One morning at an ungodly hour, we and a mob of other crazy people traipsed through the streets of Asbury Park to watch a demolition company blow down a building. Demolition party!! Never been to one? Ought to try it. 3-2-1 CRACK-CRACK- CRACK- RUMBLE-BOOM! Yeah! Whoopie! “Let’s go home for breakfast.” Kind of reminded me of Christmas. Anticipation, ungodly hour, BOOM! ‘Let’s eat.’
As we traipsed back to the food I spied a bumper sticker. “I found Jesus! He was behind the sofa all the time.” It was another thing to giggle about on that brisk morning. But lately this bit of a giggle has come back to me in a more ominous fashion, a ghost of Christmas past.
My way of putting together manger scenes for the season is really geeky. It’s a process that unfolds throughout Advent, four weeks before Christmas. Mary and Joseph are on the road with the donkey. Angels flock around them. The shepherds are out in the hills with the sheep. A few of the angels are over there, keeping track of developments. The Magi are somewhere to the East. They don’t arrive until Epiphany, that is January 6th. By that time the shepherds are back in the hills. The baby Jesus is nowhere to be found until Christmas morning. Then He shows up in the manger. I know. Who’s got the time or energy to go through all of that? Hey, I’m a Christmas freak. You got a problem with that?
This year I’m taking care of four manger scenes, two in the church and two here at home. The same rules apply. So I set up Mary’s and Joseph’s on the road with the donkey’s, gathered the angels, etc. The babyies got hidden. Everything’s honkey-dorey. Then this week, Christmas week, I went to find the babies I’d stashed three weeks ago. I found one where I’d left it and then drew a blank. Somewhere in the singed and melted corners of my mind there is a memory of the other three hiding places. Uhhhh….
Now you see why the bumper sticker came back to me? It stopped being so funny. My father did that one year with a few Easter eggs. He forgot where he hid them. We found one in June. Whew! The smell led us to it. But the poor kid wouldn’t even offer that clue. By the time I tripped over the baby, he’d be a teenager. This would be a cute antic dote, adding to the Christmas lore of our family, ‘Somewhere in the house there rests a baby Jesus, waiting to be found.’ But the church manger scenes were going to look kind of weird without their focal point.
So I started the search. And in the process realized this is a very appropriate thing for us all to be doing. The shepherds did it. How many garage doors did they pound on looking for the kid in the manger? The Magi did it. It took them a while. Pretty poor intelligence work for the Persian NSA, if you ask me. So, now there was another player in the mix, the Shrewsberian Pastor, searching for the babe.
So far I found three of them. I’ve still got two days. Yes, I’ve already looked behind the sofa. But there’s no way I’m getting a camel.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Mitzvah
On the third Sunday in Advent my wife and I have the congregation over to our home for coffee hour. The Deacons do the cookies and the serving. We just do the house. Now, you need to understand that I’ve been collecting angels for years, decades. Somehow Santa’s got thrown into the mix, so the process of decorating for Christmas at the McKirachan house is a little over the top. Hundreds of God’s emissaries in every attitude and function adorn every nook and most crannies in our home. The Santa’s from all over the world take up any space left over and lately nutcrackers of all sizes and genres are infesting the den. Christmas is a tsunami around here. We always get a live tree, nine feet tall, not including the golden angel atop. This year I put 1200 lights on it before the ornaments. Yup, I’m nuts. But that’s Christmas.
We usually get a jump on the whole thing from Thanksgiving on. It’s part of my Advent meditation. This year, no such luck. The church is very busy, for all the best reasons. All of a sudden it was deadline city. We had to get it done, now. So we did.
By morning of the Joy Sunday, I was patrolling to make sure none of the Magi had left the radiator to the east of the cresh. Wise guys have a way of getting ahead of themselves. I went out on the front porch to make sure the lights were on and there lay a Styrofoam coffin, about five feet long and two and a half wide. There was a simple note on the lid. “For David.”
“Chris!” She came to see if I’d broken something. “Look.” Her response was less than illuminating, “What is it?” Mine was equally insightful, “I don’t have a clue.” “Looks like somebody sent us steaks.” With that she retreated into the house, leaving me to figure out what to do. I carry a pocket knife for such moments. I split the packing tape sealing the box. The lid creaked as I opened it.
There lay, face down in the packing an angel, a very large angel. I lifted it out. No light weight this one. Plaster by the heft. I staggered through the house carrying it, again yelling for my poor wife. Her eyes mirrored mine. “Who? What? How?” My sentiments exactly.
I doubt we’ll ever know how this winged messenger made it to our porch or who lugged it there. It’s a mitzvah, a gift given without letting the recipient know who the giver is. It’s a grace. “For David,” is all they left of their sentiment. The gift stands for itself, right inside our front door. The angel’s hands are extended palms up. Giving? Receiving? Welcoming? It is now part of our Christmas story.
“And the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shown around them… And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying, ‘Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace, good will toward men.’” God bless us every one.
We usually get a jump on the whole thing from Thanksgiving on. It’s part of my Advent meditation. This year, no such luck. The church is very busy, for all the best reasons. All of a sudden it was deadline city. We had to get it done, now. So we did.
By morning of the Joy Sunday, I was patrolling to make sure none of the Magi had left the radiator to the east of the cresh. Wise guys have a way of getting ahead of themselves. I went out on the front porch to make sure the lights were on and there lay a Styrofoam coffin, about five feet long and two and a half wide. There was a simple note on the lid. “For David.”
“Chris!” She came to see if I’d broken something. “Look.” Her response was less than illuminating, “What is it?” Mine was equally insightful, “I don’t have a clue.” “Looks like somebody sent us steaks.” With that she retreated into the house, leaving me to figure out what to do. I carry a pocket knife for such moments. I split the packing tape sealing the box. The lid creaked as I opened it.
There lay, face down in the packing an angel, a very large angel. I lifted it out. No light weight this one. Plaster by the heft. I staggered through the house carrying it, again yelling for my poor wife. Her eyes mirrored mine. “Who? What? How?” My sentiments exactly.
I doubt we’ll ever know how this winged messenger made it to our porch or who lugged it there. It’s a mitzvah, a gift given without letting the recipient know who the giver is. It’s a grace. “For David,” is all they left of their sentiment. The gift stands for itself, right inside our front door. The angel’s hands are extended palms up. Giving? Receiving? Welcoming? It is now part of our Christmas story.
“And the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shown around them… And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying, ‘Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace, good will toward men.’” God bless us every one.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Advent
Somewhere between dark and light there is a time
Made of shadows, where night holds fast to most
And all is painted with dim, less a color than a lack
Of all that allows diversity and joy.
Here dreams, ragged from waking, cobweb across our minds
Blunting moments with drifting tides of sense and nonsense
Flotsam left from what might have been, fears and hopes drowned
In sleep’s seas and washed to grate upon these indefinite shores
Awash in these tides we are drawn to a window, painted
By something new, from another place than night’s drifting currents
Dawn comes, not here yet, but there, out there where clouds awash
With pink and gold become other than shadow’s emissaries.
Oh, to live there, where color cuts with edges tinged with clarity
Where hope is not an illusion already torn, where shadows flee.
Oh to see, to be seen, to know and be known, to believe and claim myself
For better and for worse, whole and real, part of more than dreams.
Yes, we live in shadow. But the dawn is coming, from beyond our tiny control
Comes color with sound and song. Weep and laugh and celebrate.
Sleepers awake and leave the night to its own musty dreams.
Look beyond the shadows, there, there. Darkness’ hold is broken.
For unto us a child is born.
