to in modern times as "privilege," in a twist of cosmic irony, we owe this common grace we enjoy to a homeless Jewish refugee.
3. A follower of Christ does not need to take on these same identities (minority, refugee, homeless, outcast, outlier, etc.), but he or she does need to be humble enough to admit the need, accept salvation, and submit to the Lordship that comes from such an unlikely source.
4. God freely offers his salvation to every race, tribe, tongue, nation, people group, with no reservations. God has from the very start challenged his people to look outside of and cross these earthly barriers and identities to extend grace to others and to find reconciliation, unity, and new familial bonds in Him. There is no room for xenophobia or racism for the Christian, as it goes against the very nature of God.
5. God has a particular affection for the poor, persecuted, outcast and oppressed. These are "the least of these." He promises to be near to them and Jesus calls them blessed.
6. His followers, then, are called to listen to, stand with, support, encourage, help, defend, and love anyone in this category. When we do so, it is as if we were doing it with and to and for and from Christ himself.
7. Mr. Obama quotes Mr. Mandela saying kids don't have hate in their hearts and they instead are taught to hate. The grain of truth in this quote is that hate is surely taught and modeled and reinforced through generations, but the inescapable human problem is that we are in fact born with hate in our hearts. Only the gospel contains the promise to replace these hearts, break these bonds, and liberate us to love.
8. Lamenting the hate in someone else's heart starts with confessing the hate in my own.
9. God in his strange sovereign wisdom tolerates evil in the present day, but promises to one day destroy the oppressors of the world. Justice will be served. The earth groans in expectation, and we join in to do the same. The lamenting cry of "How long Lord?!" is a holy one, as we wait for his retribution. We wait, but there is hope.
10. In the mean time, as we wait, we do what we can, in our part, to foster justice and peace and love and forgiveness, little by little, day by day. We look outward, we speak up, we help out, we cultivate truth, we stand firm.
11. Maybe this is hardest: without excusing evil, we are called to love and forgive enemies, to bless those who curse us. No one is outside the scope of the God's grace and the forgiveness he offers. Transformation is possible.
Tuesday, November 03, 2015
The Spiritual Discipline of Learning Something New
Our university president explained one time how he challenged himself to pick up a new hobby and learn something new every year or so. That year he was learning how to program and play an electronic drum set and he gave a demonstration in chapel one day.
I liked the idea, in part because it was funny to see such a stately older man discovering electronic drums, but perhaps mostly because my range of interests is wide and my attention span short, and so doing something of the sort would allow me to dabble while keeping pressure low, until my collection of hobbies would resemble my collection of instruments that I don't really know how to play.
But then life happens, and things like busyness and stress and a desire for ease and comfort squash such trivial aspirations. If you can't seem to find the time for hobbies, what makes you think you can find time for new hobbies? Not to mention learning takes effort, and effort takes energy, and energy is a limited resource.
In September I decided to go for it. I started saxophone lessons. My wife gave me a needed solid nudge in the right direction, and then as if he knew I would need it even the professor took the initiative and suggested a meeting time instead of waiting for my call. There was no escaping: good thing.
OK so it's not exactly learning something new. But after 15 years (!) of collecting dust it might as well be. It's moreso an attempt to finish what was started, and sometimes that's just as hard, and the process is proving to be just as valuable. I've been thinking that learning something new is a strange sort of spiritual discipline.
Perhaps it's as simple as any discipline being spiritual discipline. The forcing of oneself to do something that doesn't come naturally, there is something deeply spiritual about that. Progressing on the saxophone is at its most basic a matter of finding time, making time, or just taking the time to practice, an activity that is both laborious and boring, a tiring drudgery. And yet, this banality and the discipline required to carry it out are the only means to reach the much more enjoyable and interesting end. It's a striving, an ongoing fight, and that sounds familiar.
When I arrive early to my lesson I hear the professor -- a member of the national orchestra in Versailles -- practicing a few things himself. Or, there are the moments where he plays the piece I'm working on "just to give me an idea." He sounds like a warm silver knife melting through butter, and though I'm no squawking rookie, next to him I am convinced my saxophone sounds something like a hedge trimmer piped through a bullhorn. To make matters worse, I'm trying, he's not. It's work for me and play for him. Do I let his effortless example demoralize me and give up? Or will I let it inspire me and press on? I suppose others might be wired differently, but I know my instincts and in these moments I've got to fight them off. Will I choose pessimism or optimism? Or to put it more spiritually, cynicism or hope?
No matter what the new hobby might be, an inherent humility comes into play. You'll be forced to admit that you know nothing, and you'll be pushed to ask for help. You will have to admit a need. In the case of getting that help from a teacher, coach, or mentor, you'll expose yourself to endless criticism, even if it is constructive, and a submission to their authoritative experience will be required.
I've had my student model saxophone for 25 years and it was bought used. The first question I got was "What kind of sax you playing?" and the quick response was, "Never heard of it. And after so long it's going to need a tune up." But in all those countless critiques -- flat notes, uneven volume, clacking keys -- I'm waiting for him to blame my instrument as a convenient scapegoat. There have even been times I've sheepishly suggested it. But no, apparently the problem is still me, and that's a healthy humble pill to swallow at every turn.
As we get older it becomes increasingly natural to pursue the path of least resistance and remain inside the safety of what we know and what we've mastered. Within our comfort zones, we can pick and choose what we pursue in order to minimize embarrassment and thus reinforce our pride. It's a question of control, and it can be a relatively cozy place to live. But in the Christian life we are called to live by faith, existing in a place of trust, being pushed outward into unknowns, called to weakness so that the Spirit's power might be revealed. This is harder for some of us than others, and these are muscles to be developed in the spiritual discipline of learning something new.
My saxophone case still has a bunch of embarrassing stickers from all the Christian ska, punk, and hardcore bands I listened to last time I played. No respectable saxophonist listens seriously to punk and he wouldn't dare to tarnish a sax case in such a way. To make matters worse, these bands aren't even known, many would say they aren't even good! I hesitated for a moment and almost ripped them all off before my first lesson, then decided to let it go, to own it as a piece of my history. The prof sees them, the smugs at the music conservatory glibly grin at them, I even paraded all over Paris with them when I went to the instrument repair shop (where I noticed nothing but clean black cases on the shelves). Or there was the time the prof asked me what saxophonists I listen to. I knew he wasn't asking about ska bands so I named the first I could think of and had trouble naming a second. I did, but when I got home I looked it up to find he was actually a piano player. He rattled off names and I confessed my ignorance to his surprise. He wrote them down for me to discover them in my own time.
The point is, there will be many moments in learning something new where you'll risk looking stupid and feeling foolish. This is a spiritual experience, for the Christian believes a truth that is foolishness to onlookers. For those of us afraid of humiliation and attempting to maintain a certain image, the Christian life will be inherently difficult. I suppose it's the continual question of basing your identity on what others think of you versus on the security found in what Christ has done for you.
And then, there's wonder. It happens as I walk out of my lessons, or when I left the saxophone shop in Paris: I feel like a saxophonist again, a title I flippantly cast aside at the turn of the century. Since then I've picked up the bass, but have never been a bassist; I've picked up the accordion, but have definitely never been an accordionist, and the list could go on. In those moments, I've had the flashback more than once of opening my new saxophone for the first time and the age of 9 in the family living room. It was shiny, complex, heavy, half my size, and it was mine, and there was a new world to discover. It's good to get that back again, a wondrous homecoming of sorts.
