Today is the beginning of the rest of your life.
13 years ago
Friday, December 10, 2010
Smack!
My wife slapped me awake this morning at 6:12am. It was the first time I've ever been slapped awake. She hit me, open handed square across my face. She didn't mean to do it. She was sleep slapping me. She apologized immediately but in a dazed coma, I cried out, "Why? Why? Why did you do it?" And that is how my day began. Slapped awake.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
The Source
The late august blackberries grew heavy alongside the small creek making the trail impassible. He picked them into a canvas army rucksack as he waded upstream. Clear, cold curtains cascaded down small granite shelves into dark pools full of "natives." The forest service never stocked this far up. It was simply too inconvenient. These creatures were true natives - brook trout that cooked up pink like salmon. They never grew more than a foot in the small flowage and they tasted different, more wild because they had been eating mayflies and mosquitos all summer. He was climbing a thickly wooded box canyon. The sheer speckled grey walls grew immense as he climbed. A run of iron pipe held aloft by what looked like a minitature railroad track of ancient pine swayed precariously on the cliff above him every time a gust of warm summer wind pressed against the steep faces. Dry-rotted wooden slats hung broken from the track. He thought to himself, "The men that made this pipe are all dead." Water still flowed through the pipe. Thick droplets leaked from the seams of the pipe at regular intervals and landed on his baseball cap brim. Pit, Pat, pat. The pipe was once used for drinking water. Now people filled their radiators and wet their heads with it. The youth wondered if it was from the gold rush era. It was not. Some men from Sacramento had built it in the 1930s.
With the trees hemming in the course of the creek, there wasn't room to cast. In stead he floated a small grey, brown and black fly down into the pools. None was more that 20 feet across and despite the fact that he had just waded through them, the natives didn't hesitate to take the fly. The young man was far from the campsite. It was about three in the afternoon. He didn't load his creel because it was too hot and too far to take them back. He just slipped the natives gently back into their pools. All afternoon he climbed - occassionaly glancing at the pipe to make sure it was still there. He had stopped fishing and had broken down the rod and put the real in the canvas sack alongside the blackberries. The sunlight which passed through the canopy cast long shadows as he followed the watercourse. He would need to turn back soon. He hiked through the bouldery creek another half hour. The pipe was closer now but still stretched far up the side of the mountain. Orange-green light which usually brought a feeling of peace in him, incited a panic. And in this panic, he knew he had hiked too far seeking the source. He had lost himself. And it would be dark soon. He still hadn't found the end of the pipe. His canteen was as empty. He hurriedly stumbled down the cobbled creekbed - the rucksack bouncing on his back with each stride. He ran through the dark - because of the dark. Blackberry vines gashed his bare legs as he clumsily ran. He twisted his right ankle but just kept running on it because to stop would be worse. The wildness of the canyon became more wild as darkness ensued, pursued. At last, he made it to the outpost. He collapased into a patch of dry late summer grass next to the ancient gas pumps and the wooden carved indian. The smell of motor oil announced to his senses that he was safe. A few feet away, he heard a trickle. It was the end of the pipe. Bleeding and exhausted, his panic gave way to thirst. And he took a long drink from the pipe not knowing its source.
With the trees hemming in the course of the creek, there wasn't room to cast. In stead he floated a small grey, brown and black fly down into the pools. None was more that 20 feet across and despite the fact that he had just waded through them, the natives didn't hesitate to take the fly. The young man was far from the campsite. It was about three in the afternoon. He didn't load his creel because it was too hot and too far to take them back. He just slipped the natives gently back into their pools. All afternoon he climbed - occassionaly glancing at the pipe to make sure it was still there. He had stopped fishing and had broken down the rod and put the real in the canvas sack alongside the blackberries. The sunlight which passed through the canopy cast long shadows as he followed the watercourse. He would need to turn back soon. He hiked through the bouldery creek another half hour. The pipe was closer now but still stretched far up the side of the mountain. Orange-green light which usually brought a feeling of peace in him, incited a panic. And in this panic, he knew he had hiked too far seeking the source. He had lost himself. And it would be dark soon. He still hadn't found the end of the pipe. His canteen was as empty. He hurriedly stumbled down the cobbled creekbed - the rucksack bouncing on his back with each stride. He ran through the dark - because of the dark. Blackberry vines gashed his bare legs as he clumsily ran. He twisted his right ankle but just kept running on it because to stop would be worse. The wildness of the canyon became more wild as darkness ensued, pursued. At last, he made it to the outpost. He collapased into a patch of dry late summer grass next to the ancient gas pumps and the wooden carved indian. The smell of motor oil announced to his senses that he was safe. A few feet away, he heard a trickle. It was the end of the pipe. Bleeding and exhausted, his panic gave way to thirst. And he took a long drink from the pipe not knowing its source.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
For Mike's Dad
I pumped gas into my little pick up truck this morning. I wore a black suit with a white shirt and a navy blue tie. It felt like I was in Pulp fiction or something. People look at you when you're pumping gas in a black suit. They wonder, "Why's that guy pumping gas? He's wearing a black suit...Curious." I guess it's the juxtaposition of the formal and the mundane. Black suits are for special occasions not for Citgo stations
A lot of stuff happens in my black suit. It's the suit I wear to weddings. I take my wife to parties in my black suit. I used to wear it to preach in when I worked in a traditional church. It has seen a lot of cologne and a lot of sweat - handshakes and hugs. I am wearing it as I write to you now. I wore it to Mike's dad's funeral this afternoon. It was cool and breezy so I didn't have to sling my jacket over my shoulder. I re-tied my tie in the bathroom and splashed some water on my face. I heard twenty one gun shots and watched an older woman receive a folded flag.
I guess ordinary life happens in between the black suit moments. And as I am growing older, it seems like there are less of these moments. I remember the day I got married. I didn't wear a tux. I couldn't afford one. I wore my black suit and my friends wore theirs too. I wore a baby blue tie I bought from a guy in downtown Los Angeles. We took a picture on my dilapidated front porch. Our young faces were smooth and firm and our eyes hadn't yet been dulled by time. The porch was scabbed with peeling paint chips. An old man with white hair and a thick mustache took our picture. He must have seen the juxtaposition. He was wearing a black suit.
A lot of stuff happens in my black suit. It's the suit I wear to weddings. I take my wife to parties in my black suit. I used to wear it to preach in when I worked in a traditional church. It has seen a lot of cologne and a lot of sweat - handshakes and hugs. I am wearing it as I write to you now. I wore it to Mike's dad's funeral this afternoon. It was cool and breezy so I didn't have to sling my jacket over my shoulder. I re-tied my tie in the bathroom and splashed some water on my face. I heard twenty one gun shots and watched an older woman receive a folded flag.
I guess ordinary life happens in between the black suit moments. And as I am growing older, it seems like there are less of these moments. I remember the day I got married. I didn't wear a tux. I couldn't afford one. I wore my black suit and my friends wore theirs too. I wore a baby blue tie I bought from a guy in downtown Los Angeles. We took a picture on my dilapidated front porch. Our young faces were smooth and firm and our eyes hadn't yet been dulled by time. The porch was scabbed with peeling paint chips. An old man with white hair and a thick mustache took our picture. He must have seen the juxtaposition. He was wearing a black suit.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
a whole lot of Truth all at once. (R-rated post)
It is late May in Milwaukee. Custard lines are long with grinning gawky teenagers and gray haired middle aged men imagine they are cowboys every time they crank up their Harleys. Downtown, the gentle zephyrs created when the strong southern winds meet the cold waters of lake Michigan, propel small fluffy white willow seeds upward to the tippy tops of the skyscrapers. And all along North Ave, from the freeway to 47th St, the prostitutes are out.
I awoke panicked in a cold sweat last night. I had seen one particular woman the night before on my way home at about 9pm. She must have been new to this life because she still put effort into her "sexy" outfit. She was wearing a miniskirt, stilletto heals and a tank top. She stood next to a phone booth in front of a boarded up store. It was in the low 50s and she was trying her best to look "alluring" while shivering in the cold. She was really young. The ambient light reflected off of her shiny blue heels. Her awkward pigeon toed posture betrayed that she was in her early teens. She was no woman - she was a kid.
There in the cool night room, a sick feeling crept from my stomache into my chest. I started to quietly weep in my bed. I turned away so my wife wouldn't wake up. Sometimes you can see something and not really see it until a long time later. And when you finally do, you wish you hadn't. This is the first time I have lived in a neighborhood where there are prostitutes. I am not used to it. I hope I don't get used to it.
I was a middle schooler when I first learned about the glamorous world of prostitution. I learned most things from a movie called Pretty Woman. Among the lessons I learned were:
1) Prostitutes look like Julia Roberts.
2) Prostitutes are well paid and 22 years old
3) Men generally fall in love with prostitutes and then lavish them with gifts and love.
4) Prostitutes keep the money they make.
5) Prostitutes make the decision to sell themselves and can decide to change their lives at any point.
6) Prostitutes are drug free
It turns out that these axioms of the sex trade don't really play out in my neighborhood. Perhaps they use a different business model here in Milwaukee.
My friend has started to do a little "recon" in one neighborhood not too far from my own. She says that on one block, there are a group of young girls who charge five-dollars for sex. They are young high-school aged girls. They operate in the mornings because they've found a unique business model. She tells me that suburban businessmen, on their way to work in downtown Milwaukee, stop along the block, pick out a young girl and have sex with them in their car in a vacant lot across the street. The whole process takes only a few minutes. It's like fast food. Most guys get starbucks on the way into the office. A few rape kids and give them a green piece of paper with the Great Emancipator on the front.
I couldn't believe it. I didn't want to. It was a whole lot of truth all at once.
I awoke panicked in a cold sweat last night. I had seen one particular woman the night before on my way home at about 9pm. She must have been new to this life because she still put effort into her "sexy" outfit. She was wearing a miniskirt, stilletto heals and a tank top. She stood next to a phone booth in front of a boarded up store. It was in the low 50s and she was trying her best to look "alluring" while shivering in the cold. She was really young. The ambient light reflected off of her shiny blue heels. Her awkward pigeon toed posture betrayed that she was in her early teens. She was no woman - she was a kid.
There in the cool night room, a sick feeling crept from my stomache into my chest. I started to quietly weep in my bed. I turned away so my wife wouldn't wake up. Sometimes you can see something and not really see it until a long time later. And when you finally do, you wish you hadn't. This is the first time I have lived in a neighborhood where there are prostitutes. I am not used to it. I hope I don't get used to it.
I was a middle schooler when I first learned about the glamorous world of prostitution. I learned most things from a movie called Pretty Woman. Among the lessons I learned were:
1) Prostitutes look like Julia Roberts.
2) Prostitutes are well paid and 22 years old
3) Men generally fall in love with prostitutes and then lavish them with gifts and love.
4) Prostitutes keep the money they make.
5) Prostitutes make the decision to sell themselves and can decide to change their lives at any point.
6) Prostitutes are drug free
It turns out that these axioms of the sex trade don't really play out in my neighborhood. Perhaps they use a different business model here in Milwaukee.
My friend has started to do a little "recon" in one neighborhood not too far from my own. She says that on one block, there are a group of young girls who charge five-dollars for sex. They are young high-school aged girls. They operate in the mornings because they've found a unique business model. She tells me that suburban businessmen, on their way to work in downtown Milwaukee, stop along the block, pick out a young girl and have sex with them in their car in a vacant lot across the street. The whole process takes only a few minutes. It's like fast food. Most guys get starbucks on the way into the office. A few rape kids and give them a green piece of paper with the Great Emancipator on the front.
I couldn't believe it. I didn't want to. It was a whole lot of truth all at once.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Saturday Morning Beating
I heard sobbing -wet sniffling, mouth breathing and little groans. It was coming from behind me. It was far away but unmistakeable. I looked and couldn't see anything. Then from the vacant lot, next to a trash-filled alley behind two foreclosed houses, I saw a small figure.
He is limping. Blood rides his panicked breath and almost hits my flannel shirt. He is ten years old and I know him. His left eye is swollen terribly. It is almost shut. I imagine him getting punched. I can see, smell, almost feel the beating. He is making a line for his house where he can feel safe again. I try and grab him and find out what happened. He doesn't say anything. He is afraid. He fears that they will get him worse if he tells someone. He goes inside. His mom isn't home.
Before I heard the sound, I was digging a hole with a young kid from our church. He witnessed the whole interaction. He was wide-eyed and frozen when I got back. "Are you ok?" I asked him. "Yes," he replied. In his world young kids don't get mercilessly beaten. He was in disbelief. "That was scary for me," I admitted to him. "Was it scary for you?" I asked. "Yes." We kept digging quietly thinking about what we just saw.
The kid just wanted to shoot some hoops. There is an old basketball goal in the alley behind one of the boarded up houses. Kids play there because there isn't anywhere else to play. Illegally dumped trash, broken glass, old tires and used oil containers line the court. It is no place anybody should play. If you're an elementary school kid on the block, there is no place safe to play. You just take your chances. Parks are the opposite of safe in the city. There are old guys who talk loud and drink out of brown paper bags. Older kids want to test you and hassel you. It is better to stick close to your house most of the time.
But even sticking close to your house is no guarantee. Later I learned that group of high school boys beat him up for fun because they were bored and there was no one to stop them. The beat him to a pulp, for no reason, on a Saturday morning.
Two hours later, he came out - cleaned up, still red marks on his face that would soon be black and blue. He helped me replace a bad brick in the foundation of the house our church owns. We were chipping it out with a hammer and pry bar. I let him swing hard and wild even though it might hurt my hands. He needed to hit something, to break something, to know that he wasn't always the one getting hit, the victim. He chipped the bad brick out with a few powerful smacks of the hammer. He gave it a real beating.