Made of shadows, where night holds fast to most
And all is painted with dim, less a color than a lack
Of all that allows diversity and joy.
Here dreams, ragged from waking, cobweb across our minds
Blunting moments with drifting tides of sense and nonsense
Flotsam left from what might have been, fears and hopes drowned
In sleep’s seas and washed to grate upon these indefinite shores
Awash in these tides we are drawn to a window, painted
By something new, from another place than night’s drifting currents
Dawn comes, not here yet, but there, out there where clouds awash
With pink and gold become other than shadow’s emissaries.
Oh, to live there, where color cuts with edges tinged with clarity
Where hope is not an illusion already torn, where shadows flee.
Oh to see, to be seen, to know and be known, to believe and claim myself
For better and for worse, whole and real, part of more than dreams.
Yes, we live in shadow. But the dawn is coming, from beyond our tiny control
Comes color with sound and song. Weep and laugh and celebrate.
Sleepers awake and leave the night to its own musty dreams.
Look beyond the shadows, there, there. Darkness’ hold is broken.
For unto us a child is born.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Big Blue
I like to think of myself as a peaceable man. But I have to confess. I’m a Giant’s fan. Football is not a peaceable sport. People get hurt. I should not enjoy this kind of thing. But watching the Dallas game last Monday, I began realizing I was considering the game in teleological terms. Eli Manning’s mistakes in the beginning of the game were the mistakes of youth, as he grew he demonstrated balance and wisdom as he picked apart the Dallas defense. I caught myself. When we become philosophic about our ism’s, national, sex, race, or any of the other horrors that run Lucifer’s agenda among us, we are finding ways of excusing the terrors we promulgate upon the universe.
Perhaps the only way of making any sense of my joy at Dallas’ defeat is to admit that I am a human being. That cannot be an excuse, but it can be an edge for growth. Perhaps somehow I can be a more peaceable Giant’s fan. Maybe I can grieve at the way the Giant’s defense stops their run and runs over their quarterback. Maybe I can affirm their attempts at finding a ray of hope in the brutal onslaught of BLUE.
Oh well, I could say I was trying that, but I’d be a hypocrite. I enjoy the game. I enjoy the competition. I love cheering for Big Blue.
Does that make me a bad man? Well, there’s one thing about being a Presbyterian. We accept the reality that we are broken beings. And we accept the truth that without God’s forgiveness we are all up the creek.
OK, got that covered. Whew! Now I can get back to the game. Go Giants!
You got a problem with that?
Friday, October 8, 2010
Deontologize the Principle of Parsimony
I had a hard time determining a major in college. I vacillated between History, Anthropology, English Lit., and Geology. I like field trips. There was one professor who fascinated me. He was older than the norm, played the cello, rode an ancient but shinny three speed bike around the campus, enjoyed good sherry, chuckled around his pipe, and faced the tirades of adolescent arrogance with the aplomb of calm courage. His questions bothered me like fleas. I itched at them long after class. Dr Strodach was a Philosophy professor. I took any class that had his name on it. I learned. He’s why I majored in Philosophy. My fathers Phd from Princeton in Metaphysical Philosophy had absolutely nothing to do with it. Congenital disorders often go unnoticed.
Dr Strodach gently goaded us toward a consideration of our own place in the world by inviting us to consider the monsters of the contemplative discipline. He refused to accept rote repetition of Plato. He wanted us to wrestle with the shadows on the wall of our own lives. What were our ideals? He poked holes in each and every balloon I lofted. And in the grand deflation I discovered how the defense of my own foolishness limited my journey. He taught me not to tolerate fools. But he taught me how to have enough manners to not make myself one by considering myself far separated from their foolishness. This guy was the real deal. He reminded me of my father without all the Oedipal baggage.
In my Senior year he got sick. Not the flue kind, the hospital surgery kind. We had just started a year long trek through the metaphysicians. I was devastated. His replacement was a teacher who shall not be named here. The guy made me nuts. He loved to demonstrate his superior knowledge and use it like a lash to move us through the material. He was boring in lecture and did not deal well with questions no matter how insightful or desperate they were. The day we dealt with Occum’s razor was the final straw. This philosophic principle came from a Scottish monk, naturally. He said, the simplest construction is best, the KISS principle comes from him. Keep it simple stupid. The not-so-esteemed professor held forth on the metaphysical chaos that swirls about our heads, calling forth Occum as the shining knight of logic to wield his razor in our defense. He then announced just what that razor was. “Deontologize the principle of parsimony.” It was like getting a garbage compactor for a romantic gift(that’s another story). It was like… This…boob(and that’s generous) just cut himself with the razor he was showing us how to use. So much for keeping it simple.
In my stunned bewilderment, I suddenly heard Dr Strodach chuckling. He never took his pipe out of his mouth. He just chuckled around it. I calmly held up my hand. Our ranting boob of a professor ground to a halt and glared at me. Raising his chin as to consider what kind of bug was presuming to disturb him, he pontificated, “Yes?” He made it a three syllable word.
The bug humbly asked, “Sir, what does ‘deontologize’ mean?”
The boob stared at me, considering exactly what would be the best way to squash me. But realizing this gave him another moment to demonstrate his mental superiority he launched into a tirade of multisylabic baulderdash. Finally considering me sufficiently squashed he checked his notes and rebooted his destruction of Occum. I raised my hand again. He shuddered to another halt. He again addressed me with all the scorn of a Phd to a fool. “Yes?” This time it was a four syllable word.
The bug humbly begged, “Sir, what does ‘parsimony’ mean?
Now to you this may not seem like a horribly offensive set of questions. You may have been wondering yourself. But to the class who had become numb under his lash it was clear there was a ray of Strodach sunshine beaming into our darkness. The boob stared at me for a good thirty seconds, looked at his notes and dismissed the class.
Small victories mean a lot to slaves. We had to pass the class with a B if we were Philosophy majors. Small victory or not, we were still bugs in the amber of multisylabic baulderdash. I considered this as I plodded into the boob’s room for the next class. I was waiting to pay for my small victory. I was late. The class was silent as I closed the door. I was afraid to turn around. As I came into the room I had seen Dr Strodach sitting on the window sill smiling around his pipe. I was terrified that I would turn around and realize I was still in the boob’s hell.
Dr Strodach said to my back, “What’s the matter Mr. McKirachan? I thought you believed in the resurrection of the body.”
That good humored master teacher gave me a gift, ‘sweeter than honey.’ He taught me the validity of grace under fire, and demonstrated the courage to claim it. He also taught me that the truth will make us free.
God bless you Dr Strodach.
Dr Strodach gently goaded us toward a consideration of our own place in the world by inviting us to consider the monsters of the contemplative discipline. He refused to accept rote repetition of Plato. He wanted us to wrestle with the shadows on the wall of our own lives. What were our ideals? He poked holes in each and every balloon I lofted. And in the grand deflation I discovered how the defense of my own foolishness limited my journey. He taught me not to tolerate fools. But he taught me how to have enough manners to not make myself one by considering myself far separated from their foolishness. This guy was the real deal. He reminded me of my father without all the Oedipal baggage.
In my Senior year he got sick. Not the flue kind, the hospital surgery kind. We had just started a year long trek through the metaphysicians. I was devastated. His replacement was a teacher who shall not be named here. The guy made me nuts. He loved to demonstrate his superior knowledge and use it like a lash to move us through the material. He was boring in lecture and did not deal well with questions no matter how insightful or desperate they were. The day we dealt with Occum’s razor was the final straw. This philosophic principle came from a Scottish monk, naturally. He said, the simplest construction is best, the KISS principle comes from him. Keep it simple stupid. The not-so-esteemed professor held forth on the metaphysical chaos that swirls about our heads, calling forth Occum as the shining knight of logic to wield his razor in our defense. He then announced just what that razor was. “Deontologize the principle of parsimony.” It was like getting a garbage compactor for a romantic gift(that’s another story). It was like… This…boob(and that’s generous) just cut himself with the razor he was showing us how to use. So much for keeping it simple.