In these experiences, horizons are opened to new dimensions. And each time we learn something new about the world we learn something new about its Creator.
I'd much prefer either sticking to what I know or dabbling in something that comes easily and looks good. Neither are good or realistic options. The other option is at times messy, embarrassing, painful, or tiring. The spiritual parallels are many. The payoff is worth it.
I liked the idea, in part because it was funny to see such a stately older man discovering electronic drums, but perhaps mostly because my range of interests is wide and my attention span short, and so doing something of the sort would allow me to dabble while keeping pressure low, until my collection of hobbies would resemble my collection of instruments that I don't really know how to play.
But then life happens, and things like busyness and stress and a desire for ease and comfort squash such trivial aspirations. If you can't seem to find the time for hobbies, what makes you think you can find time for new hobbies? Not to mention learning takes effort, and effort takes energy, and energy is a limited resource.
In September I decided to go for it. I started saxophone lessons. My wife gave me a needed solid nudge in the right direction, and then as if he knew I would need it even the professor took the initiative and suggested a meeting time instead of waiting for my call. There was no escaping: good thing.
OK so it's not exactly learning something new. But after 15 years (!) of collecting dust it might as well be. It's moreso an attempt to finish what was started, and sometimes that's just as hard, and the process is proving to be just as valuable. I've been thinking that learning something new is a strange sort of spiritual discipline.
Perhaps it's as simple as any discipline being spiritual discipline. The forcing of oneself to do something that doesn't come naturally, there is something deeply spiritual about that. Progressing on the saxophone is at its most basic a matter of finding time, making time, or just taking the time to practice, an activity that is both laborious and boring, a tiring drudgery. And yet, this banality and the discipline required to carry it out are the only means to reach the much more enjoyable and interesting end. It's a striving, an ongoing fight, and that sounds familiar.
When I arrive early to my lesson I hear the professor -- a member of the national orchestra in Versailles -- practicing a few things himself. Or, there are the moments where he plays the piece I'm working on "just to give me an idea." He sounds like a warm silver knife melting through butter, and though I'm no squawking rookie, next to him I am convinced my saxophone sounds something like a hedge trimmer piped through a bullhorn. To make matters worse, I'm trying, he's not. It's work for me and play for him. Do I let his effortless example demoralize me and give up? Or will I let it inspire me and press on? I suppose others might be wired differently, but I know my instincts and in these moments I've got to fight them off. Will I choose pessimism or optimism? Or to put it more spiritually, cynicism or hope?
No matter what the new hobby might be, an inherent humility comes into play. You'll be forced to admit that you know nothing, and you'll be pushed to ask for help. You will have to admit a need. In the case of getting that help from a teacher, coach, or mentor, you'll expose yourself to endless criticism, even if it is constructive, and a submission to their authoritative experience will be required.
I've had my student model saxophone for 25 years and it was bought used. The first question I got was "What kind of sax you playing?" and the quick response was, "Never heard of it. And after so long it's going to need a tune up." But in all those countless critiques -- flat notes, uneven volume, clacking keys -- I'm waiting for him to blame my instrument as a convenient scapegoat. There have even been times I've sheepishly suggested it. But no, apparently the problem is still me, and that's a healthy humble pill to swallow at every turn.
As we get older it becomes increasingly natural to pursue the path of least resistance and remain inside the safety of what we know and what we've mastered. Within our comfort zones, we can pick and choose what we pursue in order to minimize embarrassment and thus reinforce our pride. It's a question of control, and it can be a relatively cozy place to live. But in the Christian life we are called to live by faith, existing in a place of trust, being pushed outward into unknowns, called to weakness so that the Spirit's power might be revealed. This is harder for some of us than others, and these are muscles to be developed in the spiritual discipline of learning something new.
My saxophone case still has a bunch of embarrassing stickers from all the Christian ska, punk, and hardcore bands I listened to last time I played. No respectable saxophonist listens seriously to punk and he wouldn't dare to tarnish a sax case in such a way. To make matters worse, these bands aren't even known, many would say they aren't even good! I hesitated for a moment and almost ripped them all off before my first lesson, then decided to let it go, to own it as a piece of my history. The prof sees them, the smugs at the music conservatory glibly grin at them, I even paraded all over Paris with them when I went to the instrument repair shop (where I noticed nothing but clean black cases on the shelves). Or there was the time the prof asked me what saxophonists I listen to. I knew he wasn't asking about ska bands so I named the first I could think of and had trouble naming a second. I did, but when I got home I looked it up to find he was actually a piano player. He rattled off names and I confessed my ignorance to his surprise. He wrote them down for me to discover them in my own time.
The point is, there will be many moments in learning something new where you'll risk looking stupid and feeling foolish. This is a spiritual experience, for the Christian believes a truth that is foolishness to onlookers. For those of us afraid of humiliation and attempting to maintain a certain image, the Christian life will be inherently difficult. I suppose it's the continual question of basing your identity on what others think of you versus on the security found in what Christ has done for you.
And then, there's wonder. It happens as I walk out of my lessons, or when I left the saxophone shop in Paris: I feel like a saxophonist again, a title I flippantly cast aside at the turn of the century. Since then I've picked up the bass, but have never been a bassist; I've picked up the accordion, but have definitely never been an accordionist, and the list could go on. In those moments, I've had the flashback more than once of opening my new saxophone for the first time and the age of 9 in the family living room. It was shiny, complex, heavy, half my size, and it was mine, and there was a new world to discover. It's good to get that back again, a wondrous homecoming of sorts.
In these experiences, horizons are opened to new dimensions. And each time we learn something new about the world we learn something new about its Creator.
I'd much prefer either sticking to what I know or dabbling in something that comes easily and looks good. Neither are good or realistic options. The other option is at times messy, embarrassing, painful, or tiring. The spiritual parallels are many. The payoff is worth it.
Tuesday, October 13, 2015
Mix Tape: Doubts at the end of the world
The kid and I recently finished reading The Voyage of the Dawn Treader a tale of sea adventures that lead to the very end of the world. It's a surprising tale of courage, especially surprising when the most courageous of all is a tenacious and volatile mouse who will do whatever necessary to uphold his vows of honor.
In this song, Kristian Matsson of The Tallest Man on Earth walks to the end of the world in Sagres, looks across the ocean, and upon hearing harrowing tales, decides to walk away from the beckoning adventure. Reepicheep would be disappointed. But then again, so is Matsson.
The first time I heard it, I labeled the song as bland and uninspired, but it has only continued to grow on me since then. In a progression of just six chords Matsson sets up a profound wistfulness and restlessness, a tension that seems to be lurking under the surface in many of us. It's not that it's uninspired, but rather that the songs evenness serves to communicate a persistent malaise, a pervading numbness. What is left of us? he asks. The song doesn't exactly build, but it does lead to a definitive climax where the music stops and he mutters the tired answer into the microphone: it's just all this doubt.
In Dawn Treader Aslan reminds Lucy of a lesson she's already been taught: nobody is ever told what would have happened. But, he reassures her, anyone can find out what will happen.
This is a song for those who lament not knowing what would have happened, those who regret knowing what could have happened, and those reluctant to find out what will happen.
And the unknowns of the ocean just keep calling us all the same: there's only one thing left to do.
What's brilliantly paradoxical about the progression is that it could also just as easily serve as a soundtrack for sailing across the open waters, holding out a hope of freedom for those still stuck wrestling with doubt.