He is limping. Blood rides his panicked breath and almost hits my flannel shirt. He is ten years old and I know him. His left eye is swollen terribly. It is almost shut. I imagine him getting punched. I can see, smell, almost feel the beating. He is making a line for his house where he can feel safe again. I try and grab him and find out what happened. He doesn't say anything. He is afraid. He fears that they will get him worse if he tells someone. He goes inside. His mom isn't home.
Before I heard the sound, I was digging a hole with a young kid from our church. He witnessed the whole interaction. He was wide-eyed and frozen when I got back. "Are you ok?" I asked him. "Yes," he replied. In his world young kids don't get mercilessly beaten. He was in disbelief. "That was scary for me," I admitted to him. "Was it scary for you?" I asked. "Yes." We kept digging quietly thinking about what we just saw.
The kid just wanted to shoot some hoops. There is an old basketball goal in the alley behind one of the boarded up houses. Kids play there because there isn't anywhere else to play. Illegally dumped trash, broken glass, old tires and used oil containers line the court. It is no place anybody should play. If you're an elementary school kid on the block, there is no place safe to play. You just take your chances. Parks are the opposite of safe in the city. There are old guys who talk loud and drink out of brown paper bags. Older kids want to test you and hassel you. It is better to stick close to your house most of the time.
But even sticking close to your house is no guarantee. Later I learned that group of high school boys beat him up for fun because they were bored and there was no one to stop them. The beat him to a pulp, for no reason, on a Saturday morning.
Two hours later, he came out - cleaned up, still red marks on his face that would soon be black and blue. He helped me replace a bad brick in the foundation of the house our church owns. We were chipping it out with a hammer and pry bar. I let him swing hard and wild even though it might hurt my hands. He needed to hit something, to break something, to know that he wasn't always the one getting hit, the victim. He chipped the bad brick out with a few powerful smacks of the hammer. He gave it a real beating.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
S'more Community
Last Sunday night I got a hankerin' for S'mores. But I didn't want to have them alone. It is strange how something really fun like a barbeque or a swimming pool is terrible if there aren't others to share it with. S'mores are the same way. They are the type of food that is really an excuse to get together and spend some time talking, laughing and chasing your brother with a flaming marshmallow at the end of a stick. They aren't made for singular consumption. How depressing it would be to make s'mores on your own. I almost did it. But I came to my senses and invited some friends to share them with me.
I initially decided to share my s'mores with the dudes from our church that live a few blocks from my house. But then it occurred to me that maybe some of the kids in their neighborhood might have never had a s'more before. Something about the combination of sugar and fire delicately masked in the inherent responsibility of a stuffy graham cracker was sure to be fun for the kids. So I packed up the marshmallows, wood, firepit, chocolate and graham crackers in the back of my truck and drove the 3 blocks to the community house. We set up the little clay firepit on the concrete walkway in front of the house a few feet away from where we found a hypodermic needle a couple weeks ago and where there is still some gang grafitti on the sidewalk -The Great Outdoors. Kevin got a five gallon bucket of water in order to prevent anyone from burning alive and we got busy building a fire.
Sometimes I overestimate some of the experiences of kids in the city and underestimate others. For instance, most of the littlest kids know the word "foreclosure" and "eviction" but very few have ever seen a wood fire in real life before. None had tasted a s'more. A few of the kids mistook the fire for a grill - others acted like they knew what was going on but most of them didn't. They were acting cool but were really curious about the wood and smoke. One of the kid's moms had to explain that we were having a "real fire" that could hurt you if you touched it. So we roasted marshmallows - in reality most of the kids burned them to crunchy, bitter sweet ash. As the little white pillows sizzled and glowed, the kids, in a joyful panic, blew on the them to extinguish the sugar-fueled flames. When the chocolate all ran out, and it was getting as dark as it gets on a city street, a ring of kids began to form around the fire. They were loud and obnoxious, fun and free. They burned a bunch of sticks even after I told them not to. They all tried to make the funniest animal sounds they knew. One person started a story and the next person around the circle added to it until the plot grew too ridiculous to continue. And we all escaped the neighborhood for about an hour. We were the loudest. We were the coolest. No booming car stereo or big wheels or even goofy obnoxious teenagers could compete with our fire. We were the neighborhood for an hour. We were it. People gawked at us. I only wish we could have seen the stars past the street lights. They're up there even if you can't see them all the time. Glints of crystal brilliance dulled down by the glare of the city. I guess the stars are a lot like the kids. I saw them that night and it was beautiful.
I initially decided to share my s'mores with the dudes from our church that live a few blocks from my house. But then it occurred to me that maybe some of the kids in their neighborhood might have never had a s'more before. Something about the combination of sugar and fire delicately masked in the inherent responsibility of a stuffy graham cracker was sure to be fun for the kids. So I packed up the marshmallows, wood, firepit, chocolate and graham crackers in the back of my truck and drove the 3 blocks to the community house. We set up the little clay firepit on the concrete walkway in front of the house a few feet away from where we found a hypodermic needle a couple weeks ago and where there is still some gang grafitti on the sidewalk -The Great Outdoors. Kevin got a five gallon bucket of water in order to prevent anyone from burning alive and we got busy building a fire.
Sometimes I overestimate some of the experiences of kids in the city and underestimate others. For instance, most of the littlest kids know the word "foreclosure" and "eviction" but very few have ever seen a wood fire in real life before. None had tasted a s'more. A few of the kids mistook the fire for a grill - others acted like they knew what was going on but most of them didn't. They were acting cool but were really curious about the wood and smoke. One of the kid's moms had to explain that we were having a "real fire" that could hurt you if you touched it. So we roasted marshmallows - in reality most of the kids burned them to crunchy, bitter sweet ash. As the little white pillows sizzled and glowed, the kids, in a joyful panic, blew on the them to extinguish the sugar-fueled flames. When the chocolate all ran out, and it was getting as dark as it gets on a city street, a ring of kids began to form around the fire. They were loud and obnoxious, fun and free. They burned a bunch of sticks even after I told them not to. They all tried to make the funniest animal sounds they knew. One person started a story and the next person around the circle added to it until the plot grew too ridiculous to continue. And we all escaped the neighborhood for about an hour. We were the loudest. We were the coolest. No booming car stereo or big wheels or even goofy obnoxious teenagers could compete with our fire. We were the neighborhood for an hour. We were it. People gawked at us. I only wish we could have seen the stars past the street lights. They're up there even if you can't see them all the time. Glints of crystal brilliance dulled down by the glare of the city. I guess the stars are a lot like the kids. I saw them that night and it was beautiful.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Some Drunks Guys Out Front of my House
I struggle a lot with the idea of community. My church title is "Community Pastor." But sometimes I don't really like people as much as I should. They can be a real pain. Pastors aren't supposed to say stuff like that but all of them feel it.
My wife and I live in a large house in the 'hood. We like to think we bought the house to use as a "ministry tool." We have self-righteous delusions of gradeur about the house. Dreams that it might one day house haitian orphans, hurricane victims and single moms with blacks eyes and five kids. But most of the time, it is just a large heating bill for rooms that we don't use. It's not that we don't want to have more people stay. We just don't want the "wrong people" in our house. It is our space. Our sanctuary. Our belonging.
Yesterday some guys invaded our space. At about 6pm as I was leaving out the front door, a guy in his twenties yelled something incomprehensible at me from a maroon minivan with no license plates in front of my house. It was cold and raining so I went over to his car and asked him what he wanted. Three heavily tattooed men stared back at me from the minivan. A woft of alcohol air immediately annoyed me. One of them was smoking a joint. Their car wouldn't start. I secretly thought to myself "You bums - get off my street. Get out of our community. You are what is wrong with my neighborhood. You are the problem. You are why kids can't walk down their own street and why old people have to buy bars for their windows." But I used my most manly deep voice and asked what was the problem.
They had run over a tree branch and the wires under their car had pulled apart. And there the car came to rest, in front of my house. Like a wounded skunk in our front yard - I didn't want them there and I didn't really want to deal with them. You just want it gone before something bad happens. And the three drunk thugs were enjoying their high directly in front of my house. Master grammarians, they were using the F word as a noun, verb, adjective and participle with vocal inflection in much the same way Papa Smurf might employ the word "smurf." If I called the cops, they would know it was me and I would get retribution. If I didn't call the cops, they might be out there all night. If I fixed their car, I would be helping them to drive drunk. My two next door neighbors were freaking out. "If you help them, they'll rob you. Don't help them." The worse part is that these dudes knew where I lived now. If I made the wrong move, they might break into my house, steal and vandalize it like some guys did to the house next door to mine. So I did the only thing I knew how to do. I left. Sommer and I went and ran some erands and hoped they'd be gone when we came back. Like the levite in the story of the good samaritan, I pretended to be too busy to help. "I can't help you guys. I have to go."
When I returned an hour and a half later, they were still there. In fact, they had called some friends to help them. And profanity filled the air like fireflies on a hot July night. Finally, their friends pushed the van to the next block and they were gone. And I couldn't be happier. They were out of my neighborhood.
"Who was a neighbor to the man?" Jesus asked.
Community is difficult. We might get robbed and vandalized. We open ourselves to be victims. And it would be great it if weren't for the "wrong people" always getting in the way.
My wife and I live in a large house in the 'hood. We like to think we bought the house to use as a "ministry tool." We have self-righteous delusions of gradeur about the house. Dreams that it might one day house haitian orphans, hurricane victims and single moms with blacks eyes and five kids. But most of the time, it is just a large heating bill for rooms that we don't use. It's not that we don't want to have more people stay. We just don't want the "wrong people" in our house. It is our space. Our sanctuary. Our belonging.
Yesterday some guys invaded our space. At about 6pm as I was leaving out the front door, a guy in his twenties yelled something incomprehensible at me from a maroon minivan with no license plates in front of my house. It was cold and raining so I went over to his car and asked him what he wanted. Three heavily tattooed men stared back at me from the minivan. A woft of alcohol air immediately annoyed me. One of them was smoking a joint. Their car wouldn't start. I secretly thought to myself "You bums - get off my street. Get out of our community. You are what is wrong with my neighborhood. You are the problem. You are why kids can't walk down their own street and why old people have to buy bars for their windows." But I used my most manly deep voice and asked what was the problem.
They had run over a tree branch and the wires under their car had pulled apart. And there the car came to rest, in front of my house. Like a wounded skunk in our front yard - I didn't want them there and I didn't really want to deal with them. You just want it gone before something bad happens. And the three drunk thugs were enjoying their high directly in front of my house. Master grammarians, they were using the F word as a noun, verb, adjective and participle with vocal inflection in much the same way Papa Smurf might employ the word "smurf." If I called the cops, they would know it was me and I would get retribution. If I didn't call the cops, they might be out there all night. If I fixed their car, I would be helping them to drive drunk. My two next door neighbors were freaking out. "If you help them, they'll rob you. Don't help them." The worse part is that these dudes knew where I lived now. If I made the wrong move, they might break into my house, steal and vandalize it like some guys did to the house next door to mine. So I did the only thing I knew how to do. I left. Sommer and I went and ran some erands and hoped they'd be gone when we came back. Like the levite in the story of the good samaritan, I pretended to be too busy to help. "I can't help you guys. I have to go."
When I returned an hour and a half later, they were still there. In fact, they had called some friends to help them. And profanity filled the air like fireflies on a hot July night. Finally, their friends pushed the van to the next block and they were gone. And I couldn't be happier. They were out of my neighborhood.
"Who was a neighbor to the man?" Jesus asked.
Community is difficult. We might get robbed and vandalized. We open ourselves to be victims. And it would be great it if weren't for the "wrong people" always getting in the way.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
"Merci" Mr. Tarantino
I know pastors aren't supposed to watch Quinten Tarantino flicks. We're supposed to wear v-necked sweaters with leather patches on the elbows, sit in wing-back chairs sternly reading manuscripts of 19th century sermons by guys with thick ideas and thicker beards - carefully weighing the theological implications of their systematic discourses. But sometimes the deep truths of God are found not in bound volumes but in the thinly veiled holiness of a movie. Movies are the parables of our time. They are the new stained glass illumining the dusty truths we proclaim in church. You really ought to watch Inglorious Basterds and then read the rest of this entry. Beware - it is disturbing.
The bottom line of the film is that we are the real Inglorious Bastards - it is not Bradd Pitt or the Nazis. It's us. We are the shameful Bastards because we prefer revenge to mercy. As an audience we want a whole roomful of Nazis to burn to death, we want a Nazi Hollocaust. We want a bloodbath. We want lex talionis (eye for an eye). It brings us banal pleasure to imagine people who have betrayed us suffering.
The first thing I noticed in the opening scene was the number of times the French word, "merci" was spoken. It was the only word not translated to English in the subtitles. It would be easy to overlook except it is translated "thank you" one time to clue us into the fact that is wasn't translated before. In the opening subtitles, Tarantino gives us the sublimal message of the film "Mercy."
But the world hates mercy. From the beginning to the end of the film, the characters are bent on revenge for the brutality they've suffered. The Jewish-American characters decide to murder anyone in a Nazi uniform - they then scalp their victims in order to mentally torment the Germans as a form of revenge that breeds fear. The young Jewish woman who runs a movie theater gets revenge for the murder of her family by plotting the death of the Nazis. Everyone gets revenge and the movie is a bloodbath. (Most Christians focus on criticizing the violence but the violence is meant to criticize us.) If we had the power to get bloody revenge, would we?
Are we Inglorious Bastards? Would we like to see a Nazi Hollocaust? Would we like to torture the people who torture us? Do we take pleasure when our enemies suffer? Do we embrace mercy and forgiveness or do we want revenge? But is there a different way to live - a Jesus way? In this way we are called to be the opposite of an inglorious bastard - we are invited to live in the unforced ways of grace as a glorious child.