In my stunned bewilderment, I suddenly heard Dr Strodach chuckling. He never took his pipe out of his mouth. He just chuckled around it. I calmly held up my hand. Our ranting boob of a professor ground to a halt and glared at me. Raising his chin as to consider what kind of bug was presuming to disturb him, he pontificated, “Yes?” He made it a three syllable word.
The bug humbly asked, “Sir, what does ‘deontologize’ mean?”
The boob stared at me, considering exactly what would be the best way to squash me. But realizing this gave him another moment to demonstrate his mental superiority he launched into a tirade of multisylabic baulderdash. Finally considering me sufficiently squashed he checked his notes and rebooted his destruction of Occum. I raised my hand again. He shuddered to another halt. He again addressed me with all the scorn of a Phd to a fool. “Yes?” This time it was a four syllable word.
The bug humbly begged, “Sir, what does ‘parsimony’ mean?
Now to you this may not seem like a horribly offensive set of questions. You may have been wondering yourself. But to the class who had become numb under his lash it was clear there was a ray of Strodach sunshine beaming into our darkness. The boob stared at me for a good thirty seconds, looked at his notes and dismissed the class.
Small victories mean a lot to slaves. We had to pass the class with a B if we were Philosophy majors. Small victory or not, we were still bugs in the amber of multisylabic baulderdash. I considered this as I plodded into the boob’s room for the next class. I was waiting to pay for my small victory. I was late. The class was silent as I closed the door. I was afraid to turn around. As I came into the room I had seen Dr Strodach sitting on the window sill smiling around his pipe. I was terrified that I would turn around and realize I was still in the boob’s hell.
Dr Strodach said to my back, “What’s the matter Mr. McKirachan? I thought you believed in the resurrection of the body.”
That good humored master teacher gave me a gift, ‘sweeter than honey.’ He taught me the validity of grace under fire, and demonstrated the courage to claim it. He also taught me that the truth will make us free.
God bless you Dr Strodach.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
What's Next
This summer has been different. Things usually, at least for the last fourteen years have slown down. There has been time between activities, meetings, crises. The have to’s haven’t been packed in against each other. There has been room to breathe, to water the garden, to paint the porch, to listen to the birds.
This summer has been different. Each day resembles the one before, an adventure in shuffling priorities, triage at its best, or worst. I would assign this to my advancing chronological development, creeky knees to boot, but other people are having a hard time fitting in the meetings that I need to have with them because they’ve got too much to get done this week. What about next? No, wait…. It ain’t just me.
I called a Pastor’s office the other day, to get the names of people on a committee I’m chairing. Gotta set up a meeting. He was on vacation. I said, “Oh, good.” His Ad. Min. told me I could e-mail him, he would be back to me within twenty four hours. “But he’s on vacation.” “Well,” she said with some sadness in her voice, “he took his blackberry.”
I heard a lecture by a professor on technology. He’s an expert on oil extraction. He said our technology, what we have invented is out beyond our ability to manage it. We’ve got toys that we can’t handle. They’ve evolved faster than we have. Thus blow outs in the Gulf. But I think we’ve got blow outs a lot closer to home. We think we need to be connected. To what? We’ve got so much coming in all the time, we have no place to stand that is not pulsing with stuff that we ‘have to’ deal with, emotionally, logistically, spiritually.
If we are to be human, we can’t be servants of our machines, or the multiple agendas of others. We need places and times, UN-connected. We need to claim some silence. We need to listen to the languages of the earth and the whispers of the wind. We need to be quiet long enough to hear God’s still small voice.
I think I’ll cancel a few things and go paint the porch.
This summer has been different. Each day resembles the one before, an adventure in shuffling priorities, triage at its best, or worst. I would assign this to my advancing chronological development, creeky knees to boot, but other people are having a hard time fitting in the meetings that I need to have with them because they’ve got too much to get done this week. What about next? No, wait…. It ain’t just me.
I called a Pastor’s office the other day, to get the names of people on a committee I’m chairing. Gotta set up a meeting. He was on vacation. I said, “Oh, good.” His Ad. Min. told me I could e-mail him, he would be back to me within twenty four hours. “But he’s on vacation.” “Well,” she said with some sadness in her voice, “he took his blackberry.”
I heard a lecture by a professor on technology. He’s an expert on oil extraction. He said our technology, what we have invented is out beyond our ability to manage it. We’ve got toys that we can’t handle. They’ve evolved faster than we have. Thus blow outs in the Gulf. But I think we’ve got blow outs a lot closer to home. We think we need to be connected. To what? We’ve got so much coming in all the time, we have no place to stand that is not pulsing with stuff that we ‘have to’ deal with, emotionally, logistically, spiritually.
If we are to be human, we can’t be servants of our machines, or the multiple agendas of others. We need places and times, UN-connected. We need to claim some silence. We need to listen to the languages of the earth and the whispers of the wind. We need to be quiet long enough to hear God’s still small voice.
I think I’ll cancel a few things and go paint the porch.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Why can't they...
I’ve had a few cell phones by this time. My kids think I should get a new one weekly it seems. Sure, I’m up for a deal. I can get one of those snap front, smaller than a business card, computer literate, able to take movies, play movies, compute the orbits of most asteroids, and make sure I don’t miss any appointments machines. I think once in a while you can even talk to other people on it, with and without your thumbs. I’d love to have one. There’s only one problem. When you try to recharge it, you have to find a whole new system for plugging it into the wall. Where do you plug the thing into the phone? And if you lose the charger, none of the other chargers that have been accumulating ever since you’ve been been using cell phones match the plug in dingus. They’re like sox. None of them match. The whole thing just isn’t worth it.
I’m positive it’s a conspiracy. I’m not sure what they’re conspiring to accomplish, but it’s nefarious, no doubt about it. There is absolutely no reason they shouldn’t match, unless… I’ve got it! They don’t want us to plug in our phones! Hmmm…
I think I need to talk to somebody about this. But my phone needs recharging.
I’m positive it’s a conspiracy. I’m not sure what they’re conspiring to accomplish, but it’s nefarious, no doubt about it. There is absolutely no reason they shouldn’t match, unless… I’ve got it! They don’t want us to plug in our phones! Hmmm…
I think I need to talk to somebody about this. But my phone needs recharging.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Drought
July hasn’t only brought heat. It was like a timer switch was hooked to the clouds. Droughts are nothing new. They’re a result of so many random bits and pieces of atmospheric minutia that even experts who study the complicated engine can’t predict what’s next. It’s the butterfly moving its wings in China affecting the path of a tornado in Kansas phenomenon. Who knows what causes drought?
Two of my friends have four kids close in age. Camping was their way to get out of the house without taking out a mortgage. Every time they put up the tent, wherever, whenever, it rained. Camping in the rain became normal for them. One day I came over to their house during a drought. It hadn’t rained in three weeks. The tent was set up in the back yard. “The kids camping out tonight?” “No, I figured it’s the best way to break the drought.” We laughed. I had to turn on the wipers for the drive home.
Who knows? Someone once told me that a coincidence is God’s way of being subtle. I have a hard time with some sort of deterministic dude running the show. But I like the subtlety thing. So much of what happens is a result of so many other things. Nothing specifically determines the outcome, but each and every is significant. And we have absolutely no idea how one works with the others to create a result far beyond our expectations. We just aren’t that aware.