"Your way was through the sea." Psalm 77:19
In this song, Kristian Matsson of The Tallest Man on Earth walks to the end of the world in Sagres, looks across the ocean, and upon hearing harrowing tales, decides to walk away from the beckoning adventure. Reepicheep would be disappointed. But then again, so is Matsson.
The first time I heard it, I labeled the song as bland and uninspired, but it has only continued to grow on me since then. In a progression of just six chords Matsson sets up a profound wistfulness and restlessness, a tension that seems to be lurking under the surface in many of us. It's not that it's uninspired, but rather that the songs evenness serves to communicate a persistent malaise, a pervading numbness. What is left of us? he asks. The song doesn't exactly build, but it does lead to a definitive climax where the music stops and he mutters the tired answer into the microphone: it's just all this doubt.
In Dawn Treader Aslan reminds Lucy of a lesson she's already been taught: nobody is ever told what would have happened. But, he reassures her, anyone can find out what will happen.
This is a song for those who lament not knowing what would have happened, those who regret knowing what could have happened, and those reluctant to find out what will happen.
And the unknowns of the ocean just keep calling us all the same: there's only one thing left to do.
What's brilliantly paradoxical about the progression is that it could also just as easily serve as a soundtrack for sailing across the open waters, holding out a hope of freedom for those still stuck wrestling with doubt.
"Your way was through the sea." Psalm 77:19
Friday, October 02, 2015
The Hymnal of DMST
I've always listened to much of Sigur Ros as a window to heaven, meaning I consider their work to some degree heavenly music in the true sense of the word, otherworldly at least, in some way reflecting a glorious grandeur that we'll one day know.
Well, I finally solved the problem of the absence of a record player in this house, and I am slowly but surely rediscovering my vinyl collection. Yesterday I got to Do Make Say Think's You, You're a History in Rust. And if I hear Sigur Ros as heaven, I hear this as hymns.
There is something not only transcendent but also inherently corporate about their music, and the songs come together in a way that not only expresses the full range of emotions loud and clear, but also as if one instrument is proclaiming to another. The songs are all at once declaration and dialogue. There's a vertical dimension and a horizontal dimension. At times reflective and restrained, other times ardent and jubilant. Improvised and spontaneous, deliberate and calculated. All this is what makes good hymnody.
It is particularly the series of tracks "A With Living," "The Universe!," and "A Tender History in Rust" that inspires this tribute.
The other week in the metro I stood next to a man with a Do Make Say Think t shirt. He looked just as nerdy as me. I fought the impulse to hug him.
Well, I finally solved the problem of the absence of a record player in this house, and I am slowly but surely rediscovering my vinyl collection. Yesterday I got to Do Make Say Think's You, You're a History in Rust. And if I hear Sigur Ros as heaven, I hear this as hymns.
There is something not only transcendent but also inherently corporate about their music, and the songs come together in a way that not only expresses the full range of emotions loud and clear, but also as if one instrument is proclaiming to another. The songs are all at once declaration and dialogue. There's a vertical dimension and a horizontal dimension. At times reflective and restrained, other times ardent and jubilant. Improvised and spontaneous, deliberate and calculated. All this is what makes good hymnody.
It is particularly the series of tracks "A With Living," "The Universe!," and "A Tender History in Rust" that inspires this tribute.
The other week in the metro I stood next to a man with a Do Make Say Think t shirt. He looked just as nerdy as me. I fought the impulse to hug him.
Sunday, September 13, 2015
Hope in Disorientation
We saw Sufjan Stevens last week. Though it was not quite the performance I expected or hoped for, it was a uniquely strong communal experience, and more impressive than the songs, compositions, or light-show themselves was the way the collective breath of 2,700 people was held, the wind knocked out of us, our stomach in knots. This was more than attending a funeral, this was sitting in silence for the week following, like the friends of grieving Job. No one spoke a word, for they saw that his suffering was very great. It was unexpectedly intense, living loss together.
This performance by Sandra McCracken strikes me the same way, an expression of loss and disorientation, and it's not difficult to enter into it and live it with her, evident that she's singng from experience. The only difference is a resolute hope, a tenacity that yearns toward the light that surely exists at the end of the tunnel, and that important difference is certainly a tad healthier than the few passing references offered us on Carrie and Lowell.
To be honest, feeling lost has been a recurring and overwhelming theme over the course of the past 4+ years. Many have looked at me as if they don't understand and don't care to understand, but one man listened carefully, lived it with me a bit, and asked me to read Psalm 43:3 to see if it spoke to the feeling.
Send out your light and your truth;
let them lead me;
let them bring me to your holy hill
and to your dwelling!
It was basically the first time I paid attention to the verse. It's become an anthem since, and in the past few months so has this song, as it captures fully the essence of weary waiting and orients me again in the one and only direction I know is worth heading.
This performance by Sandra McCracken strikes me the same way, an expression of loss and disorientation, and it's not difficult to enter into it and live it with her, evident that she's singng from experience. The only difference is a resolute hope, a tenacity that yearns toward the light that surely exists at the end of the tunnel, and that important difference is certainly a tad healthier than the few passing references offered us on Carrie and Lowell.
To be honest, feeling lost has been a recurring and overwhelming theme over the course of the past 4+ years. Many have looked at me as if they don't understand and don't care to understand, but one man listened carefully, lived it with me a bit, and asked me to read Psalm 43:3 to see if it spoke to the feeling.
Send out your light and your truth;
let them lead me;
let them bring me to your holy hill
and to your dwelling!
It was basically the first time I paid attention to the verse. It's become an anthem since, and in the past few months so has this song, as it captures fully the essence of weary waiting and orients me again in the one and only direction I know is worth heading.
Friday, September 04, 2015
On Consolation
It was early Monday morning when I definitively learned I would help a friend bury his dad the next day. They didn't know exactly what they wanted, but they wanted an homme d'église saying something, anything as they lowered him down. Ils avaient raison. Because saying goodbye to a dad with no one speaking truth by our sides is desperately hopeless indeed.
It was another one of those out of body twilight zone moments, as if I'm watching a film of an unlikely story. How did this kid from Pennsylvania end up in a bourgeois home outside of Paris to help lay to rest a man he doesn't know? Ce cheminement avec Dieu est drôlement étonnant, I wrote to a friend. Don't ask questions, count it as the extreme honor that it is.
At midnight the evening prior, I was led to write about the privilege it was to share these moments with this family I did not know. That I was not there to make their grief disappear, but I was there to share it with them, live it with them. And that reminded me of our God who promises the same. I read words declaring who our God is, that he is close to the broken-hearted, that he is merciful, compassionate, full of goodness, an ever-present help. Then I read words of our Jesus, sent to do the same. A man who had a habit of suffering, as it's put in French, a man who sympathizes with our weakness, a man who understands and is ready to share it all by our sides. A man who promises rest for our weary and heavy-laiden souls. A man who wept before the grave of his good friend, because he loved him, because he was overwhelmed with sadness, because he was revolted by death.
We don't have a God distant and indifferent, but a God who understands and shares and enters into pain with us. This is shocking. This is unlike anything we know in this earthly experience. This should surpass our understanding. What king is like this?
Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort...
He is the Father of mercies and the God of all comfort. He is the source of mercy and comfort. And what do we human beings need more in this life than mercy and comfort? We who recoil at hardened dictators, demanding bosses, exigent teachers, we look to this King ready to sit at our side as we sob uncontrollably and know he must be good, he must be true, he must be what we've been seeking all this time.