The bottom line of the film is that we are the real Inglorious Bastards - it is not Bradd Pitt or the Nazis. It's us. We are the shameful Bastards because we prefer revenge to mercy. As an audience we want a whole roomful of Nazis to burn to death, we want a Nazi Hollocaust. We want a bloodbath. We want lex talionis (eye for an eye). It brings us banal pleasure to imagine people who have betrayed us suffering.
The first thing I noticed in the opening scene was the number of times the French word, "merci" was spoken. It was the only word not translated to English in the subtitles. It would be easy to overlook except it is translated "thank you" one time to clue us into the fact that is wasn't translated before. In the opening subtitles, Tarantino gives us the sublimal message of the film "Mercy."
But the world hates mercy. From the beginning to the end of the film, the characters are bent on revenge for the brutality they've suffered. The Jewish-American characters decide to murder anyone in a Nazi uniform - they then scalp their victims in order to mentally torment the Germans as a form of revenge that breeds fear. The young Jewish woman who runs a movie theater gets revenge for the murder of her family by plotting the death of the Nazis. Everyone gets revenge and the movie is a bloodbath. (Most Christians focus on criticizing the violence but the violence is meant to criticize us.) If we had the power to get bloody revenge, would we?
Are we Inglorious Bastards? Would we like to see a Nazi Hollocaust? Would we like to torture the people who torture us? Do we take pleasure when our enemies suffer? Do we embrace mercy and forgiveness or do we want revenge? But is there a different way to live - a Jesus way? In this way we are called to be the opposite of an inglorious bastard - we are invited to live in the unforced ways of grace as a glorious child.
Friday, March 26, 2010
All Hale Whale Jail
So yesterday a lady came in and gave a workplace trust and respect presentation. I had prepared mentally for this - I would be on my best behavior. No jokes. No snide or sarcastic remarks. Still, I think I offended the trainer but it really wasn't my fault. In this case, the blame rests rather firmly on the Killer whales. But they can't help it. They're natural born killers.
Some of you may be aware of the recent killing perpetrated by an orca at the Orlando Florida Seaworld. Tillikum, the killer whale, murdered his trainer by pulling her in by the pony tail and drowning her. Apparently their warning labels fail to dissuade people from the reality that they might get killed. I am not sure what this means but with a slight re-arranging of the letters in the name Tillikum, you end up with "U Kill Tim." Luckily Lake Michigan is whale free. But it does seem weird that people would be shocked that a killer whale, killed someone. It just makes sense.
For instance, if everyone called a particular guy "Domestic Violence Bob", I am pretty sure I would steer clear of Bob. And I am certain no one would go swimming with Bob or have him entertain a large stadium full of young children and their families. You would probably think: "Man, Bob must have done something to deserve that name." But for some reason with marine mammals, we don't hesitate to put lunch wrapped in a wetsuit into their tank and expect them not to eat us. Tillikum committed his third murder at the end of February. We all suffered the unbearable irony of hearing the public relations people at Seaworld defend the orcas saying, "It isn't in the character of killer whales to kill." And in Florida, where Tillikum could get the death penalty, his sentence was commuted to life at Sea World - a fate worse than death. But back to the training.
Everything was going well. I sat up straight, was respectful, participated and even asked an insightful question about gender differences and body language. But no amount of self-restraint could have prepared me for what came next. It was a video called Whale Done: The Power of Positive Relationships. It featured, you guessed correctly, the killer whales of Seaworld Orlando. The mantra of the video between every segment was, "If you can learn to trust a Killer Whale, you can learn to build trust and respect in the workplace." The silence of my disbelief prefaced any observable reaction. The video was a management video - about how you could control employees in the same way the trainers control the killer whales at sea world. I began to wonder if the woman I supervise would ever murder me during a routine updating of the database. The video continued to talk about how the whales felt respected so they performed. I couldn't believe what I was watching.
And then it happened. Like a submarine under extreme deep sea pressure, I sprung a leak. Air shot out of my notrils and I made a snorting noise. I tried to hold my mouth so I wouldn't spring more leaks but nothing could be done - the ship was sinking. And then I started laughing muffled and uncontrollably. Luckily I was in the back on the room. A couple people looked back and apparently they too felt the giggles. The guy next to me started laughing and rocking back and forth in his chair. One of my other co-workers blurted out a warning to one of the sea world trainers in the video as the whale jumped out of the tank, "Look Out!" Soon the room was aroar in a disrespectful and raucous laughter. It was just too ridiculous. The lady giving the presentation looked dismayed - these whales had turned on her. They were all laughing at her presentation on respect. We couldn't help it. We were not made for cubicles and presentations on respect. We were meant for laughter.
I guess there are certain things that we just can't help. For killer whales, it's murder. For guys like me it's uncontrollable laughter at things ubsurd.
You can't keep people in a tank when they were meant for something bigger. They might be cool for a long time, even years. But sooner or later, they want to break free, laugh and dance and snort. At the end of the day, I couldn't help but think the orcas of seaworld had brought us closer. The presentation wasn't a total loss. So to the orcas and to the downcast facilitor. I must tip my hat and exclaim for the world to hear, "Whale Done!"
Some of you may be aware of the recent killing perpetrated by an orca at the Orlando Florida Seaworld. Tillikum, the killer whale, murdered his trainer by pulling her in by the pony tail and drowning her. Apparently their warning labels fail to dissuade people from the reality that they might get killed. I am not sure what this means but with a slight re-arranging of the letters in the name Tillikum, you end up with "U Kill Tim." Luckily Lake Michigan is whale free. But it does seem weird that people would be shocked that a killer whale, killed someone. It just makes sense.
For instance, if everyone called a particular guy "Domestic Violence Bob", I am pretty sure I would steer clear of Bob. And I am certain no one would go swimming with Bob or have him entertain a large stadium full of young children and their families. You would probably think: "Man, Bob must have done something to deserve that name." But for some reason with marine mammals, we don't hesitate to put lunch wrapped in a wetsuit into their tank and expect them not to eat us. Tillikum committed his third murder at the end of February. We all suffered the unbearable irony of hearing the public relations people at Seaworld defend the orcas saying, "It isn't in the character of killer whales to kill." And in Florida, where Tillikum could get the death penalty, his sentence was commuted to life at Sea World - a fate worse than death. But back to the training.
Everything was going well. I sat up straight, was respectful, participated and even asked an insightful question about gender differences and body language. But no amount of self-restraint could have prepared me for what came next. It was a video called Whale Done: The Power of Positive Relationships. It featured, you guessed correctly, the killer whales of Seaworld Orlando. The mantra of the video between every segment was, "If you can learn to trust a Killer Whale, you can learn to build trust and respect in the workplace." The silence of my disbelief prefaced any observable reaction. The video was a management video - about how you could control employees in the same way the trainers control the killer whales at sea world. I began to wonder if the woman I supervise would ever murder me during a routine updating of the database. The video continued to talk about how the whales felt respected so they performed. I couldn't believe what I was watching.
And then it happened. Like a submarine under extreme deep sea pressure, I sprung a leak. Air shot out of my notrils and I made a snorting noise. I tried to hold my mouth so I wouldn't spring more leaks but nothing could be done - the ship was sinking. And then I started laughing muffled and uncontrollably. Luckily I was in the back on the room. A couple people looked back and apparently they too felt the giggles. The guy next to me started laughing and rocking back and forth in his chair. One of my other co-workers blurted out a warning to one of the sea world trainers in the video as the whale jumped out of the tank, "Look Out!" Soon the room was aroar in a disrespectful and raucous laughter. It was just too ridiculous. The lady giving the presentation looked dismayed - these whales had turned on her. They were all laughing at her presentation on respect. We couldn't help it. We were not made for cubicles and presentations on respect. We were meant for laughter.
I guess there are certain things that we just can't help. For killer whales, it's murder. For guys like me it's uncontrollable laughter at things ubsurd.
You can't keep people in a tank when they were meant for something bigger. They might be cool for a long time, even years. But sooner or later, they want to break free, laugh and dance and snort. At the end of the day, I couldn't help but think the orcas of seaworld had brought us closer. The presentation wasn't a total loss. So to the orcas and to the downcast facilitor. I must tip my hat and exclaim for the world to hear, "Whale Done!"
Thursday, March 18, 2010
skyscrapers, gutters and everything in between.
From my work cube, I can see the top of the NorthWestern Mutual insurance building where the I see the silhouettes of the folks who make six and seven figures. They drive Lexus SUVs and wear monogrammed shirts. I am at ground level so I also see the homeless guys who collect used cigarette butts and smoke them down to the filters right in front of the my cube window. I see the highs and lows from my cube. As much as I hate it, sometimes my cube keeps things in perspective.
I read psalm 88 and psalm 89 this morning. These two back-to-back psalms seem like Danny Devito and Arnold Swartzenegger in the movie Twins. Scholars think they are connected but it is hard to tell by just reading them. Psalm 88 is dark and depressing. God is far off and the writer sounds almost suicidal as he proclaims, "darkness is my closest friend." Psalm 88 sounds more like a Metallica ballad than scripture. By contrast, Psalm 89 is perky and praisey. It is the Karen Carpenter of Psalms - syrupy sweet and filled to the rim with flowery phrases of deity and doctrine. Both are difficult to swallow.
My life is somewhere in between these two psalms. I want my relationship with God somewhere in the middle too, like my like my relationship with a helpful Home Depot employee, cordial, rationale, task-oriented, not too pushy but not too aloof, reasonable, unemotional. But maybe this isn't God. Maybe God doesn't want a relationship like that. Maybe he wants our highest highs and our lowest lows. Maybe he wants to broaden our experiences to encompass higher highs and lower lows - that we might be fully human. This seems to line up with what I have seen in the live of Saints.
I once read this author who thought that Christians, and specifically mystics, were prone to bouts of depression and mania. This particular author believed that people of faith - followers of God, could see the universe much more clearly than anyone else. They experienced the lowest lows and the highest highs. Believers feel the height of connection to and empowerment by God through his Holy Spirit and also the depths of darkness as they reflect on topics such as the crucifixion, hell and sin. We speak in tongues and serve in slums. Christians live on both ends of the spectrum - mania and the darkness. And we experience a greater total sum of the spectrum of life because of this. Perhaps the middle of existence is the least palpable to the mystic, the Jesus follower, because its stability is like a calm sea for the sailor - doldrums. The mystic craves the presence of God and the presence of suffering because the are usually linked - like Christ himself.
So why not live big? Why not take risks? Why not do the things that God is calling you to do? Invite the rich and poor into your home. Raise your hands into the sky in prayer. Come alongside those who suffer. Pray for a miracle. Expect transformation. Lose your lifestyle. Be more real. Get out of the spiritual doldrums and live at the poles of life where the most real things happen.
C.S. Lewis speaks of heaven as like earth only more so. Everything is heightened - experience, emotion, intellect, sensory input. Even tiny blades of grass feel like little knives in heaven because we aren't used to the intensity of reality. We've lived too long in the middle. Suffer or praise with the full intensity of heaven - with fervor as if your days were numbered. Because they are.
I read psalm 88 and psalm 89 this morning. These two back-to-back psalms seem like Danny Devito and Arnold Swartzenegger in the movie Twins. Scholars think they are connected but it is hard to tell by just reading them. Psalm 88 is dark and depressing. God is far off and the writer sounds almost suicidal as he proclaims, "darkness is my closest friend." Psalm 88 sounds more like a Metallica ballad than scripture. By contrast, Psalm 89 is perky and praisey. It is the Karen Carpenter of Psalms - syrupy sweet and filled to the rim with flowery phrases of deity and doctrine. Both are difficult to swallow.
My life is somewhere in between these two psalms. I want my relationship with God somewhere in the middle too, like my like my relationship with a helpful Home Depot employee, cordial, rationale, task-oriented, not too pushy but not too aloof, reasonable, unemotional. But maybe this isn't God. Maybe God doesn't want a relationship like that. Maybe he wants our highest highs and our lowest lows. Maybe he wants to broaden our experiences to encompass higher highs and lower lows - that we might be fully human. This seems to line up with what I have seen in the live of Saints.
I once read this author who thought that Christians, and specifically mystics, were prone to bouts of depression and mania. This particular author believed that people of faith - followers of God, could see the universe much more clearly than anyone else. They experienced the lowest lows and the highest highs. Believers feel the height of connection to and empowerment by God through his Holy Spirit and also the depths of darkness as they reflect on topics such as the crucifixion, hell and sin. We speak in tongues and serve in slums. Christians live on both ends of the spectrum - mania and the darkness. And we experience a greater total sum of the spectrum of life because of this. Perhaps the middle of existence is the least palpable to the mystic, the Jesus follower, because its stability is like a calm sea for the sailor - doldrums. The mystic craves the presence of God and the presence of suffering because the are usually linked - like Christ himself.
So why not live big? Why not take risks? Why not do the things that God is calling you to do? Invite the rich and poor into your home. Raise your hands into the sky in prayer. Come alongside those who suffer. Pray for a miracle. Expect transformation. Lose your lifestyle. Be more real. Get out of the spiritual doldrums and live at the poles of life where the most real things happen.
C.S. Lewis speaks of heaven as like earth only more so. Everything is heightened - experience, emotion, intellect, sensory input. Even tiny blades of grass feel like little knives in heaven because we aren't used to the intensity of reality. We've lived too long in the middle. Suffer or praise with the full intensity of heaven - with fervor as if your days were numbered. Because they are.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Little Cesars and the Red Box
Michael Jackson once wrote a song called, Smooth Criminal. I wonder what the opposite of a smooth criminal is because I was hit by one of those yesterday.
