Isaiah 61: 10-11
George O. Wilson said that ‘People need the sacred narrative…, they will find a way to keep the ancestral spirits alive.’ This time of year we do a lot of things to reiterate our sacred narrative. Manger scenes, carols, decking the halls, mementoes from the past all reach with tentative wonder toward the story that makes us who we are. It’s a great story. Why shouldn’t we use it?
But even more than the quality of the tale, deeper than its cast of characters and situations that draw us on, there is here a resonance with our identity. This story is not about them, it’s about us and our view of the way the universe works around us. It allows us to claim again a larger perspective as we look at our lives, including the train wrecks. Young unwed mother who converses with angels and speaks with authority that is not based on any degree or social status, compassionate husband, ready to be caring of this girl, redirected by a dream, pushed as a family beyond their comfort zones by politics to a place of ancient prophecy, bearing a child in the company of animals and wild eyed shepherds drunk on angels’ anthems all do more than leave us a bit breathless and teary eyed. They affirm that in spite of evidence to the contrary, our small and lumpy lives are part of a narrative that transcends the sad and tragic. These characters are amazingly like us.
Each of us has a sacred story. A story of redemption and glory woven of the common thread of our days. So the prophet reminds us of weddings. There is much glory and wonder there, at least there is for me. I remember the miracle of that day. I was marinated in expectation, basted in hope, stuffed with more joy than any holiday bird. I sent my son to bring a single rose to my bride where she was being decked out as brides are. The note I enclosed said simply, ‘I’ll be the one in black. I love you.’ She reminded me later that I wasn’t the only one in black at the front of the church, but that she had no trouble recognizing me. That day is filled with light, though plans and agendas skidded and broke down as we went. But the disasters all became part of the narrative, the story that reminds us every time we tell it of who we are and where we stand in this confusing and difficult universe. It is our sacred narrative.
Christmas is nothing less. It reminds us that we are important because the One cares. And so it is as I light the Christ candle in the dark of Christmas Eve, the universe is filled with light. And we are all clothed in glory.
God bless us everyone.
Friday, December 16, 2011
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Omen
High up, within the circle atop the steeple is a masted ship. Unusual symbol to define a church. Crosses, Celtic or plain, orbs, roosters all are common. Each says something about the sanctuary beneath. Each is chosen by a leader or a committee to shout to the world some message, perhaps shrouded in tradition. ‘We always did it that way,’ is a powerful push for choosing symbols. It precludes searching for new meanings or directions.
But there is this single masted ship, a square rigger; its spar forming a cross; its prow cutting through waves. Perhaps a sailor on the committee came up with the design, or the leader wanted to stress an ecumenical push, perhaps a missionary church? Who knows? The symbolism is lost, leaving the ship, sailing on.
The November dawn touched it, leaving us in shadow below. A figure had been added since I looked last. A passenger, or more likely a crew member stood next to the mast, looking into the morning sun. Perhaps he trimmed the sails. Perhaps he considered new horizons stretching out, beyond. I stopped, considering how this changed the whole thing, personalized it, deepened it. I wondered why I’d never noticed before. And then it flew off, into the east.
But now, when I look up there, I see him, up against the mast, searching the horizon for the coming dawn.
But there is this single masted ship, a square rigger; its spar forming a cross; its prow cutting through waves. Perhaps a sailor on the committee came up with the design, or the leader wanted to stress an ecumenical push, perhaps a missionary church? Who knows? The symbolism is lost, leaving the ship, sailing on.
The November dawn touched it, leaving us in shadow below. A figure had been added since I looked last. A passenger, or more likely a crew member stood next to the mast, looking into the morning sun. Perhaps he trimmed the sails. Perhaps he considered new horizons stretching out, beyond. I stopped, considering how this changed the whole thing, personalized it, deepened it. I wondered why I’d never noticed before. And then it flew off, into the east.