...who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.
And if he consoles us -- and he does -- he does it not just for our own well-being, but so that we can extend this consolation to others when our turn arises. He wants us and expects us and nudges us to pass it on. And here we see the overflowing fountain of generosity that comes from the heart of God: spilling over and onward and outward, using awkward and weak vessels to get the job done.
But don't miss what's implied. If we're passing on consolation that came from God, that means we very likely received God's consolation from someone. The first person you called who dropped everything and came to sit with you, it was not just a friend, it was God himself. The friends that pulled themselves together to order flowers and make you meals, that was more than friends, that was God himself. The person who didn't try to cheer you up, but sat and cried in silence with you, that was the Father of mercies and God of all comfort. And it also implies that if we are not opening ourselves up in vulnerability to allow others to comfort us, if we are hiding our grief or doing it alone, we are resisting the consolation that God offers.
And now I realize what exactly was going on in my presence at the graveside. It resembles only moreso an unlikely story, and all the more an honor.
Bref, consolation comes.
Don’t back down, concentrate on seeing
The breakers in the bar, the neighbor’s greeting
My brother had a daughter
The beauty that she brings, illumination
It was another one of those out of body twilight zone moments, as if I'm watching a film of an unlikely story. How did this kid from Pennsylvania end up in a bourgeois home outside of Paris to help lay to rest a man he doesn't know? Ce cheminement avec Dieu est drôlement étonnant, I wrote to a friend. Don't ask questions, count it as the extreme honor that it is.
At midnight the evening prior, I was led to write about the privilege it was to share these moments with this family I did not know. That I was not there to make their grief disappear, but I was there to share it with them, live it with them. And that reminded me of our God who promises the same. I read words declaring who our God is, that he is close to the broken-hearted, that he is merciful, compassionate, full of goodness, an ever-present help. Then I read words of our Jesus, sent to do the same. A man who had a habit of suffering, as it's put in French, a man who sympathizes with our weakness, a man who understands and is ready to share it all by our sides. A man who promises rest for our weary and heavy-laiden souls. A man who wept before the grave of his good friend, because he loved him, because he was overwhelmed with sadness, because he was revolted by death.
We don't have a God distant and indifferent, but a God who understands and shares and enters into pain with us. This is shocking. This is unlike anything we know in this earthly experience. This should surpass our understanding. What king is like this?
Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort...
He is the Father of mercies and the God of all comfort. He is the source of mercy and comfort. And what do we human beings need more in this life than mercy and comfort? We who recoil at hardened dictators, demanding bosses, exigent teachers, we look to this King ready to sit at our side as we sob uncontrollably and know he must be good, he must be true, he must be what we've been seeking all this time.
...who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.
And if he consoles us -- and he does -- he does it not just for our own well-being, but so that we can extend this consolation to others when our turn arises. He wants us and expects us and nudges us to pass it on. And here we see the overflowing fountain of generosity that comes from the heart of God: spilling over and onward and outward, using awkward and weak vessels to get the job done.
But don't miss what's implied. If we're passing on consolation that came from God, that means we very likely received God's consolation from someone. The first person you called who dropped everything and came to sit with you, it was not just a friend, it was God himself. The friends that pulled themselves together to order flowers and make you meals, that was more than friends, that was God himself. The person who didn't try to cheer you up, but sat and cried in silence with you, that was the Father of mercies and God of all comfort. And it also implies that if we are not opening ourselves up in vulnerability to allow others to comfort us, if we are hiding our grief or doing it alone, we are resisting the consolation that God offers.
And now I realize what exactly was going on in my presence at the graveside. It resembles only moreso an unlikely story, and all the more an honor.
Bref, consolation comes.
Don’t back down, concentrate on seeing
The breakers in the bar, the neighbor’s greeting
My brother had a daughter
The beauty that she brings, illumination
Friday, June 26, 2015
Unless a grain of wheat dies.
Calvin on Jean 12:24-25
For not only do we think that we perish in death, but our life also is a sort of continual death (Col 3:3). We shall therefore be undone, unless we be supported by that consolation which Paul holds out: if our outward man decays, the inward man is renewed from day to day (2 Cor 4:16). When, therefore, the godly are distressed by various afflictions, when they are pressed hard by the difficulties of their situation, when they suffer hunger, or nakedness, or disease, when they are assailed by reproaches, when it appears as if they would every hour be almost overwhelmed by death, let them unceasingly consider that this is a sowing which, in due time, will yield fruit.
In short, to love this life is not in itself wrong, provided that we only pass through it as pilgrims, keeping our eyes always fixed on our object. For the true limit of loving life is, when we continue in it as long as it pleases God, and when we are prepared to leave it as soon as he shall order us, or--to express it in a single word--when we carry it, as it were, in our hands, and offer it to God as a sacrifice. Whoever carries his attachment to the present life beyond this limit destroys his life; that is, he consigns it to everlasting ruin, devoting it to destruction.
For not only do we think that we perish in death, but our life also is a sort of continual death (Col 3:3). We shall therefore be undone, unless we be supported by that consolation which Paul holds out: if our outward man decays, the inward man is renewed from day to day (2 Cor 4:16). When, therefore, the godly are distressed by various afflictions, when they are pressed hard by the difficulties of their situation, when they suffer hunger, or nakedness, or disease, when they are assailed by reproaches, when it appears as if they would every hour be almost overwhelmed by death, let them unceasingly consider that this is a sowing which, in due time, will yield fruit.
In short, to love this life is not in itself wrong, provided that we only pass through it as pilgrims, keeping our eyes always fixed on our object. For the true limit of loving life is, when we continue in it as long as it pleases God, and when we are prepared to leave it as soon as he shall order us, or--to express it in a single word--when we carry it, as it were, in our hands, and offer it to God as a sacrifice. Whoever carries his attachment to the present life beyond this limit destroys his life; that is, he consigns it to everlasting ruin, devoting it to destruction.
Wednesday, May 20, 2015
Praying with Flannery
I dove into Flannery O'Connor's prayer journal last night. It's a plain, intimate and fascinating affair, even if it feels at times intrusive to read. I don't anticipate it being a source of model theology, yet it is certainly a worthy model of frank and vulnerable praying. For me there is added interest as it was written just a few years before being diagnosed with Lupus. A distant and sterile introduction by a scholar and friend does not ascribe much to the reality of the recipient of her prayers, yet he tends to affirm that prayer does in fact change things, that many of her prayers were, in one way or another, and even with a bit of irony, answered. I could quickly turn this blog into a record of appreciated quotes, lines I might be led to pray with her, and in that way the book is therapeutic, cathartic, perhaps not unlike some of David's intensely personal prayers becoming the corporate songbook of the church.
So, this was last night's...
All boils down to grace, I suppose. I am afraid of pain and I suppose that is what we have to have to get grace. Give me the courage to stand the pain to get the grace, Oh Lord. Help me with this life that seems so treacherous, so disappointing.
So, this was last night's...
All boils down to grace, I suppose. I am afraid of pain and I suppose that is what we have to have to get grace. Give me the courage to stand the pain to get the grace, Oh Lord. Help me with this life that seems so treacherous, so disappointing.