As I walked into the arid brilliance of the early spring mid-afternoon, a thousand tiny glints of sunlight flashed back at me from the ground next to my truck. Broken glass. This had happened to me before. I knew the drill - it would be a pain in the butt. As I came closer to my truck, I noticed that the metal on my car door was gouged and bent next to the broken passenger side window. "Rookies. Punk Rookies!" I am not a criminal but any criminal worth his salt, knows that you break car windows with ceramics - most commonly part of an old spark plug. the reason for this is that it makes less sound - a slight pop. These fools had used a piece of metal and when that didn't work, they pried the edge of the glass until the metal bent and broke the window. This little difference meant that the damage is 1800 dollars instead of 200 dollars. The worst part was that once they entered the vehicle, they searched it a got away with nothing. Nada. Zilch. My co-worker, who used to be a Sheriff's deputy thinks they wanted my GPS unit which I had a mount for on the dashboard. My wife had it in her car that day.
But what really sucks is how one little sinful act is taking up so much of my life. So I have begun the annoying process of trying to get my car fixed. I had to call the police, file a report, call the insurance, take the car to a shop for an estimate, call the insurance guys back, call the glass guys, take a picture of broken window, have them say they can't just replace the glass and then thank them for taking the time to do it. Then I have to pay he 500 dollar deductible, talk to my wife about why we need to change our budget that month and why, through no fault of mine, that our date night has gone from Magianos and the Imax to Little Cesars and the Red Box. Our kitchen cabinets will need to wait another month and we can't drive my car without the heater on full blast at the moment. I will need to confirm with the auto shop, find a ride to work for next week. Wait for them to see if they have the right parts. Bum rides and take the bus to all of my nighttime stuff. And then finally after two weeks of straight annoying, I get my car back in almost the same shape as it started. I almost wish the dude would have taken my hundred dollar GPS unit. I almost hope he had got some crack and a pipe stem to smoke it in exchange for it. At least then someone would have benefitted from this. But as it stands, my car got beat up for nothing and I have to deal with it. What a bummer.
I guess all sin is like this. It starts with being consumed with our own desires. And then we haphazardly, and sometimes sloppily violate someone. We don't think about what it will do to them. We don't think that our five minutes of selfishness might cause 2 weeks of strife to someone else. We just think about getting our high - whatever our own personal crack high might be. Admiration, sex, job security, gossip, appearing clever, etc. And we wreck others as we search for a cheap high. I guess what I am saying is that we do more damage to others than we realize. I have done more damage to others than I realize.
I want to apologize to anyone out there whom I have violated with words or actions. I am sorry for the pain I have caused you. I am sorry that my momentary selfishness caused lasting harm to you. And I hope that I can be forgiven and I hope that I can make restitution in any way possible.
As I walked into the arid brilliance of the early spring mid-afternoon, a thousand tiny glints of sunlight flashed back at me from the ground next to my truck. Broken glass. This had happened to me before. I knew the drill - it would be a pain in the butt. As I came closer to my truck, I noticed that the metal on my car door was gouged and bent next to the broken passenger side window. "Rookies. Punk Rookies!" I am not a criminal but any criminal worth his salt, knows that you break car windows with ceramics - most commonly part of an old spark plug. the reason for this is that it makes less sound - a slight pop. These fools had used a piece of metal and when that didn't work, they pried the edge of the glass until the metal bent and broke the window. This little difference meant that the damage is 1800 dollars instead of 200 dollars. The worst part was that once they entered the vehicle, they searched it a got away with nothing. Nada. Zilch. My co-worker, who used to be a Sheriff's deputy thinks they wanted my GPS unit which I had a mount for on the dashboard. My wife had it in her car that day.
But what really sucks is how one little sinful act is taking up so much of my life. So I have begun the annoying process of trying to get my car fixed. I had to call the police, file a report, call the insurance, take the car to a shop for an estimate, call the insurance guys back, call the glass guys, take a picture of broken window, have them say they can't just replace the glass and then thank them for taking the time to do it. Then I have to pay he 500 dollar deductible, talk to my wife about why we need to change our budget that month and why, through no fault of mine, that our date night has gone from Magianos and the Imax to Little Cesars and the Red Box. Our kitchen cabinets will need to wait another month and we can't drive my car without the heater on full blast at the moment. I will need to confirm with the auto shop, find a ride to work for next week. Wait for them to see if they have the right parts. Bum rides and take the bus to all of my nighttime stuff. And then finally after two weeks of straight annoying, I get my car back in almost the same shape as it started. I almost wish the dude would have taken my hundred dollar GPS unit. I almost hope he had got some crack and a pipe stem to smoke it in exchange for it. At least then someone would have benefitted from this. But as it stands, my car got beat up for nothing and I have to deal with it. What a bummer.
I guess all sin is like this. It starts with being consumed with our own desires. And then we haphazardly, and sometimes sloppily violate someone. We don't think about what it will do to them. We don't think that our five minutes of selfishness might cause 2 weeks of strife to someone else. We just think about getting our high - whatever our own personal crack high might be. Admiration, sex, job security, gossip, appearing clever, etc. And we wreck others as we search for a cheap high. I guess what I am saying is that we do more damage to others than we realize. I have done more damage to others than I realize.
I want to apologize to anyone out there whom I have violated with words or actions. I am sorry for the pain I have caused you. I am sorry that my momentary selfishness caused lasting harm to you. And I hope that I can be forgiven and I hope that I can make restitution in any way possible.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
You want me?
I have been going to the gym a lot lately. I workout like a trophy wife trying to get into her bikini by summer - hours of cardio and self loathing. I've lost some weight but I am getting really weak in my upper body. I recently found out that all the cardio is reducing my testosterone and causing my muscles to shrink. I am what Hans and Franz might call a "girly man." This is really depressing. It is one thing to be overweight, it is quite another to be weak and overweight. But something at the gym happened that lifted my spirits and made me feel like a man again.
First let me set the scene. I work out at a gym that is full of huge dudes - I mean Shug Knight's bouncer huge. Most guys scale in at least 300. Guys in my gym are tough. Part of this is due to where I work out - the most violent neighborhood in Milwaukee. Guys in the suburbs work out for health and fitness. They read periodicals like runner's world and men's health, eat low carb diets and take their pulse incesantly. Guys in the hood work out so that when some crack-head comes after you with a baseball bat to steal your cell phone, you can pick him up over your head and throw him in a snowbank. My gym is more like a gladiator training facility than a fitness center. It is about making sure that you are strong enought to fight back because sooner or later, you're going to have to. Needless to say, cardio is not popular - there is always and open treadmill or bike and that is why I went there in the first place. I guess I could run away from the crack head now but there is little manly about that. I once tried to lift weights there. I started my bench press sets with 45s on each side of the bar to warm up. The relatively small dude I was working out with, put two 45s on each side and the bigger dude across from us was warming up with three 45s. I haven't lifted weights there since.
Last night on my way back to the locker room from the eliptical trainer, a huge guy stepped in front of my path. He must have been 6'3" 33o pounds. I looked him dead in the eye and continued to walk toward him. (It is good to not show fear until the last moment before flight or fight). He looked me in the eye, then he smiled and started talking to me.
"Hey man. You play football? You look like you might play football."
"Nope. I am older and weaker than I look."
"That's no problem. You look like you're working out. We're starting a football team. We need some dudes to come out and play. It's gonna be a lot of fun."
"You gotta be kidding me. I am 31 years old and weak as I have ever been."
"No joke. We need some more guys. You'll be fine. Lemme get your number. We practice at Tech." (I gave him my number)
"Full pads? Full contact?"
"Yeah. Ofcourse."
"Ok"
"Talk to you soon"
"Take it easy"
And I walked to the locker room - head a little higher, chest pushed out a little further. The big dude wanted me. The huge guy wanted me for his team. Maybe I would make a good tackling dummy. Maybe I would just have the 100 bucks to register for the league but he didn't mention money. I am not sure why he wanted me. But he wanted me on his team! This was good news. I felt like a man again. On my way out that night, I signed up for a personal strength trainer.
Sometimes we forget who we are. Sometimes we get intimidated by those around us who are bigger and better than we are. Maybe they're smarter or better looking or more socially successful. And we shrink and shrivel and we fill our lives with excuses. "I am too old. I am too weak. I don't have time." And we take another path that makes us feel like a nobody.
The good news is that God wants you on his team. A huge dude wants you. He doesn't care if you don't believe in yourself. He believes in you. He doesn't care if you have all the qualifications or if it's been years since you've been on his team. He sees you and recognizes something special in you and he wants you on his team. He wants you.
First let me set the scene. I work out at a gym that is full of huge dudes - I mean Shug Knight's bouncer huge. Most guys scale in at least 300. Guys in my gym are tough. Part of this is due to where I work out - the most violent neighborhood in Milwaukee. Guys in the suburbs work out for health and fitness. They read periodicals like runner's world and men's health, eat low carb diets and take their pulse incesantly. Guys in the hood work out so that when some crack-head comes after you with a baseball bat to steal your cell phone, you can pick him up over your head and throw him in a snowbank. My gym is more like a gladiator training facility than a fitness center. It is about making sure that you are strong enought to fight back because sooner or later, you're going to have to. Needless to say, cardio is not popular - there is always and open treadmill or bike and that is why I went there in the first place. I guess I could run away from the crack head now but there is little manly about that. I once tried to lift weights there. I started my bench press sets with 45s on each side of the bar to warm up. The relatively small dude I was working out with, put two 45s on each side and the bigger dude across from us was warming up with three 45s. I haven't lifted weights there since.
Last night on my way back to the locker room from the eliptical trainer, a huge guy stepped in front of my path. He must have been 6'3" 33o pounds. I looked him dead in the eye and continued to walk toward him. (It is good to not show fear until the last moment before flight or fight). He looked me in the eye, then he smiled and started talking to me.
"Hey man. You play football? You look like you might play football."
"Nope. I am older and weaker than I look."
"That's no problem. You look like you're working out. We're starting a football team. We need some dudes to come out and play. It's gonna be a lot of fun."
"You gotta be kidding me. I am 31 years old and weak as I have ever been."
"No joke. We need some more guys. You'll be fine. Lemme get your number. We practice at Tech." (I gave him my number)
"Full pads? Full contact?"
"Yeah. Ofcourse."
"Ok"
"Talk to you soon"
"Take it easy"
And I walked to the locker room - head a little higher, chest pushed out a little further. The big dude wanted me. The huge guy wanted me for his team. Maybe I would make a good tackling dummy. Maybe I would just have the 100 bucks to register for the league but he didn't mention money. I am not sure why he wanted me. But he wanted me on his team! This was good news. I felt like a man again. On my way out that night, I signed up for a personal strength trainer.
Sometimes we forget who we are. Sometimes we get intimidated by those around us who are bigger and better than we are. Maybe they're smarter or better looking or more socially successful. And we shrink and shrivel and we fill our lives with excuses. "I am too old. I am too weak. I don't have time." And we take another path that makes us feel like a nobody.
The good news is that God wants you on his team. A huge dude wants you. He doesn't care if you don't believe in yourself. He believes in you. He doesn't care if you have all the qualifications or if it's been years since you've been on his team. He sees you and recognizes something special in you and he wants you on his team. He wants you.
Friday, March 5, 2010
A Response to Chad
My friend Chad commented on the last post - read his comment. Then read this.
The question of what is pleasing to God and how it relates to identity is interesting because I think it does go into Biblical interpretation. You are right on this point.
I have a mentor group and we talked about this last night. The major passage that deals with this issue speaks of denying ourselves and taking up our cross daily and following Jesus. Whoever wants to keep his life will lose it. Whoever wants to lose his life for my sake will find it.
This passage deals with identity. It is saying that if you want to find your true identity, your "psyche" or soul in the Greek, you must intentionally deny your self, take up your cross daily (daily intentional suffering for others) and follow me. There is something in all people that resonates with this idea of suffering for others. And when we think about people who have stepped the most fully and meaningfully into their identity, we think of Martin Luther King Jr, Gandhi, Mother Theresa, Bishop Tutu, etc. So, paradoxically, to have the most fully human identity involves denying the claims of identity - giving up its rights and privileges for the sake of others. We, that is, all people, know this intrinsically.
But because we find this is difficult, church people usually try and interpret their way out of this fact and end up creating an alternative way to get to know and please God but we lose ourselves in the process.
Martin Luther talks about the two main theologies: (thank you honey for pointing this out)
1) The theology of glory which is more common and seeks to experience God through ecstatic experience, power, superior wisdom, insight, study and ritual.
and
2) The theology of the cross which seeks God through intentional suffering and giving up of one's rights and privileges.
Luther thinks that we only gain our true identity through the latter but most of the world (including many Christians) desire the former because it is a shortcut. This is why I told you that Trudy (one of our co-workers) was a better spiritual example than me. I have studied a lot but she has lived the way of the cross for years. The way of the cross is love. The theology of glory is pride and selfishness.
In short - we tend to interpret the Bible in ways that make following Jesus easier. In doing so we cheat ourselves out of experiencing life in it's fullness - suffering for others and finding our real identity. Our "self" is the image of God on us. It is on all of us. It is up to us to decide whether we will lose enough of our self to uncover it - kind of like that marble in the "chiseled" post.
Chad - perhaps you wanted to talk reader response type stuff but this was the direction I went. We can talk more at work.
The question of what is pleasing to God and how it relates to identity is interesting because I think it does go into Biblical interpretation. You are right on this point.
I have a mentor group and we talked about this last night. The major passage that deals with this issue speaks of denying ourselves and taking up our cross daily and following Jesus. Whoever wants to keep his life will lose it. Whoever wants to lose his life for my sake will find it.