But we can be more aware. There are so many ways we do have direct power. A word, a touch, subtle, yet so powerful. We discount our own authority, our own capability. We live at such an intersection of potential and actual, of spiritual and material. Both have incredible power. Both move and change and offer us moments of synergy, of energy output that transcends the energy inputs. To be part of those moments, to reach out and allow creative potential to move through us takes either an incredibly fortunate accident or wisdom that allows us to see into the chaos and patterns of our existence. Fortune is luck. And unless we want to rely on such a fickle acquaintance, we must spend some time and energy paying attention to the currents and tides that ebb and flow all around us and perhaps to others who already have.
Most are more than willing to duck. It’s easier to exist than it is to live. Habits are simple. We get efficient at accomplishing them. But there’s this lovely feeling when the drops begin plopping down so big they splash. The smell of the breeze as it carries the promise of coming rain. And we know that somewhere, somehow something has harmonized with something else and moved reality. Times like these make it worth wondering and reading and dreaming and listening to people and to tree frogs. For at such times we understand, with senses that so transcend formula as to make them silly. We understand that we are part of it all, connected, organically tangled with all of the world and even beyond.
There can be no denying all of this. Well, denial is possible but what does it accomplish except to make a fool of the denier. We are tangled together. What we do effects everything, including each other. So, if we would not be fools, it’s time to start paying attention to the score. We’ve got some dancing to do.
Time to go find my tent. Or maybe it’s specifically their tent. I think they sold it. I wonder if the new owners can make it work. Maybe it’s the tent in conjunction with the laughter of our kids. Looks like we’ve got some studying to do. After all, life is for learning.
Two of my friends have four kids close in age. Camping was their way to get out of the house without taking out a mortgage. Every time they put up the tent, wherever, whenever, it rained. Camping in the rain became normal for them. One day I came over to their house during a drought. It hadn’t rained in three weeks. The tent was set up in the back yard. “The kids camping out tonight?” “No, I figured it’s the best way to break the drought.” We laughed. I had to turn on the wipers for the drive home.
Who knows? Someone once told me that a coincidence is God’s way of being subtle. I have a hard time with some sort of deterministic dude running the show. But I like the subtlety thing. So much of what happens is a result of so many other things. Nothing specifically determines the outcome, but each and every is significant. And we have absolutely no idea how one works with the others to create a result far beyond our expectations. We just aren’t that aware.
But we can be more aware. There are so many ways we do have direct power. A word, a touch, subtle, yet so powerful. We discount our own authority, our own capability. We live at such an intersection of potential and actual, of spiritual and material. Both have incredible power. Both move and change and offer us moments of synergy, of energy output that transcends the energy inputs. To be part of those moments, to reach out and allow creative potential to move through us takes either an incredibly fortunate accident or wisdom that allows us to see into the chaos and patterns of our existence. Fortune is luck. And unless we want to rely on such a fickle acquaintance, we must spend some time and energy paying attention to the currents and tides that ebb and flow all around us and perhaps to others who already have.
Most are more than willing to duck. It’s easier to exist than it is to live. Habits are simple. We get efficient at accomplishing them. But there’s this lovely feeling when the drops begin plopping down so big they splash. The smell of the breeze as it carries the promise of coming rain. And we know that somewhere, somehow something has harmonized with something else and moved reality. Times like these make it worth wondering and reading and dreaming and listening to people and to tree frogs. For at such times we understand, with senses that so transcend formula as to make them silly. We understand that we are part of it all, connected, organically tangled with all of the world and even beyond.
There can be no denying all of this. Well, denial is possible but what does it accomplish except to make a fool of the denier. We are tangled together. What we do effects everything, including each other. So, if we would not be fools, it’s time to start paying attention to the score. We’ve got some dancing to do.
Time to go find my tent. Or maybe it’s specifically their tent. I think they sold it. I wonder if the new owners can make it work. Maybe it’s the tent in conjunction with the laughter of our kids. Looks like we’ve got some studying to do. After all, life is for learning.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Whose fault is it?
I looked at pictures of oil soaked sea birds today. I’m not good at watching animals suffer. In some ways it’s easier for me to deal with human suffering than to see the suffering of animals. Don’t judge my lack of empathy. I think it has something to do with innocence. They are just being where they are. Doing what they do and they have no hope of competing with our capabilities. Our capabilities to destroy, pollute, damage, and make a profit in the process far exceed their ability to survive. So, the pictures bothered me.
The metaphorical dichotomies that resonate through the scenes are hard to handle. Flight and freedom traded for limitation and death, a deal based on the appetite of our machines. But this isn’t about all of that. This is about the responses written by other people who looked at the pictures.
There were a few who empathized. Almost all of them were looking for someone to blame. There were a few common targets. The president of our country dominated the list. Then there were the people running BP. Blame’s a great thing. It points a finger, corners another between vengeance and self righteousness. The blamed have no way out because the only reason anyone has to blame is to convince themselves that they are powerful. Vengeance always demonstrates a good reason to walk away from the avenger. Their motives have nothing to do with solving anything near the problem. And there they all were, spouting good reasons to walk away from them and refusing to address anything near the pain occurring on the beaches or the marshes.
We are all connected, whether we acknowledge it or not. We are bound to each other whatever our opinion of each other. But more, when we try to use each other for our own emotional gratification we reduce our ability to cooperate, to share responsibility. It occurs to me we don’t want to take responsibility, we don’t want to share in creating a solution or a better world. We want to beat our chests and act powerful. We want to rant and rave and sit in judgment. It is so much more comfortable than actually trying to help. It is so much more convenient than to reduce our dependence on the wells and the refineries. It is so much neater than putting on gloves and washing off the birds.
When are we going to stop throwing stones? When are we going to stop wasting opportunities to actually start being a people who are willing to be responsible? The birds are waiting. So are our children. Will we teach them to be responsible or will they be just like us.
The metaphorical dichotomies that resonate through the scenes are hard to handle. Flight and freedom traded for limitation and death, a deal based on the appetite of our machines. But this isn’t about all of that. This is about the responses written by other people who looked at the pictures.
There were a few who empathized. Almost all of them were looking for someone to blame. There were a few common targets. The president of our country dominated the list. Then there were the people running BP. Blame’s a great thing. It points a finger, corners another between vengeance and self righteousness. The blamed have no way out because the only reason anyone has to blame is to convince themselves that they are powerful. Vengeance always demonstrates a good reason to walk away from the avenger. Their motives have nothing to do with solving anything near the problem. And there they all were, spouting good reasons to walk away from them and refusing to address anything near the pain occurring on the beaches or the marshes.
We are all connected, whether we acknowledge it or not. We are bound to each other whatever our opinion of each other. But more, when we try to use each other for our own emotional gratification we reduce our ability to cooperate, to share responsibility. It occurs to me we don’t want to take responsibility, we don’t want to share in creating a solution or a better world. We want to beat our chests and act powerful. We want to rant and rave and sit in judgment. It is so much more comfortable than actually trying to help. It is so much more convenient than to reduce our dependence on the wells and the refineries. It is so much neater than putting on gloves and washing off the birds.
When are we going to stop throwing stones? When are we going to stop wasting opportunities to actually start being a people who are willing to be responsible? The birds are waiting. So are our children. Will we teach them to be responsible or will they be just like us.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Ya’ never know…
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, the author of the Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner (“Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink.”) was known to his contemporaries as a literary critic. He wrote reviews of poems and novels and stories and essays. He also wrote essays on how to write. He said in one of those essays that good fiction is that which “…creates a willing suspension of disbelief.”