Wednesday, March 04, 2015
Finding Vivian Maier
She had an eye for the bizarre, the grotesque, the incongruous. She liked headlines that revealed the folly of individuals, where you could say 'I told you so.' Some man murders his wife then gets caught in cold blood. I told you so. The things that revealed the folly of humanity. If you look at her art, she sees the bizarreness of life, the incongruity of life, and the unappealingness of human beings.
This description of Maier and her work made me think that she's a kindred spirit to Flannery O'Connor, a woman only one year her elder. Certain aspects of their work make a lot of people flinch, but they'd most likely have left one another unfazed, and certainly could have produced some interesting, albeit dark, collaborations.
Another question: why did we ever stop using Rolleiflex cameras?
And while this edge to Maier's personality and body of work can't stay unacknowledged, it's an overstep to reduce her work to this single dimension. Like the self-employed journalist she pretended to be, she did an incredible job of capturing and reflecting the full spectrum of the human condition in its honest entirety, good, bad, and ugly, be it a moment of tenderness, beauty, absurdity, or darkness. The vast scope of her work is precisely the reason it resonates as it does. She had a curiosity for the details of who we are and what we do, and in my mind that's most often what makes a good artist.
There are moments where I like that cliché conversation starter: what will you ask God when you get to heaven?
I imagine sitting down with Him for a long chat about mental illness. What is it? and Why? and Is it really illness? and Why do the mentally ill so often serve as artists, and as such, chosen as prophets? Why do the mentally ill seem to actually have a better grasp on some things than those of us who are "sane"? Who's really mentally ill here? What's the real delusion?
(cross reference to the lunatic in Revolutionary Road...or Sufjan Stevens' Age of Adz...)
Zoom out to the human condition in which Maier was trapped and tried so desperately to capture, perhaps in an effort to escape. God, what's really going on here? What are you up to? and Why?
All photos stolen from vivianmaier.com. Film website here.
Thursday, December 25, 2014
Advent 37: Promises kept
Watching over my kids' shoulders, I can't believe how many cartoons have an episode where the characters are bailing out Santa to save Christmas. I don't know if it started with Rudolph or somewhere even before that, but it's a tired plot line.
Despite what they might have you believe, Christmas always comes. As sure as the rising sun, December 25th arrives year in and year out. Despite the wait, it finally arrives, always. You can count on it.
That's in part because, despite the wait, the Messiah finally arrived. As sure as I AM, the expected one came. It was a promise kept. You could count on it.
Which means, as sure as Christmas, he will come again. Just as promised. There will be a wait, but he'll arrive. Count on it.
Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.
Despite what they might have you believe, Christmas always comes. As sure as the rising sun, December 25th arrives year in and year out. Despite the wait, it finally arrives, always. You can count on it.
That's in part because, despite the wait, the Messiah finally arrived. As sure as I AM, the expected one came. It was a promise kept. You could count on it.
Which means, as sure as Christmas, he will come again. Just as promised. There will be a wait, but he'll arrive. Count on it.
Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.
Monday, December 22, 2014
Advent 36: John, the wilderness, the shadow of death, and a sunrise
John seems to get overshadowed at Christmastime. We rush to Luke chapter 2 and miss the first birth that is miraculous and noteworthy in its own right. We read all sorts of fascinating details, and the end result is that Zechariah and Elizabeth's neighbors are struck with the fear of God, all of Judea is talking, and everyone is wondering what will become of this kid.
Zechariah gives a response:
...the sunrise shall visit us from on high
to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death,
to guide our feet into the way of peace.'
And the child grew and became strong in spirit, and he was in the wilderness until the day of his public appearance to Israel." (Luke 1:76, 78-80)
We'll see later that John is completely confident in his role, and that's because he knows precisely what his role is. It helps to remember that he knew his role because his father knew it from the moment he was born, and announced it with the help of the Holy Spirit.
Maybe time in the wilderness helped too. Why is it that God seems to send all those he wants to use to the wilderness? The list is frighteningly long. What is it about the wilderness? What is learned there? And why do we resist it so fiercely? Questions to come back to.
John is the Best Man of the bridegroom, and he knows it. He's thus filled with joy to watch the wedding unfold (John 3:29) rather than being mixed up, jealously and selfishly wondering why he can't be the center of attention, why he can't get the bride. He knows it's not his day. And so, he willingly and humbly lets go of his disciples, pointing them to Christ, the one who is infinitely greater and more important.
Zechariah knew about this from day one as well. His prophecy, curiously enough, is just as much about Christ as it is about his own miraculous baby boy. It's as if John would be nothing if it weren't for Jesus.
Jesus would be a sunrise from on high. He would be a light, finally showing us the way.
That light is for those of us sitting in the shadow of death. We've been trapped in the shadow of death for a long time. Remember that Good Shepherd we always talk about who leads us through the valley of the shadow of death? Someone brought to my attention not long ago that the shadow of death isn't just bedside vigils, hospice care, and funeral ceremonies, where that psalm is typically read. But rather, all of life is the shadow of death. The fear of inescapable death holds mankind in slavery (Hebrews 2:15). The shadow is always there, always looming.
Yet, in the midst of the shadow of death, the sunrise guides us toward peace. Just as is the theme of Psalm 23, there is hope to be had, and comfort to be found, and joy to be experienced.
Joy, comfort, hope, and peace in the midst of the shadow of death? How can this be?
Sounds like a lesson to be learned in the wilderness.
Sunday, December 21, 2014
Advent 34: Deliverance
As much as the church needs theologians, preachers, and teachers, we need storytellers. Peope that stretch our imaginations, pull us out of our tunnel vision, and show us the age-old story afresh, from an angle we've never seen it before. Its facets dazzle in new ways, as if we were hearing it for the first time.
That's what happened last night at our Christmas worship service. Our storyteller imagined the band of shepherds and all that happened to them.
Like how old were they when they heard those angels announcing the good news? And how long did they have to wait to see who this baby grew up to be? And where were they then, after all those years? And on the day He was killed, did they still remember the events of that strange night 30-some years prior? The way she painted the scene and their interactions put us right there with them.
But what exactly will this baby deliver us from? they asked themselves.
The Romans? Oppression? Sickness? Sadness?
The older, wiser one in the group answered:
Non, il va nous délivrer de nous-mêmes.
He'll deliver us from ourselves.
That's what happened last night at our Christmas worship service. Our storyteller imagined the band of shepherds and all that happened to them.
Like how old were they when they heard those angels announcing the good news? And how long did they have to wait to see who this baby grew up to be? And where were they then, after all those years? And on the day He was killed, did they still remember the events of that strange night 30-some years prior? The way she painted the scene and their interactions put us right there with them.
But what exactly will this baby deliver us from? they asked themselves.
The Romans? Oppression? Sickness? Sadness?
The older, wiser one in the group answered:
Non, il va nous délivrer de nous-mêmes.
He'll deliver us from ourselves.
Friday, December 05, 2014
Advent 32: Silencing Rebel Hearts
....God responds to this deep desire to be known and understood by the one in authority. But it is only one more profound expression of the wideness of his grace.
Because our metaphor of the pauper-befriending prince and the undercover boss only goes so far. History serves to show us that royalty and executives are in fact quite often imperfect, unjust, driven by greed, and prone to exploiting others. They need experiences like the ones mentioned in order to learn, to uncover blind spots, to see that of which they've been ignorant.