This passage deals with identity. It is saying that if you want to find your true identity, your "psyche" or soul in the Greek, you must intentionally deny your self, take up your cross daily (daily intentional suffering for others) and follow me. There is something in all people that resonates with this idea of suffering for others. And when we think about people who have stepped the most fully and meaningfully into their identity, we think of Martin Luther King Jr, Gandhi, Mother Theresa, Bishop Tutu, etc. So, paradoxically, to have the most fully human identity involves denying the claims of identity - giving up its rights and privileges for the sake of others. We, that is, all people, know this intrinsically.
But because we find this is difficult, church people usually try and interpret their way out of this fact and end up creating an alternative way to get to know and please God but we lose ourselves in the process.
Martin Luther talks about the two main theologies: (thank you honey for pointing this out)
1) The theology of glory which is more common and seeks to experience God through ecstatic experience, power, superior wisdom, insight, study and ritual.
and
2) The theology of the cross which seeks God through intentional suffering and giving up of one's rights and privileges.
Luther thinks that we only gain our true identity through the latter but most of the world (including many Christians) desire the former because it is a shortcut. This is why I told you that Trudy (one of our co-workers) was a better spiritual example than me. I have studied a lot but she has lived the way of the cross for years. The way of the cross is love. The theology of glory is pride and selfishness.
In short - we tend to interpret the Bible in ways that make following Jesus easier. In doing so we cheat ourselves out of experiencing life in it's fullness - suffering for others and finding our real identity. Our "self" is the image of God on us. It is on all of us. It is up to us to decide whether we will lose enough of our self to uncover it - kind of like that marble in the "chiseled" post.
Chad - perhaps you wanted to talk reader response type stuff but this was the direction I went. We can talk more at work.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Get Dem Rats Out Yo Britches!
I spent a week sleeping in a Tipi one time. And it wasn't because I was celebrating Native American culture. I was the only person in the 1200 member church I grew up in who was willing to spend a week sleeping in a Tipi at church camp with 4th and 5th grade boys. In case you haven't spent much time with kids of this age. Let me provide a window in their world.
1) They vehemently believe that Young Adults between the ages of 18-25 are the coolest and the best moral authority for kids (Mostly because their super-nice recently graduated kindergarten teachers met this requirement). They will relay to their parents everything that the 18-25 year old tells them at camp as if it is gospel truth even if it is complete hogwash.
2) They like to summarize the plots of movies, video games and books in the same amount of time it would take to watch that movie or read the book. It is best not to ask about the latest Harry Potter flick because you may end up getting a 2 day summary on the book, video game and movie and the non-pertainent but exceptionally detailed variants in them.
3) They need you to put sunscreen and bug spray on them like little kids but they want to stay up all night making fart noises like middle schoolers. They have one foot in each world - not quite teens and not quite little kids.
4) They like to wear little league baseball caps, vans skateboard shoes, baggy cargo shorts and faded black graphic T-shirts depicting Japanese cartoon characters with sharp hair and their dragons. They think these shirts are tough. I am not sure why but don't question it or you will get the lengthy summary of that cartoon and a slightly analytical assessment of the next best cartoon as well as three reasons why the cartoon on their shirt could kill the cartoon of the next dude's shirt. Just tell them they have a cool shirt even if it is the farthest thing from the truth.
5) They think girls are gross. Don't try and convince them otherwise or they will provide a lengthy summary about every girl in their class and why they are gross.
6) They hate showers and deodorant but love cologne/body spray. Don't ask me to explain this one either. Just make sure they brought some cologne because they're gonna stink on day 4.
7) There is always one really strange kid in every Tipi or cabin at camp. I guess this is because the kids are nice enough at this age to still include most people in activities even if they don't like them. In middle school, the hoardes of adolescent popularocrats will destroy the weak in order the thin the herd through social shunning and cold-hearted mockery. So enjoy the relative egalitarianiasm of the pre-teen Tipi community while it lasts.
Brian was my strange kid. He was triple medicated on a cocktail of ADD and depression drugs and he couldn't sleep at night because he was so doped up. He was genuinely miserable. He was the kid whose parents saw summer camps as an opportunity for them to escape. Each year they would send him to a dozen summer camps so they could emotionally retreat and recharge for the next year of being his parents. Brian had already gone to Jewish camp, band camp, theater camp and cub scout camp by the time I got him - a virtual trail of tears for the exhausted adults supervising him lay in his path. His parents were running out of world religions and civic organizations willing to cope with Brian.
But there was one place at camp where Brian could relax and be himself. It was in the camp animal hut with this funny southern guy with the camp knickname of "Red Hawk" who knew all about animals. Luckily the animal hut only contained safe and durable creatures. The southern man would pass Brian a guinea pig or a duckling and his whole body language would change - he would relax, breath deeply and slowly pet the animal. Every day at free time when the rest of the Tipi was swimming or skateboarding, Brian would go to his safe place and spend time caring for the animals.
On Thursday afternoon, I heard Red Hawk scream in a pannicked Georgia drawl, "I'm not gonna tell you again. Get dem rats out yo' britches!" Apparently Brian had started putting small animals inside of his pants. Brian just sat there comotose, with three furry rodents running all through his pants like a trains through a canvas subway tunnel, calm and collected unaware of the chaos all around him - at peace.
God wants to take you from the chaos all around you, and in you, and give you a special place where you can be free. It's called prayer. It's available everyday. You can be yourself there - whoever you are, even if you are the type of dude that likes rats in his britches.
1) They vehemently believe that Young Adults between the ages of 18-25 are the coolest and the best moral authority for kids (Mostly because their super-nice recently graduated kindergarten teachers met this requirement). They will relay to their parents everything that the 18-25 year old tells them at camp as if it is gospel truth even if it is complete hogwash.
2) They like to summarize the plots of movies, video games and books in the same amount of time it would take to watch that movie or read the book. It is best not to ask about the latest Harry Potter flick because you may end up getting a 2 day summary on the book, video game and movie and the non-pertainent but exceptionally detailed variants in them.
3) They need you to put sunscreen and bug spray on them like little kids but they want to stay up all night making fart noises like middle schoolers. They have one foot in each world - not quite teens and not quite little kids.
4) They like to wear little league baseball caps, vans skateboard shoes, baggy cargo shorts and faded black graphic T-shirts depicting Japanese cartoon characters with sharp hair and their dragons. They think these shirts are tough. I am not sure why but don't question it or you will get the lengthy summary of that cartoon and a slightly analytical assessment of the next best cartoon as well as three reasons why the cartoon on their shirt could kill the cartoon of the next dude's shirt. Just tell them they have a cool shirt even if it is the farthest thing from the truth.
5) They think girls are gross. Don't try and convince them otherwise or they will provide a lengthy summary about every girl in their class and why they are gross.
6) They hate showers and deodorant but love cologne/body spray. Don't ask me to explain this one either. Just make sure they brought some cologne because they're gonna stink on day 4.
7) There is always one really strange kid in every Tipi or cabin at camp. I guess this is because the kids are nice enough at this age to still include most people in activities even if they don't like them. In middle school, the hoardes of adolescent popularocrats will destroy the weak in order the thin the herd through social shunning and cold-hearted mockery. So enjoy the relative egalitarianiasm of the pre-teen Tipi community while it lasts.
Brian was my strange kid. He was triple medicated on a cocktail of ADD and depression drugs and he couldn't sleep at night because he was so doped up. He was genuinely miserable. He was the kid whose parents saw summer camps as an opportunity for them to escape. Each year they would send him to a dozen summer camps so they could emotionally retreat and recharge for the next year of being his parents. Brian had already gone to Jewish camp, band camp, theater camp and cub scout camp by the time I got him - a virtual trail of tears for the exhausted adults supervising him lay in his path. His parents were running out of world religions and civic organizations willing to cope with Brian.
But there was one place at camp where Brian could relax and be himself. It was in the camp animal hut with this funny southern guy with the camp knickname of "Red Hawk" who knew all about animals. Luckily the animal hut only contained safe and durable creatures. The southern man would pass Brian a guinea pig or a duckling and his whole body language would change - he would relax, breath deeply and slowly pet the animal. Every day at free time when the rest of the Tipi was swimming or skateboarding, Brian would go to his safe place and spend time caring for the animals.
On Thursday afternoon, I heard Red Hawk scream in a pannicked Georgia drawl, "I'm not gonna tell you again. Get dem rats out yo' britches!" Apparently Brian had started putting small animals inside of his pants. Brian just sat there comotose, with three furry rodents running all through his pants like a trains through a canvas subway tunnel, calm and collected unaware of the chaos all around him - at peace.
God wants to take you from the chaos all around you, and in you, and give you a special place where you can be free. It's called prayer. It's available everyday. You can be yourself there - whoever you are, even if you are the type of dude that likes rats in his britches.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Windy Curse of the Upper Midwest
So anyone who knows me intimately is aware that I hate three things:
1) The Devil
2) Processed Cheese
3) The greater "Chicagoland" area
I have lived in Los Angeles, San Diego, the San Francisco Bay Area, Spokane, Lawton, Oklahoma and even Tuscaloosa, Alabama. And I have visited many cities, states and towns in this great nation. In the words of Johnny Cash, "I've been everywhere man. I've been everywhere." And I've sat in traffic, inhaled smog, had locals throw stuff at my car, eaten my fair share of colloquial slow roasted swine-based delicacies but of all the places in the contiguous US that I abhor with the utmost sincerity, it has to be Chicagoland.
Anyone who has seen the classic Steve Martin/John Candy movie Planes Trains and Automobiles has ample excuse to avoid the place. Like an obnoxious gnarled knot in your open faced fishing reel, Chicago is nothing but a big headache. I will tell one story in order to illustrate this point but I could probably start an entire blog devoted to this subject. It is one of those topics that merits lengthy discourse like if an Iphone is worth the extra phone bill of if Brett Favre is retired - annoying but a good place to warn others of potential pitfalls and letdowns.
It was an icy windswept day in early December two years ago - a Saturday (my one day off). We were overdue to see my nephews -the craziest kids on the planet. One actually growls at people. Like captive Killer Whales, they are wildly entertaining to watch but it is best keep a little distance or they'll pull you into the tank. My brother in law is one of the coolest guys around but he has one flaw I cannot overlook, he lives in Naperville, a condo-laden high-end suburb of Chicago that boasts an inordinate number of mediocre donut shops and well-groomed yet still hairy middle aged men in black leather jackets, gold chains and Mercedes SUVs. It would mean a 3 hour drive to the "Heart of Darkness." Like Kurtz in the Joseph Conrad novel of the same name, I grew more insane as I drove deeper into the suburban jungle.
Life is full of paradox and contradiction. Theologians call this mysterion. There are several great Mysterion that strike a person on the drive from Milwaukee to Chicago. For the sake of brevity, let us only address one today.
Chicago wants you to pay them to assault your family with their pock-marked excuses for highways. How can you pay a 2 dollar toll every two miles and still hit 25 potholes in between toll booths? Mystics contemplate this one. On this particular journey we hit one pothole that was so deep, it destroyed one of our front tires. About a quarter mile from the pothole was a toll booth that charged me 2 dollars for driving on the road that just cost me 150 dollars damage to my tire. The yellow sign above the toll booth proudly proclaimed "On behalf of Rod Blagojevich, Governor of Illinois, Welcome." That is a whole 'nother post. On this particular trip, I found myself changing tires on the side of the road 3 times! It got so bad, that we spent 9 hours on the road traveling a distance of 200 miles. We got within 15 minutes of my nephews condo
and we turned around and headed back because we ran out of time. My dad argues that there are certain contexts in which a God-fearing man may use words regulary reserved for the godless heathen. And this day I added Chicago to the short list that included such circumstances as smashing your finger with a wrench and being self-employed and trying to do your own taxes.
So I got to thinking about Jesus. If I hate going to Chicago so much, maybe Jesus struggled coming to earth. It must have been cumbersome to put of skin and bones and flesh. It must have been annoying to get tired, need to eat, have to go to the bathroom, etc. Many times we focus on the agony of the cross as the central sacrifice of Jesus. The Eastern Orthodox church sees the "incarnation" or Jesus becoming a person as the greatest loss for Jesus. If Jesus is willing to give up his rights as God in heaven to come to earth because he loved us, I guess I am willing to drive to Chicago for my nephews because I love them too.
1) The Devil
2) Processed Cheese
3) The greater "Chicagoland" area
I have lived in Los Angeles, San Diego, the San Francisco Bay Area, Spokane, Lawton, Oklahoma and even Tuscaloosa, Alabama. And I have visited many cities, states and towns in this great nation. In the words of Johnny Cash, "I've been everywhere man. I've been everywhere." And I've sat in traffic, inhaled smog, had locals throw stuff at my car, eaten my fair share of colloquial slow roasted swine-based delicacies but of all the places in the contiguous US that I abhor with the utmost sincerity, it has to be Chicagoland.
Anyone who has seen the classic Steve Martin/John Candy movie Planes Trains and Automobiles has ample excuse to avoid the place. Like an obnoxious gnarled knot in your open faced fishing reel, Chicago is nothing but a big headache. I will tell one story in order to illustrate this point but I could probably start an entire blog devoted to this subject. It is one of those topics that merits lengthy discourse like if an Iphone is worth the extra phone bill of if Brett Favre is retired - annoying but a good place to warn others of potential pitfalls and letdowns.
It was an icy windswept day in early December two years ago - a Saturday (my one day off). We were overdue to see my nephews -the craziest kids on the planet. One actually growls at people. Like captive Killer Whales, they are wildly entertaining to watch but it is best keep a little distance or they'll pull you into the tank. My brother in law is one of the coolest guys around but he has one flaw I cannot overlook, he lives in Naperville, a condo-laden high-end suburb of Chicago that boasts an inordinate number of mediocre donut shops and well-groomed yet still hairy middle aged men in black leather jackets, gold chains and Mercedes SUVs. It would mean a 3 hour drive to the "Heart of Darkness." Like Kurtz in the Joseph Conrad novel of the same name, I grew more insane as I drove deeper into the suburban jungle.