I don’t know about you, but I find it hard to understand the world and all its amazing intricacies, let alone people and all of their various behaviors. Then there’s myself. I know me pretty well, and I still don’t get it sometimes when I react to this or that. Life really is a mystery, so far transcending my feeble perspective as to make me feel down right childish every time I consider “…the moon and the stars which God has ordained. What are we that Thou art mindful of us or our children that you care for us.” The writer of the 8th Psalm had the same problem I do. The size and complexity of the universe is stunning.
I remember, not that long ago, not that far away, I felt daunted by this, almost crushed. It was all too much for me. But at the time so was life. Right now, my life is a good place to be. I am very blessed with family and friends and meaningful work. But this ‘good life,’ this sense that my life is meaningful and blessed is not founded on these delightful accidents. If these were life’s secrets there would be no mystery involved. All we would need is a nice place to live and a good car and a few tolerant people around us and we’d be happy as clams. No, I think we are called to more than comfort.
This is where STC comes in. I think his guidance about fiction has something to do with finding meaning in life and our place in it. If we can’t suspend our disbelief, there is no reason to help anybody, to feed the hungry, to forgive, to be generous, to appreciate, or to learn. We will live locked behind defenses of opinion and prejudice, excluding anything that doesn’t fit into our neat and tidy systems. And when we are challenged, we’ll either get mad or we’ll be dismissive, much as the smart ones were when a few weirdo’s said the Earth might not be flat.
Maybe we all need to dream a bit more. What could be? Ya’ never know…
I don’t know about you, but I find it hard to understand the world and all its amazing intricacies, let alone people and all of their various behaviors. Then there’s myself. I know me pretty well, and I still don’t get it sometimes when I react to this or that. Life really is a mystery, so far transcending my feeble perspective as to make me feel down right childish every time I consider “…the moon and the stars which God has ordained. What are we that Thou art mindful of us or our children that you care for us.” The writer of the 8th Psalm had the same problem I do. The size and complexity of the universe is stunning.
I remember, not that long ago, not that far away, I felt daunted by this, almost crushed. It was all too much for me. But at the time so was life. Right now, my life is a good place to be. I am very blessed with family and friends and meaningful work. But this ‘good life,’ this sense that my life is meaningful and blessed is not founded on these delightful accidents. If these were life’s secrets there would be no mystery involved. All we would need is a nice place to live and a good car and a few tolerant people around us and we’d be happy as clams. No, I think we are called to more than comfort.
This is where STC comes in. I think his guidance about fiction has something to do with finding meaning in life and our place in it. If we can’t suspend our disbelief, there is no reason to help anybody, to feed the hungry, to forgive, to be generous, to appreciate, or to learn. We will live locked behind defenses of opinion and prejudice, excluding anything that doesn’t fit into our neat and tidy systems. And when we are challenged, we’ll either get mad or we’ll be dismissive, much as the smart ones were when a few weirdo’s said the Earth might not be flat.
Maybe we all need to dream a bit more. What could be? Ya’ never know…
Solitary Confinement
Psalm 22: 1-15
There are many hackles that rise when the subject of our penal system comes up. The issue of keeping our population safe from the criminal element gives rise to enough polemic to destroy any good time. But there is one strange statistic I recently ran into that made me even more disappointed with the way we approach people who have committed crimes than I had been previously.
I found out that wardens are united in their desire to abolish one of the “normalities” of prison. Affectionately known as the hole or the cooler solitary confinement is seen by these very pragmatic and experiential experts in the discipline of keeping some sort of order within a pressure cooker as counter productive. Some of them put forward more idealistic bases for their desire to dump this punitive institution. The word torture comes up regularly, supported by studies of psychologists that demonstrate the sanity bending cost of isolating individuals for prolonged periods of time. But,others of the wardens, arguing more from a practical perspective say that it does nothing except make the inmates more nuts than they were when they were first dumped into the hole. And the wardens don’t want to be doing anything to make inmates more nuts. It is counter productive. It is directly opposed to their mission of keeping order in the prison.
So why not abolish it? If these experts are unanimous, what’s the problem? The answer is simple. Voters and therefore politicians want to make sure these criminals suffer. Getting rid of the hole would be a sign of going light on crime. Reality doesn’t seem to matter. Expert opinion is irrelevant.
The worst torture a human being can suffer is a sense of isolation. It has been shown to kill infants. Taken care of in every other way, without the intimacy of touch they die. We adults may be better at functioning alone, but flourishing is another story.
This psalm starts with the wail of an abandoned child and goes down hill from there. With few glimmers during the free-fall of despair, we are confronted with a hopeless human being. But it starts with isolation.
There are few things I fear, truly fear. I’m not courageous. It’s just that I’ve lived through fire and blood and humiliation and failure and pain and my own stupidity enough times to realize that they hurt, but here I am, still cheering for the N Y Giants and agog about butterflies. Life goes on. I guess you call that perspective. But down deep inside there is this demon named abandonment, Abby for short, that can yank my chain even on a good day. Without love, without community, without the sense that even in darkness that still small voice will whisper to me, I am lost.
I am grateful for this psalm. I am more grateful that Jesus was willing to use it to express his loneliness on the cross. It reminds me that the Lord has been here before me, even in the darkness of my own isolation. But I can’t rest thinking that we deliberately do that to people. I’d like to hear Jesus’ comment on that one. I wonder what He’d say to us.
There are many hackles that rise when the subject of our penal system comes up. The issue of keeping our population safe from the criminal element gives rise to enough polemic to destroy any good time. But there is one strange statistic I recently ran into that made me even more disappointed with the way we approach people who have committed crimes than I had been previously.
I found out that wardens are united in their desire to abolish one of the “normalities” of prison. Affectionately known as the hole or the cooler solitary confinement is seen by these very pragmatic and experiential experts in the discipline of keeping some sort of order within a pressure cooker as counter productive. Some of them put forward more idealistic bases for their desire to dump this punitive institution. The word torture comes up regularly, supported by studies of psychologists that demonstrate the sanity bending cost of isolating individuals for prolonged periods of time. But,others of the wardens, arguing more from a practical perspective say that it does nothing except make the inmates more nuts than they were when they were first dumped into the hole. And the wardens don’t want to be doing anything to make inmates more nuts. It is counter productive. It is directly opposed to their mission of keeping order in the prison.
So why not abolish it? If these experts are unanimous, what’s the problem? The answer is simple. Voters and therefore politicians want to make sure these criminals suffer. Getting rid of the hole would be a sign of going light on crime. Reality doesn’t seem to matter. Expert opinion is irrelevant.
The worst torture a human being can suffer is a sense of isolation. It has been shown to kill infants. Taken care of in every other way, without the intimacy of touch they die. We adults may be better at functioning alone, but flourishing is another story.
This psalm starts with the wail of an abandoned child and goes down hill from there. With few glimmers during the free-fall of despair, we are confronted with a hopeless human being. But it starts with isolation.
There are few things I fear, truly fear. I’m not courageous. It’s just that I’ve lived through fire and blood and humiliation and failure and pain and my own stupidity enough times to realize that they hurt, but here I am, still cheering for the N Y Giants and agog about butterflies. Life goes on. I guess you call that perspective. But down deep inside there is this demon named abandonment, Abby for short, that can yank my chain even on a good day. Without love, without community, without the sense that even in darkness that still small voice will whisper to me, I am lost.
I am grateful for this psalm. I am more grateful that Jesus was willing to use it to express his loneliness on the cross. It reminds me that the Lord has been here before me, even in the darkness of my own isolation. But I can’t rest thinking that we deliberately do that to people. I’d like to hear Jesus’ comment on that one. I wonder what He’d say to us.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
the Rev.