This of course is not the case when it comes to the incarnation. God did not send Jesus in order to know us or understand us. The Creator knows his creation, and intimately so. He knows us better than we know ourselves. Though he was a man, the knowledge and understanding of Jesus was no exception: "Jesus knew all people and needed no one to bear witness about man, for he himself knew what was in man." John 2:25
So then let's be honest: though we can't deny the existence of power-hungry authority and the discontentment of such is often merited, there is often something else driving our complaints of those out-of-touch higher-ups. Is it not our spirit of rebellion?
Those complaints around the water-cooler, the cigarette-break gossip, is it not what naturally comes out of our sick and rebel hearts? Insisting the authority does not understand us is easier than submission. Because the last thing a rebel heart wants to do is submit. We will kick, scream, and dig in our heals before voluntarily following the one in charge.
The man who says God is a distant and impersonal force who doesn't know us--or if he does he is cruel and indifferent and couldn't care less about our struggles down here on earth--is a man who doesn't understand our God and ultimately doesn't want to. His rebel heart refuses to know God, because the more you know God, the more you will be accountable to submit to Him.
This is only all the more true when we acknowledge that God cannot be accused of ignorance, greed, exploitation or oppression like so many examples of earthly authority.
"The light has come into the world, and people loved the darkness rather than the light because their works were evil. For everyone who does wicked things hates the light and does not come to the light, lest his works should be exposed." John 3:19-20
Jesus did not come, then, to get to know us in some personal paradigm-shifting enlightenment. He did not come to learn his lesson. He came rather to silence our rebel hearts. He came so that we, who in a spirit of insubordination shook our fists at the sky saying "You don't know us!" would finally be silenced, dropping our hands in surrender, recognizing his the depths of his goodness, compassion, and kindness.
He stoops down to appease our deepest desires founded in rebellion. Where an earthly king would attempt to squelch, silence, and suppress such opposition, Jesus descends in dialogue, gently insisting, "I'm not who you think I am."
He comes not to know us, but to make God known, and in the way we rebels need most.
"No one has ever seen God; Jesus has made him known." John 1:18
Because our metaphor of the pauper-befriending prince and the undercover boss only goes so far. History serves to show us that royalty and executives are in fact quite often imperfect, unjust, driven by greed, and prone to exploiting others. They need experiences like the ones mentioned in order to learn, to uncover blind spots, to see that of which they've been ignorant.
This of course is not the case when it comes to the incarnation. God did not send Jesus in order to know us or understand us. The Creator knows his creation, and intimately so. He knows us better than we know ourselves. Though he was a man, the knowledge and understanding of Jesus was no exception: "Jesus knew all people and needed no one to bear witness about man, for he himself knew what was in man." John 2:25
So then let's be honest: though we can't deny the existence of power-hungry authority and the discontentment of such is often merited, there is often something else driving our complaints of those out-of-touch higher-ups. Is it not our spirit of rebellion?
Those complaints around the water-cooler, the cigarette-break gossip, is it not what naturally comes out of our sick and rebel hearts? Insisting the authority does not understand us is easier than submission. Because the last thing a rebel heart wants to do is submit. We will kick, scream, and dig in our heals before voluntarily following the one in charge.
The man who says God is a distant and impersonal force who doesn't know us--or if he does he is cruel and indifferent and couldn't care less about our struggles down here on earth--is a man who doesn't understand our God and ultimately doesn't want to. His rebel heart refuses to know God, because the more you know God, the more you will be accountable to submit to Him.
This is only all the more true when we acknowledge that God cannot be accused of ignorance, greed, exploitation or oppression like so many examples of earthly authority.
"The light has come into the world, and people loved the darkness rather than the light because their works were evil. For everyone who does wicked things hates the light and does not come to the light, lest his works should be exposed." John 3:19-20
Jesus did not come, then, to get to know us in some personal paradigm-shifting enlightenment. He did not come to learn his lesson. He came rather to silence our rebel hearts. He came so that we, who in a spirit of insubordination shook our fists at the sky saying "You don't know us!" would finally be silenced, dropping our hands in surrender, recognizing his the depths of his goodness, compassion, and kindness.
He stoops down to appease our deepest desires founded in rebellion. Where an earthly king would attempt to squelch, silence, and suppress such opposition, Jesus descends in dialogue, gently insisting, "I'm not who you think I am."
He comes not to know us, but to make God known, and in the way we rebels need most.
"No one has ever seen God; Jesus has made him known." John 1:18
And that he caters to rebels is just one more astounding facet of his marvelous grace.
Thursday, December 04, 2014
Advent 31: Princes and paupers, Undercover bosses
In Mark Twain's the Prince and the Pauper published in 1882, a prince and a street rat succeed in changing places. The stories that follow are at times funny and others fascinating, but I think the story readers want to hear about most is the prince who learns for the first time about life on the streets. Stereotypes take on new dimensions when we befriend the actual human beings behind them. He sees injustice and discrimination and vows to fix it when he becomes King. The experience changes him.
If 19th century literature isn't your thing (I can't really say it's mine), perhaps reality TV is more up your alley. Twain's story isn't all that different from the series Undercover Boss (now in its sixth season). Again, what we seem to enjoy most is watching the CEO go empty trash cans through the daily grind right next to the average joe. He deserves a dose of reality, after all. Our hope and pleasure, and it is exactly what's pushed in the advertising, is that he'll learn something and change work conditions for the better upon returning to the office.
It reveals a deeply held desire of ours: we want to be known and understood by the guy in authority. This is exactly what drives the success of both Twain's book and the reality series. I'm convinced we're so passionate about it that it becomes almost an issue of justice. If things aren't going well for us, it's because the Big Boss just doesn't get it; he's out of touch, doesn't know or appreciate all the work we do, and all he cares about is the bottom line and his own paycheck. We want the authority to be one of us. If he's not, something's not right, something's not fair.
The examples are many. The presidential candidate visits the factories and grasps at straws to explain his blue collar heritage, or visits the troops and reminds them that he, or maybe it was his uncle, was a war veteran. The school hiring a principal will likely look first among its teachers in the job search. When workers are nervous about the changes coming with the new boss, he reassures them that he won't make any decisions right away, but will take the time to learn and get to know the environment first. And if he doesn't, you can be sure we'll complain about it. We're convinced that in order to be a good leader, you need to know us, you need to know the context.
The desire runs deep. It will fuel our praise or our anger.
And I find it amazing that God responds to it in coming to earth himself. He's not the CEO far removed in his high-rise office of luxury, nor the ignorant royalty spoiled with an easy life of extravagance. Jesus is the prince living among paupers, the undercover boss. He put aside all that was rightfully his and became one of us. We are known and understood, because the Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us.....
If 19th century literature isn't your thing (I can't really say it's mine), perhaps reality TV is more up your alley. Twain's story isn't all that different from the series Undercover Boss (now in its sixth season). Again, what we seem to enjoy most is watching the CEO go empty trash cans through the daily grind right next to the average joe. He deserves a dose of reality, after all. Our hope and pleasure, and it is exactly what's pushed in the advertising, is that he'll learn something and change work conditions for the better upon returning to the office.
It reveals a deeply held desire of ours: we want to be known and understood by the guy in authority. This is exactly what drives the success of both Twain's book and the reality series. I'm convinced we're so passionate about it that it becomes almost an issue of justice. If things aren't going well for us, it's because the Big Boss just doesn't get it; he's out of touch, doesn't know or appreciate all the work we do, and all he cares about is the bottom line and his own paycheck. We want the authority to be one of us. If he's not, something's not right, something's not fair.