Life is full of paradox and contradiction. Theologians call this mysterion. There are several great Mysterion that strike a person on the drive from Milwaukee to Chicago. For the sake of brevity, let us only address one today.
Chicago wants you to pay them to assault your family with their pock-marked excuses for highways. How can you pay a 2 dollar toll every two miles and still hit 25 potholes in between toll booths? Mystics contemplate this one. On this particular journey we hit one pothole that was so deep, it destroyed one of our front tires. About a quarter mile from the pothole was a toll booth that charged me 2 dollars for driving on the road that just cost me 150 dollars damage to my tire. The yellow sign above the toll booth proudly proclaimed "On behalf of Rod Blagojevich, Governor of Illinois, Welcome." That is a whole 'nother post. On this particular trip, I found myself changing tires on the side of the road 3 times! It got so bad, that we spent 9 hours on the road traveling a distance of 200 miles. We got within 15 minutes of my nephews condo
and we turned around and headed back because we ran out of time. My dad argues that there are certain contexts in which a God-fearing man may use words regulary reserved for the godless heathen. And this day I added Chicago to the short list that included such circumstances as smashing your finger with a wrench and being self-employed and trying to do your own taxes.
So I got to thinking about Jesus. If I hate going to Chicago so much, maybe Jesus struggled coming to earth. It must have been cumbersome to put of skin and bones and flesh. It must have been annoying to get tired, need to eat, have to go to the bathroom, etc. Many times we focus on the agony of the cross as the central sacrifice of Jesus. The Eastern Orthodox church sees the "incarnation" or Jesus becoming a person as the greatest loss for Jesus. If Jesus is willing to give up his rights as God in heaven to come to earth because he loved us, I guess I am willing to drive to Chicago for my nephews because I love them too.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Chiseled
I've been watching the winter Olympics about 3 nights a week since they started. Our heat bill was 400 dollars in December so I have the thermostat set at 58 degrees - the same temperature as Vancouver. When I watch the ice-skating, the luge or the nordic combined, it feels like I am actually there. As I cuddle up in an old red Coleman sleeping bag and try to enjoy the "magic" of ice-dancing, the mist of my own breath slightly obstructs my view of the TV.
I've noticed is that everyone is buffed. This should be no surprise to us. To be a champion you'd better be "chiseled." But even the 15 year old figure skater girls are ripped. And the reason they are so "yoked" is that they train day in and day out to be ready for that one moment where all of the training will pay off - the olympics. They train for a single moment every four years. They run, lift weights, stretch for six hours a day and all for a single chance at glory. They spend years preparing for what might be 2 minutes of competition. The apostle Paul talked about training too. He talked about running a race to win and about training ourselves for godliness - about being spiritually "chiseled."
I once heard an artist talk about prayer as allowing God to form us. He compared it to sculpting marble. "The image is already there in the marble. The skilled artist just removes pieces until it is visible." People are like big chunks of marble and prayer allows the master artist access to our lives. He then begins the process of removing pieces. This can be a painful process but the end result is beautiful - glorious.
I guess what I am saying is that every day, no matter how mundane and unimportant it seems to us, is an opportunity to train for godliness. It is a chance to listen to the voice of God and allow him to form us. Paul tells us that we are training for something much more important than medals or victory wreaths, we are training for glory that lasts. Our lives become reflections of God for the world to see but we must allow the Artist to chisel his image onto us. We must train for godliness as we study, fast, pray, practice justice and all of the other disciplines of the Christian life. During this lent, as we allow God to work in our lives and remove those things that hinder us, let's get chiseled for glory awaits.
I've noticed is that everyone is buffed. This should be no surprise to us. To be a champion you'd better be "chiseled." But even the 15 year old figure skater girls are ripped. And the reason they are so "yoked" is that they train day in and day out to be ready for that one moment where all of the training will pay off - the olympics. They train for a single moment every four years. They run, lift weights, stretch for six hours a day and all for a single chance at glory. They spend years preparing for what might be 2 minutes of competition. The apostle Paul talked about training too. He talked about running a race to win and about training ourselves for godliness - about being spiritually "chiseled."
I once heard an artist talk about prayer as allowing God to form us. He compared it to sculpting marble. "The image is already there in the marble. The skilled artist just removes pieces until it is visible." People are like big chunks of marble and prayer allows the master artist access to our lives. He then begins the process of removing pieces. This can be a painful process but the end result is beautiful - glorious.
I guess what I am saying is that every day, no matter how mundane and unimportant it seems to us, is an opportunity to train for godliness. It is a chance to listen to the voice of God and allow him to form us. Paul tells us that we are training for something much more important than medals or victory wreaths, we are training for glory that lasts. Our lives become reflections of God for the world to see but we must allow the Artist to chisel his image onto us. We must train for godliness as we study, fast, pray, practice justice and all of the other disciplines of the Christian life. During this lent, as we allow God to work in our lives and remove those things that hinder us, let's get chiseled for glory awaits.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Body Nacho Believers
Some people say that an idle mind is the Devil's playground. The day I thought of body nachos, the devil must have had an extended recess.
My Senior year in college, I was a Resident Assistant in a freshman dorm. Each week each RA was required to come up with two activities that would interest freshmen and keep them from doing what they really wanted to do: make babies and drink low quality grain liquor. This wouldn't be so hard except that we weren't aloud to repeat activities. In the beginning this was easy. We would play board games, do art, have a movie night. About mid January, we ran out of ideas. There are only so many things that will keep a willful freshman from drinking grain liquor. So we started getting "creative." I had already taken people squirrel fishing and made a giant hottub out of the back of my truck. What was left to do? And then and there my idle and crooked mind hatched an idea for a perverse hybrid of two opposing concepts. Like forcing a cat and a dog to fall in love and make pitties (puppy-kittens), the plan was quite unnatural.
The basics of my plan were rather elementary and are as follows.
A. There are two things most people love: 1) swimming 2) nachos. Perhaps I could combine these two things.
B. I knew I couldn't afford enough nacho cheese for everyone to swim in nachos.
C. I could afford enough for me to swim in a kiddy pool full of nachos while people casually ate nachos off of my body like I was a giant mexican appetizer
Now every idea for an activity must be pitched to the the resident director and to the other RA's for approval. So I pitched the idea and no one understood it so they approved it - just to be nice.
Soon the night of body nachos was upon us. The posters had been hung, 5 gallons of "cheese" had been purchased at Costco. Two restaurant sized bags of tortilla chips were poised upright next to a large blue kiddy pool. About half past 8, I stripped down to my swim trunks and asked for the help of my assistant. Swiftly she commenced wrapping my entire half-naked body in plastic wrap. As I spun, she walked around me. And in about 3 minutes, my hairy chubby body could be seen, pressed and contorted underneath the translucent cellophane. I put my swim goggles on and wide-eyed freshmen gasped and gagged in incomprehensible gutterals of utter digust. Freshmen took turns pouring luke-warm cheese sauce over my chip-lined body. And then, like the Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldron, a couple courageous freshman girls took their first steps into a brave new world. They picked up a dry chip, ran it across my cheesy torso and ate. And they became the first to participate in this unholy tex-mex communion. But others soon followed. It became a sort of dare for them. Who will eat nachos off of the hairy red-headed guy? And then the terrible thing happened. Somebody got the idea of adding canned Jalapenos to the mix - a move I supported at first. As the gallon can of sliced jalapenos was poured on my quivering body, an achilles heel of sorts became shortly apparent. "My armpits! My God, my armpits are burning!" And as quickly as it began, body nachos ended. I lept from the kiddy pool dripping like the swamp thing with velveeta, chips and jalapenos and ran as fast as I could through the dorm to the showers. People screamed and jumped into their rooms as I ran toward them yelping in pain. And I came to rest in the cool refreshment of the shower - a trail of processed cheese behind me.
Maybe we need more crazy Christians - maybe we need more people willing to do things that seem insane in order to get the attention of the world. We have plenty of board game, movie night Christians. We need more Body Nacho Christians. What crazy thing is God calling you to do? Do it. You won't regret it.
My Senior year in college, I was a Resident Assistant in a freshman dorm. Each week each RA was required to come up with two activities that would interest freshmen and keep them from doing what they really wanted to do: make babies and drink low quality grain liquor. This wouldn't be so hard except that we weren't aloud to repeat activities. In the beginning this was easy. We would play board games, do art, have a movie night. About mid January, we ran out of ideas. There are only so many things that will keep a willful freshman from drinking grain liquor. So we started getting "creative." I had already taken people squirrel fishing and made a giant hottub out of the back of my truck. What was left to do? And then and there my idle and crooked mind hatched an idea for a perverse hybrid of two opposing concepts. Like forcing a cat and a dog to fall in love and make pitties (puppy-kittens), the plan was quite unnatural.
The basics of my plan were rather elementary and are as follows.
A. There are two things most people love: 1) swimming 2) nachos. Perhaps I could combine these two things.
B. I knew I couldn't afford enough nacho cheese for everyone to swim in nachos.
C. I could afford enough for me to swim in a kiddy pool full of nachos while people casually ate nachos off of my body like I was a giant mexican appetizer
Now every idea for an activity must be pitched to the the resident director and to the other RA's for approval. So I pitched the idea and no one understood it so they approved it - just to be nice.
Soon the night of body nachos was upon us. The posters had been hung, 5 gallons of "cheese" had been purchased at Costco. Two restaurant sized bags of tortilla chips were poised upright next to a large blue kiddy pool. About half past 8, I stripped down to my swim trunks and asked for the help of my assistant. Swiftly she commenced wrapping my entire half-naked body in plastic wrap. As I spun, she walked around me. And in about 3 minutes, my hairy chubby body could be seen, pressed and contorted underneath the translucent cellophane. I put my swim goggles on and wide-eyed freshmen gasped and gagged in incomprehensible gutterals of utter digust. Freshmen took turns pouring luke-warm cheese sauce over my chip-lined body. And then, like the Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldron, a couple courageous freshman girls took their first steps into a brave new world. They picked up a dry chip, ran it across my cheesy torso and ate. And they became the first to participate in this unholy tex-mex communion. But others soon followed. It became a sort of dare for them. Who will eat nachos off of the hairy red-headed guy? And then the terrible thing happened. Somebody got the idea of adding canned Jalapenos to the mix - a move I supported at first. As the gallon can of sliced jalapenos was poured on my quivering body, an achilles heel of sorts became shortly apparent. "My armpits! My God, my armpits are burning!" And as quickly as it began, body nachos ended. I lept from the kiddy pool dripping like the swamp thing with velveeta, chips and jalapenos and ran as fast as I could through the dorm to the showers. People screamed and jumped into their rooms as I ran toward them yelping in pain. And I came to rest in the cool refreshment of the shower - a trail of processed cheese behind me.
Maybe we need more crazy Christians - maybe we need more people willing to do things that seem insane in order to get the attention of the world. We have plenty of board game, movie night Christians. We need more Body Nacho Christians. What crazy thing is God calling you to do? Do it. You won't regret it.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Husky Tough Skins
I am not really sure where I am going to go with this but in the mind of those afflicted with Attention Deficit Disorder, all points on the cognitive map are equally valid - like wandering the desert without a compass and having a great time doing it. So I will bring you along into my first back to school clothes shopping trip as a kid.
Sometime in the late 1970's my mother had become quite fond of the last dying gasp of 19th century midwest commerce - Sears and Roebuck Co. If you lived in an 1870's goldrush boomtown, you might refer to Sears as a general store. It still is. We bought belt sanders and leather belts, diamond rings and socket wrenches, had our oil changed and our Christmas picture taken. But what I remember most about Sears was that it was the place my mother brought us for the annual retail ritual of ridicule- back to school shopping. And this year we were hunting for jeans.
In the late 1970s and early 1980s the concept of politically correct hadn't quite been developed and if you were a chunky kid - the type that likes Nesquick in his milk and hot dogs cut up in his macaroni and cheese, manufacturers of goods and services weren't shy about calling this out for the world to see. For the fat kids of my generation there were separate lines of clothing with names clearly printed on them showcasing your obesity through careful choice of diction.
Like the Lewis and Clarke Expedition on their voyage to the pacific, we could smell the promised destitation before we actually got there - the bold and earthy aroma of canvas and leather. And as we rounded the corner of the washing machine section, twelve foot walls of neatly folded pants, rose from the floor like the cliffs of Dover, only in blue denim. We stood with our necks cocked upward - motionless.
"Can I help you," asked a woman in her forties who smelled like floral perfume and menthol cigarettes. "Well my boys are in need of some jeans. And they are going to have to last all year." "Well for this little guy (referring to my brother who throughout childhood was not only rail thin but was routinely credited by strangers as being as cute as Opie Griffith) we can go with these regular jeans here." She paused, looked quite analytically at my belly, lifted my t-shirt above my waistline and announced to the entire store, "This big guy is going to need extended sizes. He's definitely going to need...Husky Toughskins." And she led my mother to the special section of jeans that I was just fat enough to be qualified for. And I joined the ranks of my fellow husky brothers. The section was small and the choices were limited. But in brown stamped leather on the back of every pair of jeans, the word "Husky" informed all onlookers, as if my large love handles didn't already, that you were larger than a regular person. I just prayed that come Monday at school I wouldn't be forced to do the "truffle shuffle" to amuse older kids.
Now the irony of the brand name didn't become aparent to me until just recently. Any kid who has the word husky emblazened on his jeans and pysche has to have a tough skin. I think they were trying to tout the durability of the pants but instead tested the durability of the wearer.