We just came down to Florida to visit my Mother and Father in law. This is a vacation of the first order. Down here we are taken care of. She knows I like espresso, so she bought a machine, so I wouldn’t have to “…put up with regular coffee.” By the time we go home, we’re relaxed. Who wouldn’t be?
One of the questions my father-in-law asked me before the two of us when out to visit a friend of his was, “How do you like to be addressed?”
I told him, “Your-imperial-highness, ruler-of-the-known-universe-and-monarch-of-all-that-is would be nice.” He laughed, thank God. The whole thing had to do with Reverend. I told him that we don’t usually introduce lawyers with “esquire” after their name, I’m a professional, just use my name unless we’re in a professional setting and then call me “David.” I told him I’ve been using that name for over 60 years, it will do fine.
The whole priestly role thing is an interesting nut to crack. I’m very privileged to be part of the profession that represents something far beyond myself or my own agenda. I like being the shaman of the community. I like comforting, proclaiming, leading, reminding, teaching… etc. I like the role. I even like taking care of the worship space and doing stuff that draws boundaries in time and space to consecrate moments and places for the consideration of power and depth beyond us. If calling me, “The Reverend” is an acknowledgement of respect for the office, the role and thus the power and depth that it represents, fine. But every time somebody says it, I feel like having a class, affirming their willingness to acknowledge me, but also cautioning them not to consider me as a locus of holiness.
That’s a great way to be a wet blanket at social gatherings. So, most of the time I roll with it. I don’t know. Maybe we need to label the shaman. On the other hand, there are different gifts but it is the same spirit who gives them. I think I’ll stick with David. But I’d settle for ruler-of-the- known-universe. Has a nice ring to it.
One of the questions my father-in-law asked me before the two of us when out to visit a friend of his was, “How do you like to be addressed?”
I told him, “Your-imperial-highness, ruler-of-the-known-universe-and-monarch-of-all-that-is would be nice.” He laughed, thank God. The whole thing had to do with Reverend. I told him that we don’t usually introduce lawyers with “esquire” after their name, I’m a professional, just use my name unless we’re in a professional setting and then call me “David.” I told him I’ve been using that name for over 60 years, it will do fine.
The whole priestly role thing is an interesting nut to crack. I’m very privileged to be part of the profession that represents something far beyond myself or my own agenda. I like being the shaman of the community. I like comforting, proclaiming, leading, reminding, teaching… etc. I like the role. I even like taking care of the worship space and doing stuff that draws boundaries in time and space to consecrate moments and places for the consideration of power and depth beyond us. If calling me, “The Reverend” is an acknowledgement of respect for the office, the role and thus the power and depth that it represents, fine. But every time somebody says it, I feel like having a class, affirming their willingness to acknowledge me, but also cautioning them not to consider me as a locus of holiness.
That’s a great way to be a wet blanket at social gatherings. So, most of the time I roll with it. I don’t know. Maybe we need to label the shaman. On the other hand, there are different gifts but it is the same spirit who gives them. I think I’ll stick with David. But I’d settle for ruler-of-the- known-universe. Has a nice ring to it.
Monday, May 3, 2010
I’d like to thank…
I’m receiving an award tonight. That may seem like small change to most of you, but other than my degrees, a bronze medal in the Mid Atlantic Conference, and some thank you’s, I’ve never received an award. I didn’t really notice that bit of trivia until I realized I had to write an acceptance speech. I’ve written books, sermons, lectures, essays, poems, eulogies, research papers, treatises, and songs, but I’ve never written an acceptance speech. That’s when it occurred to me, I’d never been given an award.
“I’d like to thank the judges and my wife and my mom…” Some how the models that I’d gleaned from the few times I’d stumbled or been pulled into the Oscar show didn’t seem to fill the bill. I was puzzled and nonpulsed.
This award is from the American Conference on Diversity. The Rabbi and I are both getting it for our work in “…championing the cause of encouraging, facilitating, enhancing, and helping to create inclusive communities.” There’s no mention of eating, drinking, laughing, supporting, sharing family ties, or being human together. But we’re getting the award anyway.
I want to say something about our shared faith. I want to say something about the power and relevance of communities of faith. We get such bad press, admittedly some of it deserved. But in spite of all the negetivity and dismissivism (how's that for a new word?) I really believe we've got something to offer. So, here's what I came up with.
“Three years ago, I got married. I learned that being different from each other is good. I’m a slow learner. My wife’s an excellent teacher.
If communities of faith are to have any authenticity or integrity in this post modern age, we must reach toward something more than a recitation of our version of history or sad litanies of dogma. We must remember that faith is an affirmation of something far beyond our understanding or our limitations. We represent the presence of something that can never be limited or boxed. These two communities of faith have had a close relationship for decades. They will never be the same. But because of their relationship and because of their difference, they learn. And because of our learning, and in the midst of it, we rejoice. And I know that our God does too. Thank you.”
It's not Lincoln, but it'll float.
“I’d like to thank the judges and my wife and my mom…” Some how the models that I’d gleaned from the few times I’d stumbled or been pulled into the Oscar show didn’t seem to fill the bill. I was puzzled and nonpulsed.
This award is from the American Conference on Diversity. The Rabbi and I are both getting it for our work in “…championing the cause of encouraging, facilitating, enhancing, and helping to create inclusive communities.” There’s no mention of eating, drinking, laughing, supporting, sharing family ties, or being human together. But we’re getting the award anyway.
I want to say something about our shared faith. I want to say something about the power and relevance of communities of faith. We get such bad press, admittedly some of it deserved. But in spite of all the negetivity and dismissivism (how's that for a new word?) I really believe we've got something to offer. So, here's what I came up with.
“Three years ago, I got married. I learned that being different from each other is good. I’m a slow learner. My wife’s an excellent teacher.
If communities of faith are to have any authenticity or integrity in this post modern age, we must reach toward something more than a recitation of our version of history or sad litanies of dogma. We must remember that faith is an affirmation of something far beyond our understanding or our limitations. We represent the presence of something that can never be limited or boxed. These two communities of faith have had a close relationship for decades. They will never be the same. But because of their relationship and because of their difference, they learn. And because of our learning, and in the midst of it, we rejoice. And I know that our God does too. Thank you.”
It's not Lincoln, but it'll float.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Resurrection
I tend to be emotionally involved in most things I do. I operate by my gut. That's a rather visceral comment. All punning aside, my connections and motivations are usually emotionally motivated and grounded. So, if I want to change my approach to something, I find one of the best places to start is with my emotional approach.
For years Palm Sunday and Holy Week have been based in place of frustration about my inability to defend Jesus from the mess that He lived through. Perhaps because I'm growing up, or because I'm more secure and at peace in my home, I realized that this was defining an awful lot of my interactions during this time. Though it was authentic and very real. I decided that perhaps I needed to get out of my knee jerk authenticity and do a better job of modeling the Lord's behavior as He went through His passion.
It was weird how grace and peace slipped over this time that had been a battlefield. It didn't take away the impact of the passion at all. In some ways I sensed more of His pain and struggle because I wasn't in the middle of the whole thing any more.
Now don't get this wrong, it was more complicated than just making a simple decision. I worked on it. I guess that's what Lent's for, working on things. But one day I was talking to somebody about a burden they were carrying, and I brought up Grace and Peace. I reminded them that this was a greeting that Greeks used in their correspondence. 'Grace and Peace be unto you.' I'd never focused on the profound power of that binary vision of life. So I began looking at things with those two as a source and method.