The examples are many. The presidential candidate visits the factories and grasps at straws to explain his blue collar heritage, or visits the troops and reminds them that he, or maybe it was his uncle, was a war veteran. The school hiring a principal will likely look first among its teachers in the job search. When workers are nervous about the changes coming with the new boss, he reassures them that he won't make any decisions right away, but will take the time to learn and get to know the environment first. And if he doesn't, you can be sure we'll complain about it. We're convinced that in order to be a good leader, you need to know us, you need to know the context.
The desire runs deep. It will fuel our praise or our anger.
And I find it amazing that God responds to it in coming to earth himself. He's not the CEO far removed in his high-rise office of luxury, nor the ignorant royalty spoiled with an easy life of extravagance. Jesus is the prince living among paupers, the undercover boss. He put aside all that was rightfully his and became one of us. We are known and understood, because the Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us.....
Saturday, November 15, 2014
The Hands of God
In the recent art exhibit I helped to organize in our town, I saw the hands of God.
The hand of an angel quickly and firmly grabbing Abraham's wrist, just barely preventing what could have been a tragedy. I saw the hand of God saying, "No, I am not that kind of god. In love, I will provide another way."
The shining hands reaching out from a cloud of blinding light, delivering the law, establishing a covenant, reaching down to man, revealing more of himself. Though we cannot bear to see his face, he stretches out his hands to say, "This is who I am."
Again, blinding light, this time radiating from a baby, humble, gentle, yet in whom the fullness of God dwells. The light shining in darkness, the Word made flesh. The one for whom the world is waiting reaches out toward his mother with a tiny and weak newborn hand.
A father welcomes his lost son with two peculiar hands: one larger, placed firmly on the shoulder, the other softer, pulling in his back. The hands of God, firm and tender, just and loving, full of truth and grace, welcome sinners and exhort them to sin no more. "Consider the kindness and severity of God." Romans 11:22
The reigning Christ stretches out his hands at the last judgment. They form the arms of the scale of justice: his rule is impartial, good, true, and right. Though the hands are just, they are not clenched in fists, but open, welcoming, and marked with scars. His justice will be administered according his steadfast love and the righteousness he bestows upon his children, acquired by the nails with which he was pierced. In the hands of God are a loving justice and a just love.
Wednesday, September 03, 2014
On Needing Critics - from Life Itself
For too long in the Christian community, "love" and "unity" mean a fear of conflict, a fear of disagreement, a fear of criticism, a fear of plain speak and direct talk. "Humility" means not saying what you think, and not standing up too firmly for what you believe in. Those who do speak up, then, supposedly have intentions to wound and to divide, and are quickly written off as arrogant.
Part of the problem is not the spiritual side of things, but a wanting educational system where everyone is right. We've never learned how to develop and support and defend our stances and opinions, and as a result most of us really are tossed to and fro by the waves and carried about by every wind. Christian or not, it's a lack of critical thinking skills and civil discourse skills. Too often, though not always, the only ones left to speak up then truly are arrogant, brash, flippant, belittling.
Watching Life Itself, Roger Ebert inspired me. Too often we see critics as the pretentious intellectual snobs that too easily approve certain things (that are often unpopular) and disapprove of others (that are often popular). They seem to do it to please themselves and their pretentious friends, and there is no real connection with the average consumer. They do it out of narcissism; they love their opinions more than the art and take pleasure in cutting others down. But Ebert seemed different; he seemed to have a real concern for the average person, a real concern for the art, a real concern for the director, and a real concern to make things better. He wasn't a critic to criticize, it seemed he was ultimately a critic to exhort and admonish.
He seemed to detest Siskel, and the feeling was mutual. The way they argued with one another and judged films was not only frank, it was rare in our day where everyone's right, everything's amazing, and no one knows why. But they always backed up what they said, they challenged one another, they hung in there, they stuck together, and ultimately they were both better for it. What they did together was stronger than what they could do apart, and the consistent mutual challenge steadily improved their craft. There were plenty of moments they hated one another, but it seems as though ultimately, they learned to treasure one another.
Ebert did the same with film directors. Though not a director himself, it was almost as if he mentored them. He cheered for them and encouraged them and made them better. He took heat for befriending directors: how would he maintain an objective voice? The reality was just the opposite: he criticized even his friends when it was deserved, and men like Scorcese talked about how valuable that was. They listened, but only because he knew what he he was talking about and because he was a friend.
What if we in the church could experience the same thing? What if we could talk straight and not be afraid of it? What if we pushed one another toward excellence? What if we challenged each other to be the best we could be? What if we hung in there with one another, determined to make it work, hashed it out, kept talking, kept explaining, kept defending and supporting? If it were housed in love and commitment and in gospel-centered unity, and if it were received with listening ears and truly humble spirits, just maybe it would actually make us better.
I'm afraid we too easily shun the critics. But if they've got intentions like Ebert's, I'd say we just might need them.
I've never been a big follower of Ebert, but I've read plenty of people thanking and praising him. I'm ready to join.
Part of the problem is not the spiritual side of things, but a wanting educational system where everyone is right. We've never learned how to develop and support and defend our stances and opinions, and as a result most of us really are tossed to and fro by the waves and carried about by every wind. Christian or not, it's a lack of critical thinking skills and civil discourse skills. Too often, though not always, the only ones left to speak up then truly are arrogant, brash, flippant, belittling.
Watching Life Itself, Roger Ebert inspired me. Too often we see critics as the pretentious intellectual snobs that too easily approve certain things (that are often unpopular) and disapprove of others (that are often popular). They seem to do it to please themselves and their pretentious friends, and there is no real connection with the average consumer. They do it out of narcissism; they love their opinions more than the art and take pleasure in cutting others down. But Ebert seemed different; he seemed to have a real concern for the average person, a real concern for the art, a real concern for the director, and a real concern to make things better. He wasn't a critic to criticize, it seemed he was ultimately a critic to exhort and admonish.
He seemed to detest Siskel, and the feeling was mutual. The way they argued with one another and judged films was not only frank, it was rare in our day where everyone's right, everything's amazing, and no one knows why. But they always backed up what they said, they challenged one another, they hung in there, they stuck together, and ultimately they were both better for it. What they did together was stronger than what they could do apart, and the consistent mutual challenge steadily improved their craft. There were plenty of moments they hated one another, but it seems as though ultimately, they learned to treasure one another.
Ebert did the same with film directors. Though not a director himself, it was almost as if he mentored them. He cheered for them and encouraged them and made them better. He took heat for befriending directors: how would he maintain an objective voice? The reality was just the opposite: he criticized even his friends when it was deserved, and men like Scorcese talked about how valuable that was. They listened, but only because he knew what he he was talking about and because he was a friend.
What if we in the church could experience the same thing? What if we could talk straight and not be afraid of it? What if we pushed one another toward excellence? What if we challenged each other to be the best we could be? What if we hung in there with one another, determined to make it work, hashed it out, kept talking, kept explaining, kept defending and supporting? If it were housed in love and commitment and in gospel-centered unity, and if it were received with listening ears and truly humble spirits, just maybe it would actually make us better.
I'm afraid we too easily shun the critics. But if they've got intentions like Ebert's, I'd say we just might need them.
I've never been a big follower of Ebert, but I've read plenty of people thanking and praising him. I'm ready to join.