But now, when I look up there, I see him, up against the mast, searching the horizon for the coming dawn.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Waiting Rooms
I have spent considerable time in waiting rooms with people. In the prep rooms where patients get to wear the lovely hats whose elastic squeezes across their foreheads. Doctors come and go as nurses ask about latex allergies and make sure bracelets match 17 other types of documents. And the ones wearing the hats rest with a mixture of anxiety and bravery. Prayer is part of what we do. Sometimes it halts the surgical machine that is taking one of us where the rest of us can’t go. Just for a moment we hold hands and reach beyond our anxiety toward something else. It seems so childish. Knives and needles and lights and drugs seem so powerful, weapons against something we fear. How can holding hands and praying have any practical value here on this sterile battlefield? Somehow it does. I’ve watched fear evolve to hope. I’ve sensed power there that dwarfs all the mechanical and medical wonders. I’ve always respected doctors. But I rely on prayer.
Just recently, I held a patient’s hand as she waited, hat and all. I listened to the explanations and the doctors’ reassurances. We waited together. And I was terrified. My love was going with them, where I couldn’t go. The silence that I’ve maneuvered through with families was now a lump caught somewhere in my chest. I felt a child, powerless and desperate.
And so I prayed, for my love and for acceptance. Honestly, I cannot believe everything will fit into my categories of approval. I’ve seen and known too much to believe that the ground of all being will use my template for bending moments. I believe in miracles. But I don’t believe they are mine to determine. I have little understanding of such things. So I prayed to be helpful for her. She needed that. It was all I could do.
Time centered down into moments that rushed away from me like a per-Tsunami tide. Too soon they came, worriers to take her. I stood, and with all I knew and had, stopped the rush long enough to pray with her. I don’t remember what I said. I reached with every bit of honesty and strength I had. I kissed her and she was gone.
Today, two weeks since the surgery my love thanked me for praying with her there in that place of terror and hope. And I smiled. We are children, terrified of the dark. I am no less a child, but I am less afraid, not because of results. They are past. But I learned something in that waiting room. We are not alone.
Just recently, I held a patient’s hand as she waited, hat and all. I listened to the explanations and the doctors’ reassurances. We waited together. And I was terrified. My love was going with them, where I couldn’t go. The silence that I’ve maneuvered through with families was now a lump caught somewhere in my chest. I felt a child, powerless and desperate.
And so I prayed, for my love and for acceptance. Honestly, I cannot believe everything will fit into my categories of approval. I’ve seen and known too much to believe that the ground of all being will use my template for bending moments. I believe in miracles. But I don’t believe they are mine to determine. I have little understanding of such things. So I prayed to be helpful for her. She needed that. It was all I could do.
Time centered down into moments that rushed away from me like a per-Tsunami tide. Too soon they came, worriers to take her. I stood, and with all I knew and had, stopped the rush long enough to pray with her. I don’t remember what I said. I reached with every bit of honesty and strength I had. I kissed her and she was gone.
Today, two weeks since the surgery my love thanked me for praying with her there in that place of terror and hope. And I smiled. We are children, terrified of the dark. I am no less a child, but I am less afraid, not because of results. They are past. But I learned something in that waiting room. We are not alone.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Response to another writer
Dear Deb,
There is so much about what you say that is true about the creative process. There is nothing untrue about good fiction, or even some not so good fiction. What happens when someone accesses the places from which fiction arises is as much a mystery as any art. It is a conversation between the medium and the one with the keyboard or the chisel and that suble vision the ancients called Muse. Michangelo said that it was his job to take away the excess marble so that the statue within could emerge.
Now let's talk about truth and fact. Truth itself has little to do with fact. Fact itself is a bit of mythology that has risen from our worship of the measurable and touchable. Such a small slice of reality to deservie so much attention, such a dusty corner to invite our consistent attention!
You are not ill. You are a story teller. People such as you were celebrated in less technological cultures. Bards they were called. They roamed between the clans taking the mundane activities of each day and spinning tales that were grounded in each village and their happenings, but were not limited to these small events. So, when the people heard the Bards' songs they saw themselves as part of something more than scrabbling in the dirt of survival.
Fiction? Are we not more than sad and scruffy creatures who scrabble for survival, however sophisticated our tools? Are we not able to love, to feel passion, to sing, to reach toward that which is untouchable? Do we not sense that just beyond our sight there are kingdoms of light and glory? Do we not dream? These are not the imaginings of fools. They are the food that nourishes those who refuse to live within boxes whose bounds are determined by practicality and utility.