Anyway, to make a long story longer, something changed. There weren't any lightning bolts. Just the opposite. Less lightning and more light.
Easter was different this year. There was just as much stuff to do. There was still the glory and beauty that always blows me away. But there was a real sense of peace that pervaded the whole thing. And it was incredibly more graceful, less turbulent, clearer. And tired though I was, I wasn't so exhausted. Now that's saying something for an old codger.
I hate to say it, but I seem to have learned something. Weird huh?
For years Palm Sunday and Holy Week have been based in place of frustration about my inability to defend Jesus from the mess that He lived through. Perhaps because I'm growing up, or because I'm more secure and at peace in my home, I realized that this was defining an awful lot of my interactions during this time. Though it was authentic and very real. I decided that perhaps I needed to get out of my knee jerk authenticity and do a better job of modeling the Lord's behavior as He went through His passion.
It was weird how grace and peace slipped over this time that had been a battlefield. It didn't take away the impact of the passion at all. In some ways I sensed more of His pain and struggle because I wasn't in the middle of the whole thing any more.
Now don't get this wrong, it was more complicated than just making a simple decision. I worked on it. I guess that's what Lent's for, working on things. But one day I was talking to somebody about a burden they were carrying, and I brought up Grace and Peace. I reminded them that this was a greeting that Greeks used in their correspondence. 'Grace and Peace be unto you.' I'd never focused on the profound power of that binary vision of life. So I began looking at things with those two as a source and method.
Anyway, to make a long story longer, something changed. There weren't any lightning bolts. Just the opposite. Less lightning and more light.
Easter was different this year. There was just as much stuff to do. There was still the glory and beauty that always blows me away. But there was a real sense of peace that pervaded the whole thing. And it was incredibly more graceful, less turbulent, clearer. And tired though I was, I wasn't so exhausted. Now that's saying something for an old codger.
I hate to say it, but I seem to have learned something. Weird huh?
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Do You Hate?
The number of hate groups in the US has risen 40% in the last year. These groups range from people who believe that only white people should have any rights here, to people who believe that Jews need to be separated from 'good people,' to people who believe that there is a conspiracy by the Democratic Party to open concentration camps and declare martial law, to people who consider teaching evolution to be a sin to be punished with death. The Oklahoma City bomber was a member of one of these groups.
As a proud American who believes that the Bill of Rights is critical to the freedom of each and every person in this country, I will defend anyone’s right to free speech, assembly, and all the other things I treasure for myself and would rather not offer to people who are willing to limit the freedom of those different than they are. But I insist on their right to hold their beliefs no matter how uncomfortable they make me. I also realize that they don’t feel that way about me. And I still believe that their rights must be defended. It’s not their beliefs that keep this country free. It’s the rights we all share. And as soon as those rights begin to be limited, we’re all in trouble.
To tell the truth, the thing that disturbs me the most is not their twisted version of reality or even their tendency to be violent and unreasonable. It is the immense rise in the rage of individuals and the nation’s sense that this a perfectly reasonable response to any or all moments when we are frustrated or when we lose an election. It presumes that our ideas and prejudices are holy and not to be challenged by anyone not willing to pay a price.
When we consider the actions of our Lord in the face of the oppression and injustice He had to face, it creates a stark contrast to the anger and prejudice that has moved like a cloud over our nation. Unless we are willing to discount the teaching and behavior of Jesus, I think we should reconsider how we react to those we disagree with. They are God’s children too.
As a proud American who believes that the Bill of Rights is critical to the freedom of each and every person in this country, I will defend anyone’s right to free speech, assembly, and all the other things I treasure for myself and would rather not offer to people who are willing to limit the freedom of those different than they are. But I insist on their right to hold their beliefs no matter how uncomfortable they make me. I also realize that they don’t feel that way about me. And I still believe that their rights must be defended. It’s not their beliefs that keep this country free. It’s the rights we all share. And as soon as those rights begin to be limited, we’re all in trouble.
To tell the truth, the thing that disturbs me the most is not their twisted version of reality or even their tendency to be violent and unreasonable. It is the immense rise in the rage of individuals and the nation’s sense that this a perfectly reasonable response to any or all moments when we are frustrated or when we lose an election. It presumes that our ideas and prejudices are holy and not to be challenged by anyone not willing to pay a price.
When we consider the actions of our Lord in the face of the oppression and injustice He had to face, it creates a stark contrast to the anger and prejudice that has moved like a cloud over our nation. Unless we are willing to discount the teaching and behavior of Jesus, I think we should reconsider how we react to those we disagree with. They are God’s children too.
Monday, March 1, 2010
molecular resonance
I was listening to Jackson Brown today. Painting a room goes better when there's music. It has something to do with the molecular resonance of the paint. Anyway, his music is kind of dark, in spite of the slide guitar and the rock rythems. I was thinking while I did the molding around the window panes that there were some songs that I liked, not because the song said what I thought, but because there was a phrase, musically or poetically that resonated with how I felt or thought, kind of like the paint molecules. It made me consider again the power of music and poetry and the way it speaks to us.
Some of the most important themes in my life are sympathetic resonances, not structured meanings. They have less to do with understanding than with some shadow of a childhood memory, or a mental snapshot of a moment at a stop light, or a song that played while I did something for the first time. Or maybe a shadow of another reality that calls through melody, rhyme, and rythem across the distances and dimensional gulfs that seperate us from there and then.
I definitely want to go to the Grateful Dead dimension.
Some of the most important themes in my life are sympathetic resonances, not structured meanings. They have less to do with understanding than with some shadow of a childhood memory, or a mental snapshot of a moment at a stop light, or a song that played while I did something for the first time. Or maybe a shadow of another reality that calls through melody, rhyme, and rythem across the distances and dimensional gulfs that seperate us from there and then.
I definitely want to go to the Grateful Dead dimension.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Sweet Water
In the week before we throw a party, we take a pilgrimage to Trader Joe's in Westfield. It's not the bouquet and oak that draws us. It's where we buy 'Three Buck Chuck's.' A nick name for a good wine that fits into our budget. But if truth be told, the place we stop for dinner after we put the cases of Shiraz in the trunk is as important as the deal we get on the wine.
I found the place years ago, be accident. Dark wood, mission stained glass, fire place, good food, great martinis. It drew me back. The gravity was greatly enhanced by Jeffery. He was and is the spirit of the enviornment. After my first visit, he remembered my name, he remembered my then-girlfriend-now-wife's name, he remembered what I drink, he remembered me. As the theme song of "Cheers" floats through, bear with me.
This time Jeffery wasn't there. He was in Jamacia, "tanning up," as the waiter said. We soldiered through, inspite of his absence. Then a family came in. The octigenarian stopped by the table to flirt with Chris. The couple who seemed in charge bussled. They wandered around speaking to the waiters. They came over and introduced themselves. They were the owners. The grandchildren followed, all introduced in turn, including Mia, asleep on her mother's shoulder. Somewhere in the conversation it came out I was a minister. By this time we had our coats on. Frank, Dad, owner, boss, apologizing, asked me very humbly if I would offer a "small blessing" on the place.
I've read about the role of shaman. I've witnessed the power of curses and the fear of superstition. I've also seen the relief and gratitude that people carry from a moment when they receive a benediction.
It's happened to me before. Someone asking for words of assurance that are based not on some reasonable and relational moment of sharing, but rather on perceived access to power beyond understanding. I've heard it denegrated and treated with the distain of adults for the belief of children. Paternalism is ugly. It assumes authority, the authority of superior knowledge. It is arrogant at best and abusive at worst. But such posturing cannot deny the power of humility and respect.