Wednesday, May 07, 2014
Mix Tape: Love caging, fickle and failing
I told Travis very little music has inspired me lately. He gave me a disc of his 40 or so favorite songs from 2013. I listened on the drive back from Indiana. This was the next to last song and it grabbed me more than any of the others. I know admittedly absolutely nothing about Phosphorescent or his music, and I am late, and it's okay, because it seems this song is all that needs to be known.
It's dressed up a bit differently, in what's almost early 90's easy-listening synth pop, or not far from Springsteen's "Streets of Philadelphia." But it's a folk song at its core in every way, with its repetitive churning built on a simple soul-plucking chord progression, its strong melody offered by a wavering worse for wear voice.
"Love never fails," Paul boldly asserts. Taken at his word he sounds like a hopeless romantic with his heart on his sleeve. Like he believes in destiny and soul mates and walks on the beach and growing old together. It's a phrase fit for a wedding day, but we roll our eyes through the daily grind that follows.
He's got his work cut out for him, because the majority of the canon of modern pop music says just the opposite. Love always fails, it never lasts. In the words of this song, it is fading, fickle, a disfiguring, caging killer. Love is a prison. Love is a murderer. Love takes, hurts, breaks, destroys.
Is he exaggerating? Typical depressed folk artist? I'm afraid not. This is the human experience, whether it's sung by Phosphorescent or Miley Cyrus. Oddly enough the lyrics from last year's hit song don't sound much different: clawing, chaining, warring, wrecking and breaking.
If our artists speak for us, we've not much optimism left for love. It's take what you can get when you can get it, enjoy it while it lasts, but overall we're self-protecting cynics, afraid to commit, knowing we'll only one day be disappointed, eventually chewed up and spit out.
Paul and his unfailing love are left to walk the beach alone, taking pauses to write Hallmark cards and happy endings, none of which we actually believe. He's at best an innocent dreamer, at worst a pitiful lunatic.
Or maybe the problem is our notion of love.
Maybe the definition is wrong.
Maybe the object is misguided.
Maybe the source is insufficient.
Maybe all the disappointment is our problem, not love's. Maybe what we call love is hardly love at all, and all its painful failure only serves to point us towards what we're really so desperately looking for. Maybe there exists a love that never fails after all.
Phosphorescent, "Song for Zula" from Muchacho
It's dressed up a bit differently, in what's almost early 90's easy-listening synth pop, or not far from Springsteen's "Streets of Philadelphia." But it's a folk song at its core in every way, with its repetitive churning built on a simple soul-plucking chord progression, its strong melody offered by a wavering worse for wear voice.
"Love never fails," Paul boldly asserts. Taken at his word he sounds like a hopeless romantic with his heart on his sleeve. Like he believes in destiny and soul mates and walks on the beach and growing old together. It's a phrase fit for a wedding day, but we roll our eyes through the daily grind that follows.
He's got his work cut out for him, because the majority of the canon of modern pop music says just the opposite. Love always fails, it never lasts. In the words of this song, it is fading, fickle, a disfiguring, caging killer. Love is a prison. Love is a murderer. Love takes, hurts, breaks, destroys.
Is he exaggerating? Typical depressed folk artist? I'm afraid not. This is the human experience, whether it's sung by Phosphorescent or Miley Cyrus. Oddly enough the lyrics from last year's hit song don't sound much different: clawing, chaining, warring, wrecking and breaking.
If our artists speak for us, we've not much optimism left for love. It's take what you can get when you can get it, enjoy it while it lasts, but overall we're self-protecting cynics, afraid to commit, knowing we'll only one day be disappointed, eventually chewed up and spit out.
Paul and his unfailing love are left to walk the beach alone, taking pauses to write Hallmark cards and happy endings, none of which we actually believe. He's at best an innocent dreamer, at worst a pitiful lunatic.
Or maybe the problem is our notion of love.
Maybe the definition is wrong.
Maybe the object is misguided.
Maybe the source is insufficient.
Maybe all the disappointment is our problem, not love's. Maybe what we call love is hardly love at all, and all its painful failure only serves to point us towards what we're really so desperately looking for. Maybe there exists a love that never fails after all.
Phosphorescent, "Song for Zula" from Muchacho
Friday, April 04, 2014
Why pray?
I read Calvin in French for the first time this week. Here's what he says in English:
But if God knows what things we have need of, before we ask him, where lies the advantage of prayer? If he is ready, of his own free will, to assist us, what purpose does it serve to employ our prayers, which interrupt the spontaneous course of his providence? The very design of prayer furnishes an easy answer. Believers do not pray, with the view of information God about things unknown to him, or of exciting him to do his duty, or of urging him as though he were reluctant. On the contrary, they pray, in order that they may arouse themselves to seek him, that they may exercise their faith in meditation on his promises, that they may relieve themselves from their anxieties by pouring them into his bosom; in a word, that they may declare that from Him alone they hope and expect, both for themselves and for others, all good things. God himself, on the other hand, has purposed freely, and without being asked, to bestow blessings upon us; but he promises that he will grant them to our prayers. We must, therefore, maintain both of these truths, that He freely anticipates our wishes, and yet that we obtain by prayer what we ask.
Jean Calvin, commentary on Matthew 6:8
But if God knows what things we have need of, before we ask him, where lies the advantage of prayer? If he is ready, of his own free will, to assist us, what purpose does it serve to employ our prayers, which interrupt the spontaneous course of his providence? The very design of prayer furnishes an easy answer. Believers do not pray, with the view of information God about things unknown to him, or of exciting him to do his duty, or of urging him as though he were reluctant. On the contrary, they pray, in order that they may arouse themselves to seek him, that they may exercise their faith in meditation on his promises, that they may relieve themselves from their anxieties by pouring them into his bosom; in a word, that they may declare that from Him alone they hope and expect, both for themselves and for others, all good things. God himself, on the other hand, has purposed freely, and without being asked, to bestow blessings upon us; but he promises that he will grant them to our prayers. We must, therefore, maintain both of these truths, that He freely anticipates our wishes, and yet that we obtain by prayer what we ask.
Jean Calvin, commentary on Matthew 6:8
Friday, March 14, 2014
Needing Help
What wine-stained carpet can blot itself clean?
What contaminated water can purify itself of disease?
What broken bones can set themselves to dancing?
What lips sewn shut can tear their own sutures to rejoin the song?
What diseased heart can transplant itself?
David knows the gravity of the problem. This is not do better and try harder. This is a desperate cry for salvation, a salvation that can only come from outside himself.
have mercy on me
blot out my transgression
wash me thoroughly
cleanse me
purge me clean
wash me white
let me hear joy and gladness
let my broken bones rejoice
blot out all of my iniquities
give me a clean heart
renew a right spirit in me
cast me not away
restore the joy of your salvation
uphold me
deliver me from my guilt
open my lips
Psalm 51
What contaminated water can purify itself of disease?
What broken bones can set themselves to dancing?
What lips sewn shut can tear their own sutures to rejoin the song?
What diseased heart can transplant itself?
David knows the gravity of the problem. This is not do better and try harder. This is a desperate cry for salvation, a salvation that can only come from outside himself.
have mercy on me
blot out my transgression
wash me thoroughly
cleanse me
purge me clean
wash me white
let me hear joy and gladness
let my broken bones rejoice
blot out all of my iniquities
give me a clean heart
renew a right spirit in me
cast me not away
restore the joy of your salvation
uphold me
deliver me from my guilt
open my lips
Psalm 51
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