Reflecting on this experience makes me wonder if there are parts of the church that are reserved for "normal" people and other parts of the church where people are singled out, judged, analyzed and labeled. Parts of church where the whole store is made aware that we are less than "normal." I am curious if anyone has ever felt this way. I would love to hear your comments.
Sometime in the late 1970's my mother had become quite fond of the last dying gasp of 19th century midwest commerce - Sears and Roebuck Co. If you lived in an 1870's goldrush boomtown, you might refer to Sears as a general store. It still is. We bought belt sanders and leather belts, diamond rings and socket wrenches, had our oil changed and our Christmas picture taken. But what I remember most about Sears was that it was the place my mother brought us for the annual retail ritual of ridicule- back to school shopping. And this year we were hunting for jeans.
In the late 1970s and early 1980s the concept of politically correct hadn't quite been developed and if you were a chunky kid - the type that likes Nesquick in his milk and hot dogs cut up in his macaroni and cheese, manufacturers of goods and services weren't shy about calling this out for the world to see. For the fat kids of my generation there were separate lines of clothing with names clearly printed on them showcasing your obesity through careful choice of diction.
Like the Lewis and Clarke Expedition on their voyage to the pacific, we could smell the promised destitation before we actually got there - the bold and earthy aroma of canvas and leather. And as we rounded the corner of the washing machine section, twelve foot walls of neatly folded pants, rose from the floor like the cliffs of Dover, only in blue denim. We stood with our necks cocked upward - motionless.
"Can I help you," asked a woman in her forties who smelled like floral perfume and menthol cigarettes. "Well my boys are in need of some jeans. And they are going to have to last all year." "Well for this little guy (referring to my brother who throughout childhood was not only rail thin but was routinely credited by strangers as being as cute as Opie Griffith) we can go with these regular jeans here." She paused, looked quite analytically at my belly, lifted my t-shirt above my waistline and announced to the entire store, "This big guy is going to need extended sizes. He's definitely going to need...Husky Toughskins." And she led my mother to the special section of jeans that I was just fat enough to be qualified for. And I joined the ranks of my fellow husky brothers. The section was small and the choices were limited. But in brown stamped leather on the back of every pair of jeans, the word "Husky" informed all onlookers, as if my large love handles didn't already, that you were larger than a regular person. I just prayed that come Monday at school I wouldn't be forced to do the "truffle shuffle" to amuse older kids.
Now the irony of the brand name didn't become aparent to me until just recently. Any kid who has the word husky emblazened on his jeans and pysche has to have a tough skin. I think they were trying to tout the durability of the pants but instead tested the durability of the wearer.
Reflecting on this experience makes me wonder if there are parts of the church that are reserved for "normal" people and other parts of the church where people are singled out, judged, analyzed and labeled. Parts of church where the whole store is made aware that we are less than "normal." I am curious if anyone has ever felt this way. I would love to hear your comments.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Filet O' Lent
Today is the first day of Lent - a season in the church calendar when believers examine and reorder their lives to prepare for Jesus' resurrection at Easter. It is a time of reflection and self imposed want - in which devoted Christians give up their comfort in exchange for a fuller knowledge of the ultimate reality in Christ.
And for the faithful who observe feast days at the church of the golden arches, it is also the beginning of the Filet O' Fish season when believers prepare for the advent of a non-descript fish breaded in tater tot dust, covered in elastic plastic that doubles for cheese and smeared, ever so lightly, with a viscous mix of mayonaise and sweet relish (aka tarter sauce). Finally, the golden "harvest of the sea" comes to rest on the whitest most sugar-laden bread known to man - a McDonalds hamburger bun. And it awaits the hordes of penitential grease gobblers who have switched from their ordinary Big Mac to the metaphorical "hair-shirt" of the Filet O' Fish. To encourage this serious committment to self-denial, McDonalds in past years has lowered the price of the Filet so that those preferring the more monastic lifestyle can practice both frugality and ascetism as they partake in the loaves and fishes that only their "blessed savior" could provide. For them, this special time of the year can also be best experienced in a combo meal or with a deep fried apple pie.
This year I want more than just another Filet O' Lent. I don't want to exchange one greasy habit for another. I am tired of outward show that really isn't change. I want to see God work and transform my life through denying my appetites that "sow to the flesh" and developing deeper appetites that will provide myself and others with real life. I want what Jesus talks about when he talks about eternal life - "A spring of living water welling up within you." I pray that you might also see God work as you "sow to the Spirit" this Lenten Season.
And for the faithful who observe feast days at the church of the golden arches, it is also the beginning of the Filet O' Fish season when believers prepare for the advent of a non-descript fish breaded in tater tot dust, covered in elastic plastic that doubles for cheese and smeared, ever so lightly, with a viscous mix of mayonaise and sweet relish (aka tarter sauce). Finally, the golden "harvest of the sea" comes to rest on the whitest most sugar-laden bread known to man - a McDonalds hamburger bun. And it awaits the hordes of penitential grease gobblers who have switched from their ordinary Big Mac to the metaphorical "hair-shirt" of the Filet O' Fish. To encourage this serious committment to self-denial, McDonalds in past years has lowered the price of the Filet so that those preferring the more monastic lifestyle can practice both frugality and ascetism as they partake in the loaves and fishes that only their "blessed savior" could provide. For them, this special time of the year can also be best experienced in a combo meal or with a deep fried apple pie.
This year I want more than just another Filet O' Lent. I don't want to exchange one greasy habit for another. I am tired of outward show that really isn't change. I want to see God work and transform my life through denying my appetites that "sow to the flesh" and developing deeper appetites that will provide myself and others with real life. I want what Jesus talks about when he talks about eternal life - "A spring of living water welling up within you." I pray that you might also see God work as you "sow to the Spirit" this Lenten Season.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Don't miss the Forest for the Pine Cones
I pulled an old book off the shelf a couple weeks ago. It has a drawing of a pine cone on it. That about summarizes the book - scratchy, prickly, common and dry. It is by a philosophy professor named Dallas Willard. (The guy has two first names and both are cooler than Tim. Share the wealth buddy.) The book was actually designed for popular consumption but was never really popularly consumed. I think it had something to do with the pine cone cover.
Somebody in the marketing department must have been on their "A-game" that day-"I've got it! A pine cone! We'll put a pine cone on the cover." If I were trying to sell the book to your average Christian, I would have put a cross made of twisted "tribal" black nails or a photo-shopped picture of Mel Gibson hanging on the cross. Or better yet make the cover have a faux finish - tattered and burned like a pirate-map - Christians seem to like stuff like that. But hey I don't even have a profile pic on my blog - but I can promise you it won't be a pine cone.
What is interesting about the Willard book is that I really struggled to read it six years ago. It just wasn't that entertaining. I blazed through it so I could write a highly insightful paper about how it should apply to every Christian and should be second to the Bible as a source of Christian authority. And then... it sat on the shelf for six years like a fine wine waiting for me to mature enough to read it again.
The book is like a pine cone. It is kind of spiky -you wouldn't want to just throw it at someone haphazardly. It is full of 19th century philosophy quotes and it asks the reader to fast and spend long periods of time alone. It even has a chapter on why Christianity has become too fun and not enough about self-denial.
So I am about half way through the book and I just realized what the pine cone is about. It's about life. A pine cone is this really spiky, nasty hard thing that is actually a giant seed - from the pine cone grows some of the largest trees - some hundreds of feet tall. And I guess this is like being a Christian. Following Jesus can sometimes be dry and scratchy and even painful - but it is always about big growth. Maybe the path of least resistance or of most entertainment isn't the path to growth. Maybe us Christian ought to be more pine coney - committed to the difficult things that will produce growth.
If you are interested in becoming a pine cone Christian, the book is called Spirit of the Disciplines.
Somebody in the marketing department must have been on their "A-game" that day-"I've got it! A pine cone! We'll put a pine cone on the cover." If I were trying to sell the book to your average Christian, I would have put a cross made of twisted "tribal" black nails or a photo-shopped picture of Mel Gibson hanging on the cross. Or better yet make the cover have a faux finish - tattered and burned like a pirate-map - Christians seem to like stuff like that. But hey I don't even have a profile pic on my blog - but I can promise you it won't be a pine cone.
What is interesting about the Willard book is that I really struggled to read it six years ago. It just wasn't that entertaining. I blazed through it so I could write a highly insightful paper about how it should apply to every Christian and should be second to the Bible as a source of Christian authority. And then... it sat on the shelf for six years like a fine wine waiting for me to mature enough to read it again.
The book is like a pine cone. It is kind of spiky -you wouldn't want to just throw it at someone haphazardly. It is full of 19th century philosophy quotes and it asks the reader to fast and spend long periods of time alone. It even has a chapter on why Christianity has become too fun and not enough about self-denial.
So I am about half way through the book and I just realized what the pine cone is about. It's about life. A pine cone is this really spiky, nasty hard thing that is actually a giant seed - from the pine cone grows some of the largest trees - some hundreds of feet tall. And I guess this is like being a Christian. Following Jesus can sometimes be dry and scratchy and even painful - but it is always about big growth. Maybe the path of least resistance or of most entertainment isn't the path to growth. Maybe us Christian ought to be more pine coney - committed to the difficult things that will produce growth.
If you are interested in becoming a pine cone Christian, the book is called Spirit of the Disciplines.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Sinful Salads and the Women who Eat Them
So I have been eating a lot of salad lately. Everyday I buy about a pound and a half of salad from the Metromart about a block from my place of employment. My wife says it costs too much and she's probably right. Most guys my age are in line for pizza or fried chicken at the hot counter across from the salad bar. But I am pretty chubby right now and am trying to make some lifestyle changes so my heart doesn't explode and I end up leaving my wife living in a big house with too many pets and a snowblower she is too small to operate. This would be tragic.
I have learned that I don't exactly fit the "salad demographic." My fellow saladians tend to be older overweight women who perpetually talk about being on a diet. Ok -Maybe only gender separates us. They are well-intentioned in their lettucey leanings but hiding cleverly behind the cabbage crests and broccoli burms lurk high calorie foes ready to strike as my my friends take an innocent stroll on beet boulevard. Most people start out pretty healthy with their salad - usually spinach and micro-greens and hippie stuff like that. At the beginning of the salad bar, most people have good intentions - positing rhetorical questions to themselves as they pile on the cucumbers a celery. "I wonder if Lance Armstrong and Michael Phelps eat like this every meal?" "If I keep this up, will I lose 5 pounds by the end of the month." At the begginning of the salad bar, all men (and women) are equal. But as people get further down the sneeze guard, they begin to fall into temptation. It starts innocently enough with things like raisins and sunflower seeds. But they can't let it stop there. Next thing you know some lady in front of you just scooped 4 large laddles full of hard boiled eggs on top of her salad. Like the beachhead at Normandy, the further you progress, the more carnage a person is likely to witness. Sweet Master! - some lady right behind me just dumped about 25 butter flavored croutons on top of that spinach. Hit the deck - she's called in a HiddenValley Ranch airstrike. "I am scared sarge." "We are all scared son." And the victims of the salad bar piled up. We enter into the blast zone - nothing but fatty crackers, parmesan, cheese stuffed olives and ham. At this point, one wonders about what legally consitutes a salad bar and could the metromart be held liable for this section of the "bar." And the worse part is that you can't put the stuff back - that's the rules. Once you dump a half pound of shredded cheddar on your salad, you bought it and have to eat it.
I have made it through the salad bar about 20 times now - like a WWII B-17 pilot I feel either really lucky or divinely protected. But I daily see people who think they are eating healthy walk out with cardiovascular catastrophe packed into their little clear container.
I wonder if we treat sin the same way. We all start out pretty good and imagine ourselves doing the right thing but when we get further down the road and the temptations get bigger, we fall. And the whole time we are deceiving ourselves into thinking that we are actually healthy when we are really not. Maybe we need to be honest about our choices. Maybe we need to either eat the pizza or eat the healthy salad and not try and do something in between and call it healthy.
I have learned that I don't exactly fit the "salad demographic." My fellow saladians tend to be older overweight women who perpetually talk about being on a diet. Ok -Maybe only gender separates us. They are well-intentioned in their lettucey leanings but hiding cleverly behind the cabbage crests and broccoli burms lurk high calorie foes ready to strike as my my friends take an innocent stroll on beet boulevard. Most people start out pretty healthy with their salad - usually spinach and micro-greens and hippie stuff like that. At the beginning of the salad bar, most people have good intentions - positing rhetorical questions to themselves as they pile on the cucumbers a celery. "I wonder if Lance Armstrong and Michael Phelps eat like this every meal?" "If I keep this up, will I lose 5 pounds by the end of the month." At the begginning of the salad bar, all men (and women) are equal. But as people get further down the sneeze guard, they begin to fall into temptation. It starts innocently enough with things like raisins and sunflower seeds. But they can't let it stop there. Next thing you know some lady in front of you just scooped 4 large laddles full of hard boiled eggs on top of her salad. Like the beachhead at Normandy, the further you progress, the more carnage a person is likely to witness. Sweet Master! - some lady right behind me just dumped about 25 butter flavored croutons on top of that spinach. Hit the deck - she's called in a HiddenValley Ranch airstrike. "I am scared sarge." "We are all scared son." And the victims of the salad bar piled up. We enter into the blast zone - nothing but fatty crackers, parmesan, cheese stuffed olives and ham. At this point, one wonders about what legally consitutes a salad bar and could the metromart be held liable for this section of the "bar." And the worse part is that you can't put the stuff back - that's the rules. Once you dump a half pound of shredded cheddar on your salad, you bought it and have to eat it.
I have made it through the salad bar about 20 times now - like a WWII B-17 pilot I feel either really lucky or divinely protected. But I daily see people who think they are eating healthy walk out with cardiovascular catastrophe packed into their little clear container.