The blessing of touch, of words that acknowledge the power that is beyond our definition, our reason, our wisdom, that is to be respected and not to be withheld.
I don't understand how any of this works. I don't understand the cause and effect relationship between plains of being. But I do know that it touched me and grounded me to be a part of that moment.
Besides, they make great martinis.
I found the place years ago, be accident. Dark wood, mission stained glass, fire place, good food, great martinis. It drew me back. The gravity was greatly enhanced by Jeffery. He was and is the spirit of the enviornment. After my first visit, he remembered my name, he remembered my then-girlfriend-now-wife's name, he remembered what I drink, he remembered me. As the theme song of "Cheers" floats through, bear with me.
This time Jeffery wasn't there. He was in Jamacia, "tanning up," as the waiter said. We soldiered through, inspite of his absence. Then a family came in. The octigenarian stopped by the table to flirt with Chris. The couple who seemed in charge bussled. They wandered around speaking to the waiters. They came over and introduced themselves. They were the owners. The grandchildren followed, all introduced in turn, including Mia, asleep on her mother's shoulder. Somewhere in the conversation it came out I was a minister. By this time we had our coats on. Frank, Dad, owner, boss, apologizing, asked me very humbly if I would offer a "small blessing" on the place.
I've read about the role of shaman. I've witnessed the power of curses and the fear of superstition. I've also seen the relief and gratitude that people carry from a moment when they receive a benediction.
It's happened to me before. Someone asking for words of assurance that are based not on some reasonable and relational moment of sharing, but rather on perceived access to power beyond understanding. I've heard it denegrated and treated with the distain of adults for the belief of children. Paternalism is ugly. It assumes authority, the authority of superior knowledge. It is arrogant at best and abusive at worst. But such posturing cannot deny the power of humility and respect.
The blessing of touch, of words that acknowledge the power that is beyond our definition, our reason, our wisdom, that is to be respected and not to be withheld.
I don't understand how any of this works. I don't understand the cause and effect relationship between plains of being. But I do know that it touched me and grounded me to be a part of that moment.
Besides, they make great martinis.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Prisoner
My father always wore tabs, the white strips that descend from the throat over the Geneva gown. Mom starched them every week. He insisted that wasn’t necessary, but she did it anyway. I think she considered it part of her role. I found out later that they stood for the tablets of the law. The Old Covenant that was the foundation for the New. It made sense to me. Those starched tabs were diving boards from which my father’s words bounced into the flips and swans that thundered and whispered from the high pulpit every Sunday.
When I started my ministry I wore a shirt and tie with the black robe over. In some ways I didn’t know what else to do. I was working, unconsciously, on a style, a voice. The tabs were from another era. I did the easiest. I was busy. But as I moved into the jungle, I realized I wanted something to help differentiate me in my role from the other denizens of the forest. I was a missionary, a warrior of the light, a Marshall come to bring order to Tombstone Territory. I needed a badge, a uniform, something to let folks know the Rev had come to town (Can you tell I was and am an unrepentant romantic?). So I shopped (It’s the all American thing to do).
The Protestant version of the collar, a stripe around the throat, kind of turned me off. I have no idea why. I opted for the Roman collar, with a notch. I guess I’m secure in my Protestant identity, I can wear Catholic. I wore and wear it for worship and during Holy Week. It’s my discipline. It makes sense to me.
I subsequently found out that the collar is a symbol for slavery. It’s a slave collar. That reaffirmed the whole thing. It gave me an angle. It resonated with Paul. But after 9-11 it became much more than an angle.
I live near New York City. A lot of my folks work there. Some of them were there. Some of them died. I worked at Ground Zero with the rescue workers, helping them stay sane and at the family of victims’ center in the old ferry station in Jersey. But I also wore my collar, every day, every where I went. People stopped me on the street, in diners, wherever. They took my hand, they told me about their son or their sister or their cousin. They asked for prayers. They cried. We all needed something we could depend on. Our security was gone. People needed a symbol.
It changed my attitude toward my collar. It changed my attitude toward being a slave of Christ. It’s closer to my old attitude of warrior of the light and is much more real. I am part of God’s army, the host of heaven. I am a pillar. Lean on me. But never forget, I am a slave. And never forget the one I belong to. It’s where I get my authority, my orders, my direction, my hope.
Spider Man, not quite. The Rev, definitely.
When I started my ministry I wore a shirt and tie with the black robe over. In some ways I didn’t know what else to do. I was working, unconsciously, on a style, a voice. The tabs were from another era. I did the easiest. I was busy. But as I moved into the jungle, I realized I wanted something to help differentiate me in my role from the other denizens of the forest. I was a missionary, a warrior of the light, a Marshall come to bring order to Tombstone Territory. I needed a badge, a uniform, something to let folks know the Rev had come to town (Can you tell I was and am an unrepentant romantic?). So I shopped (It’s the all American thing to do).
The Protestant version of the collar, a stripe around the throat, kind of turned me off. I have no idea why. I opted for the Roman collar, with a notch. I guess I’m secure in my Protestant identity, I can wear Catholic. I wore and wear it for worship and during Holy Week. It’s my discipline. It makes sense to me.
I subsequently found out that the collar is a symbol for slavery. It’s a slave collar. That reaffirmed the whole thing. It gave me an angle. It resonated with Paul. But after 9-11 it became much more than an angle.
I live near New York City. A lot of my folks work there. Some of them were there. Some of them died. I worked at Ground Zero with the rescue workers, helping them stay sane and at the family of victims’ center in the old ferry station in Jersey. But I also wore my collar, every day, every where I went. People stopped me on the street, in diners, wherever. They took my hand, they told me about their son or their sister or their cousin. They asked for prayers. They cried. We all needed something we could depend on. Our security was gone. People needed a symbol.
It changed my attitude toward my collar. It changed my attitude toward being a slave of Christ. It’s closer to my old attitude of warrior of the light and is much more real. I am part of God’s army, the host of heaven. I am a pillar. Lean on me. But never forget, I am a slave. And never forget the one I belong to. It’s where I get my authority, my orders, my direction, my hope.
Spider Man, not quite. The Rev, definitely.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Should Old Aquaintence ...
Last night we watched the ball drop to Beethoven's 9th, Ode to Joy. There are few things more beautiful than that grand, triumphal symphony. Such a conclusion and a beginning. It has already spanned centuries, now it has lapped another year and decade.
I think it is beneficial to alter the sound track of our lives. It changes what we see and understand. It lifts the sights away from the sounds, cutting off the cacophany of the moment and allowing harmony blessed by genius and passion to move from background to dominant presence. It allows us to remember the sweep of history, even the history of each of our lives that transcends the difficulties and complaints of now, laying down themes that move through variations only to return again. Today and yesterday all entwined, connected up and down the minor and major keys of life, pointing toward resolution.
Now I'm making resolutions. Some of the same, unfinished business worth continuing. Some new, mostly spurred by my desire to center my time and energy toward the love and beauty of my love. See what Beethoven will do to you? Ain't romance grand?
I think it is beneficial to alter the sound track of our lives. It changes what we see and understand. It lifts the sights away from the sounds, cutting off the cacophany of the moment and allowing harmony blessed by genius and passion to move from background to dominant presence. It allows us to remember the sweep of history, even the history of each of our lives that transcends the difficulties and complaints of now, laying down themes that move through variations only to return again. Today and yesterday all entwined, connected up and down the minor and major keys of life, pointing toward resolution.
Now I'm making resolutions. Some of the same, unfinished business worth continuing. Some new, mostly spurred by my desire to center my time and energy toward the love and beauty of my love. See what Beethoven will do to you? Ain't romance grand?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)