There is a craft to what we do. It is the craft that is learned to unleash and channel the art that surges up within us. Tricks? No, Technique. Our ability to bring ideas and dreams into light, language itself is a technique, a mysterious and wondrous craft learned by every child who moves from babble to 'Ma' and 'No.'
You need not attend any meeting or convention to be what you are. You might learn, but you might be bored. Choose and be at peace.
The cautionary part of this tale is to never forget who you are and what you have been given. Surely it is theraputic. Most therapy has to do with expression. Surely it is addictive. It changes your perspective and your perception. But you are not alone in your world or in your craft or in your calling.
The world needs us. Whether it believes it or not, whether it buys it or not has little to do with this truth.
Keep on truckin'.
Blessings.
David.
There is so much about what you say that is true about the creative process. There is nothing untrue about good fiction, or even some not so good fiction. What happens when someone accesses the places from which fiction arises is as much a mystery as any art. It is a conversation between the medium and the one with the keyboard or the chisel and that suble vision the ancients called Muse. Michangelo said that it was his job to take away the excess marble so that the statue within could emerge.
Now let's talk about truth and fact. Truth itself has little to do with fact. Fact itself is a bit of mythology that has risen from our worship of the measurable and touchable. Such a small slice of reality to deservie so much attention, such a dusty corner to invite our consistent attention!
You are not ill. You are a story teller. People such as you were celebrated in less technological cultures. Bards they were called. They roamed between the clans taking the mundane activities of each day and spinning tales that were grounded in each village and their happenings, but were not limited to these small events. So, when the people heard the Bards' songs they saw themselves as part of something more than scrabbling in the dirt of survival.
Fiction? Are we not more than sad and scruffy creatures who scrabble for survival, however sophisticated our tools? Are we not able to love, to feel passion, to sing, to reach toward that which is untouchable? Do we not sense that just beyond our sight there are kingdoms of light and glory? Do we not dream? These are not the imaginings of fools. They are the food that nourishes those who refuse to live within boxes whose bounds are determined by practicality and utility.
There is a craft to what we do. It is the craft that is learned to unleash and channel the art that surges up within us. Tricks? No, Technique. Our ability to bring ideas and dreams into light, language itself is a technique, a mysterious and wondrous craft learned by every child who moves from babble to 'Ma' and 'No.'
You need not attend any meeting or convention to be what you are. You might learn, but you might be bored. Choose and be at peace.
The cautionary part of this tale is to never forget who you are and what you have been given. Surely it is theraputic. Most therapy has to do with expression. Surely it is addictive. It changes your perspective and your perception. But you are not alone in your world or in your craft or in your calling.
The world needs us. Whether it believes it or not, whether it buys it or not has little to do with this truth.
Keep on truckin'.
Blessings.
David.
Monday, June 6, 2011
What Do We See?
I was standing on the chancel, up in front of the church, half way through a funeral. A granddaughter was speaking about her ‘Pop-pop.’ I was behind her, backing her up in case she fell apart. Above her head, all the way on the other side of the sanctuary, colors, deep stained glass colors shining out of the louvers that control the volume of the pipe organ. The colors came through the organ, all the pipes, bellows, air boxes in the dark back there behind the balcony. I stood there, amazed.
Later, I looked up and the lovers were in a different position, revealing only shadows. I real ized I’d never look up there again without searching for the stained glass shining through.
What do we see when we look at something or someone? How much of our expectations have to do with a moment, a glimpse that becomes the template for what we see? How many of our prejudices, our fears, our guilts, barriers that separate us from each other and from hope and acceptance have to do with simple perspective? How many walls in our world are nothing special until we see through them to the colors shining through the darkness?
I think I’ll alter my expectations about blank walls and shadows. You never know what might come shining through.
Later, I looked up and the lovers were in a different position, revealing only shadows. I real ized I’d never look up there again without searching for the stained glass shining through.
What do we see when we look at something or someone? How much of our expectations have to do with a moment, a glimpse that becomes the template for what we see? How many of our prejudices, our fears, our guilts, barriers that separate us from each other and from hope and acceptance have to do with simple perspective? How many walls in our world are nothing special until we see through them to the colors shining through the darkness?