I wonder if we treat sin the same way. We all start out pretty good and imagine ourselves doing the right thing but when we get further down the road and the temptations get bigger, we fall. And the whole time we are deceiving ourselves into thinking that we are actually healthy when we are really not. Maybe we need to be honest about our choices. Maybe we need to either eat the pizza or eat the healthy salad and not try and do something in between and call it healthy.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
God made Dirt...
So I thought maybe I would would write several paragraphs about digging a hole. If you have never dug a really deep, non-metaphorical hole before, you will fail to appreciate the satisfaction in such a task. Last summer, Kevin, the youth pastor at our church, and I introduced some neighborhood kids to a joy of digging a really deep hole.
Our church bought this house in a pretty rough neighborhood. In fact, we purchased the ugliest house on the ugliest block. It had broken windows, ripped out plumbing, used condoms, a garage full of trash, etc. This place made a burned down carnival outhouse look like Martha Stewart's summer estate. So our church raised a bunch of money and bought it. People in the suburbs thought we were either lunatics or liberals - viewing the latter as a far more serious psychological condition. Upon reflection, we might have been a little of both (not unlike our own vice president).
The house needed to be gutted and fixed. Most of the tasks required a lot of skill - so I wasn't of much use. The lead pastor and other skilled folks would give me the type of "jobs" that Mr. Miagi might have given Daniel Son - repetitive and simplistic. I was given the job of digging out old concrete fence posts in the backyard. "I am not sure who wants to do this. It is gonna suck," remarked one of the skilled guys will a pencil behind his ear and a speed square in his hand.And so it fell to me. I started digging and like Tom Sawyer whitewashing a fence, kids started coming out from all over the neighborhood to help me - begging and bargaining to get a chance to dig. We quickly ran out of shovels. I ran home and got a few more. And we dug.
Somewhere around the 2 foot mark, it became apparent that the concrete ran deep. Some of the kids were beginning to get discouraged. But we kept digging. And one middle school kid who was particularly short and stalky barked encouragements to us all like a miniature drill sargent. "Don't give up!" "You can do it!" "Just a little more." And the biggest kid and I were digging furiously and ever more strategically. The little kids were trying to stick their hands in the hole while we dug and one kid almost lost a finger. So there we were digging together. Struggling together. Everybody drawn to one task - taking down an old barrier that was making the neighborhood look like crap. And it hit me. This is church. This is Jesus. We don't need a worship band, a sermon, a preacher. We just need to dig more holes together - to fight together, to struggle together, to make life better for each other. Destroying fences that keep us apart.
We got it out. The concrete ran over four feet underground. Me and some kids.
Our church bought this house in a pretty rough neighborhood. In fact, we purchased the ugliest house on the ugliest block. It had broken windows, ripped out plumbing, used condoms, a garage full of trash, etc. This place made a burned down carnival outhouse look like Martha Stewart's summer estate. So our church raised a bunch of money and bought it. People in the suburbs thought we were either lunatics or liberals - viewing the latter as a far more serious psychological condition. Upon reflection, we might have been a little of both (not unlike our own vice president).
The house needed to be gutted and fixed. Most of the tasks required a lot of skill - so I wasn't of much use. The lead pastor and other skilled folks would give me the type of "jobs" that Mr. Miagi might have given Daniel Son - repetitive and simplistic. I was given the job of digging out old concrete fence posts in the backyard. "I am not sure who wants to do this. It is gonna suck," remarked one of the skilled guys will a pencil behind his ear and a speed square in his hand.And so it fell to me. I started digging and like Tom Sawyer whitewashing a fence, kids started coming out from all over the neighborhood to help me - begging and bargaining to get a chance to dig. We quickly ran out of shovels. I ran home and got a few more. And we dug.
Somewhere around the 2 foot mark, it became apparent that the concrete ran deep. Some of the kids were beginning to get discouraged. But we kept digging. And one middle school kid who was particularly short and stalky barked encouragements to us all like a miniature drill sargent. "Don't give up!" "You can do it!" "Just a little more." And the biggest kid and I were digging furiously and ever more strategically. The little kids were trying to stick their hands in the hole while we dug and one kid almost lost a finger. So there we were digging together. Struggling together. Everybody drawn to one task - taking down an old barrier that was making the neighborhood look like crap. And it hit me. This is church. This is Jesus. We don't need a worship band, a sermon, a preacher. We just need to dig more holes together - to fight together, to struggle together, to make life better for each other. Destroying fences that keep us apart.
We got it out. The concrete ran over four feet underground. Me and some kids.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Selfish Snowday's are for Atheists Too
Everyone becomes self-centered on a snowday (with the possible exception of snow removal professionals but even they are making money when it snows)
At church we are talking about sin and confession right now. My boss is not a Christian but we talk a lot about faith, goodness and the like. She emailed me last night after work about some psychologists who had been doing studies that showed that Christians aren't any more moral than atheists. Apparently Christians and Atheists were uspet. So I sent her this response. I used some big words like altruism and mentioned a philosopher so I thought it was blogworthy. And the context is that it snowed a foot yesterday and no one felt like we should be at work.
People are selfish – all of us. People would rather go home on a snow day and watch TV than work. I wanted to go home early yesterday even though it wasn't snowing that hard. I would have gone home early if you (my boss) had said “What do you think? Should we call it a day?” This is part of who we are. And whether we guise this in altruism or not, it seems that we are not by nature prone to extreme good nor are we naturally prone to extreme evil although we are capable of both. Anyone with a reasonable perception of humanity can see that we are somewhere in between – like a good and evil parfait. The vast majority of orphanages in Haiti are staffed by evangelical Christians yet a group of evangelical Christians is also trafficking kids. The paradox is there. No one is immune.
Christian and Hebrew scriptures never make the claim that people are all good or all evil. In fact, there are some commandments in the Hebrew Scriptures that have never been accomplished due to the severity of the cost. One of these is called the year of Jubilee – you may be familiar with it. In the year of Jubilee – every 49 years, the community of God was to cancel all debts, release all indentured servants and to return all property to its original owner – a total redistribution of wealth. This is one of those commandments we overlook because it is too hard.
I guess what I am saying is that Judeo Christian thought sees God as good. It sees us as made in the image of God – created for good but prone to sin and in need of redemption. Christianity seeks not to create good people but, like AA, to force us to take a serious look at ourselves and to admit our brokenness and capacity to harm others, our inability to fix ourselves. Therefore we must rely on something greater than ourselves for life.
So the distinguishing feature of Judeo-Christianity – grace comes into play. That God wouldn’t call us to be moral beings but forgiven beings who offer forgiveness to others. That we might, in the person of Christ and the crucifixion, see grace and forgiveness personified and then respond - not from compulsion to be better people but from a place of grateful response. Part of goodness is the ability to identify with the sufferings of others – to suffer with them. Christ suffers with us and for us. This is the height of “morality.” And at its best, Christianity is Desmond Tutu, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Martin Luther King Jr, William Wilberforce and a host of others who are willing to suffer in order to free others.
What I think is interesting is that everyone, regardless of religion, makes poor moral choices. Where do these ideas about poor moral choices come from? I believe the author (of the forwarded article) makes a valid point to assert that most of our ideas about moral choice hail from a Western cultural norm which is predominantly Judeo Christian. And while we are no longer Judeo Christian in our beliefs about the nature and existence of God, we still hold largely to the morality of Judeo-Christian beliefs. Even our beliefs about tolerance and equality flow from a system of law that was based largely on Judeo Christian ethics.
Alisdair McIntyre – currently a philosopher at Notre Dame wrote an entire book on these issues called, “After Virtue.” It was the greatest philosophical work of the last 30 years in the field of ethics. An atheist before writing the book, he described the irrational nature of trying to call others to a universal ethic while maintaining no rationale for the validity of that ethic. He was also very harsh about the probability of one person being their own moral guide – rather he thought this would justify a person in anything they wanted without recourse. He consequently converted to Catholicism. Perhaps an evolutionary view of ethics (as espoused in the article) is popular – we do what will allow us to survive. But I must at this point agree with C.S. Lewis that if we view everything in life from the viewpoint of natural selection or biological necessity, there is no higher meaning to love, art, poetry, music or social work other than the propagation of the species. This seems to devalue the very things that exhibit our humanity.
Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art... It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that give value to survival.
- C.S. Lewis
At church we are talking about sin and confession right now. My boss is not a Christian but we talk a lot about faith, goodness and the like. She emailed me last night after work about some psychologists who had been doing studies that showed that Christians aren't any more moral than atheists. Apparently Christians and Atheists were uspet. So I sent her this response. I used some big words like altruism and mentioned a philosopher so I thought it was blogworthy. And the context is that it snowed a foot yesterday and no one felt like we should be at work.
People are selfish – all of us. People would rather go home on a snow day and watch TV than work. I wanted to go home early yesterday even though it wasn't snowing that hard. I would have gone home early if you (my boss) had said “What do you think? Should we call it a day?” This is part of who we are. And whether we guise this in altruism or not, it seems that we are not by nature prone to extreme good nor are we naturally prone to extreme evil although we are capable of both. Anyone with a reasonable perception of humanity can see that we are somewhere in between – like a good and evil parfait. The vast majority of orphanages in Haiti are staffed by evangelical Christians yet a group of evangelical Christians is also trafficking kids. The paradox is there. No one is immune.
Christian and Hebrew scriptures never make the claim that people are all good or all evil. In fact, there are some commandments in the Hebrew Scriptures that have never been accomplished due to the severity of the cost. One of these is called the year of Jubilee – you may be familiar with it. In the year of Jubilee – every 49 years, the community of God was to cancel all debts, release all indentured servants and to return all property to its original owner – a total redistribution of wealth. This is one of those commandments we overlook because it is too hard.
I guess what I am saying is that Judeo Christian thought sees God as good. It sees us as made in the image of God – created for good but prone to sin and in need of redemption. Christianity seeks not to create good people but, like AA, to force us to take a serious look at ourselves and to admit our brokenness and capacity to harm others, our inability to fix ourselves. Therefore we must rely on something greater than ourselves for life.
So the distinguishing feature of Judeo-Christianity – grace comes into play. That God wouldn’t call us to be moral beings but forgiven beings who offer forgiveness to others. That we might, in the person of Christ and the crucifixion, see grace and forgiveness personified and then respond - not from compulsion to be better people but from a place of grateful response. Part of goodness is the ability to identify with the sufferings of others – to suffer with them. Christ suffers with us and for us. This is the height of “morality.” And at its best, Christianity is Desmond Tutu, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Martin Luther King Jr, William Wilberforce and a host of others who are willing to suffer in order to free others.
What I think is interesting is that everyone, regardless of religion, makes poor moral choices. Where do these ideas about poor moral choices come from? I believe the author (of the forwarded article) makes a valid point to assert that most of our ideas about moral choice hail from a Western cultural norm which is predominantly Judeo Christian. And while we are no longer Judeo Christian in our beliefs about the nature and existence of God, we still hold largely to the morality of Judeo-Christian beliefs. Even our beliefs about tolerance and equality flow from a system of law that was based largely on Judeo Christian ethics.
Alisdair McIntyre – currently a philosopher at Notre Dame wrote an entire book on these issues called, “After Virtue.” It was the greatest philosophical work of the last 30 years in the field of ethics. An atheist before writing the book, he described the irrational nature of trying to call others to a universal ethic while maintaining no rationale for the validity of that ethic. He was also very harsh about the probability of one person being their own moral guide – rather he thought this would justify a person in anything they wanted without recourse. He consequently converted to Catholicism. Perhaps an evolutionary view of ethics (as espoused in the article) is popular – we do what will allow us to survive. But I must at this point agree with C.S. Lewis that if we view everything in life from the viewpoint of natural selection or biological necessity, there is no higher meaning to love, art, poetry, music or social work other than the propagation of the species. This seems to devalue the very things that exhibit our humanity.
Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art... It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that give value to survival.
- C.S. Lewis
Artists and Addicts
Tom was a Meth dealer I met a few years back. The first thing I remember was that he was white but he talked like he was black. It wasn't that annoying, fake over the top type of diction that I sometimes see suburban white kids try and spit - Tom was smoother and more authentic - like he actually spent more time with black folks than white folks. He showed up one night to church because his mom asked him to go. He was pleasant and quiet and seemed to put on a good show for everybody. I asked him about the meaning of his tattoos which seemed to spark some interest. And we all sat down to see if you really could substitute some bald artist guy talking about painting for a sermon. That night we had this friend of mine presenting art and talking about how he connected to God through painting. It was abstract art - really abstract. And when something is too abstract, your average southerner often believes it might somehow be linked to the homosexual political agenda. But to the best of my knowledge it wasn't. Tom seemed to really connect with the art. We talked for almost an hour after the church service ended and I learned before he had become an addict, he was an artist. He invited me to come to his house the next week and check out some of his art. But before we could meet, I got a phone call from his mom. Tom had overdosed on cocaine and was in the ICU. Things weren't going well. He had actually "coded" before I got there and was resuscitated by the doctors. I prayed with the family. And they were hoping he would live but more than that they were hoping that this would be close enough to death for him to stop using. I could tell they knew he wouldn't stop using. He was 24 years old and had been in rehab six times. They didn't have enough emotional energy left to hope anymore. They were just tired - they had nothing to offer. Sometimes we hold on tightly to what is killing us. We become spiritual and emotional suicide bombers wrecking havoc on everyone in our path. The apostle Paul calls this being a slave to sin and death. Addicts are slaves. They cannot be free on their own. They will not. They are past the point of decision making. And if we are honest, we are all a little like Tom. We are slaves who have failed rehab over and over again. We need to come close enough to death that we will live again.
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