I think I’ll alter my expectations about blank walls and shadows. You never know what might come shining through.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Still Here?
Last Saturday a few people, 200 million, were supposed to disappear and the rest of us were going to have to live with more of a mess than we already have. I have no joy about Harold's mistake. The poor guy seems to be really invested in this. I wouldn't want to be his dog. I might get kicked.
What I do find fascinating is the continuing focus of so many on dooms-day scenarios. I don't get it. Don't people have enough to pay attention to without trying to figure out when the whole thing is going to come crashing down? Maybe that's why there's so much interest in this stuff. Maybe we don't want to deal with all the normality. We'd rather be seeing beyond to the incarnation of 'what if.' Maybe it takes the pressure off.
Some of it is a mob scene. It's why lemmings keep going, everybody else is running, I'd better join. But I think there is a seed of yearning in this whole thing. And that interests me. I think we all would like to see through to something else. I think we'd all like to know, without a doubt that there is more than chance and darkness out there. Good ol' Harold with the huge ears hit on that with his formulae and his droning account of the end. The failure of his particular vision won't make the yearning go away.
I respect the yearning. I think yearners are the wise ones. But our job isn't to solve this conundrum. Our job is to reach with all the power that's within us toward... What? I guess that's why I got into this particular line of work so long ago. This is our particular version of WWF Wrestling. The rule is hang on and be willing to be amazed.
Who knows? We may evaporate at any moment.
What I do find fascinating is the continuing focus of so many on dooms-day scenarios. I don't get it. Don't people have enough to pay attention to without trying to figure out when the whole thing is going to come crashing down? Maybe that's why there's so much interest in this stuff. Maybe we don't want to deal with all the normality. We'd rather be seeing beyond to the incarnation of 'what if.' Maybe it takes the pressure off.
Some of it is a mob scene. It's why lemmings keep going, everybody else is running, I'd better join. But I think there is a seed of yearning in this whole thing. And that interests me. I think we all would like to see through to something else. I think we'd all like to know, without a doubt that there is more than chance and darkness out there. Good ol' Harold with the huge ears hit on that with his formulae and his droning account of the end. The failure of his particular vision won't make the yearning go away.
I respect the yearning. I think yearners are the wise ones. But our job isn't to solve this conundrum. Our job is to reach with all the power that's within us toward... What? I guess that's why I got into this particular line of work so long ago. This is our particular version of WWF Wrestling. The rule is hang on and be willing to be amazed.
Who knows? We may evaporate at any moment.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Living on the Rift
Being Christian is strange. There are some moments when it feels like we are called to live straddling a fault line. The execution of Osama Ben Laden is one of those moments. This incarnation business forces us to take our human nature seriously. We can’t dismiss it as wrong or bad. Having a god that lived as we do, complete with tears, laughter, humiliation, and glory compels us to see each follicle of this life as full of potential, even the ugly and the tragic parts.
On the other hand the Christian vision includes ideals that extend beyond any reasonable hope of actualization. Beating our swords into plowshares isn’t going to happen this week. But it was part of the foundations upon which Jesus built his theology and ethic. He refused to deny that vision of peace even as he was tortured and executed by the powers and principalities that refused to pay any attention to the truth and the potential that vision indicates. The peaceable kingdom, the suffering servant, the mercy and love of God these all speak of a way of living that demands of us more than survival, dominance, vengeance, and other coin that purchase such ideals of the world as wealth, military might, and political power.
So, how do we live practically, in the world, while we follow a Lord who refused to be defined by its demands? By His behavior, we cannot live in judgment, we must live in the hope of redemption and reconciliation. That’s what He did.
See what I mean? One foot firmly planted on each side of the rift. And I think that’s where we are meant to live. When we get too comfortable on either side of the paradox, we’re not taking the world or Christ’s vision seriously.
Joy over the execution of Ben Laden is allowing ourselves to be seduced by vengeance. To deny the power of evil he wielded and his potential to wield more is to be naïve. So we struggle, we argue, we pray. And day by day we seek to follow in the footsteps of that crazy guy who broke rules and confused us and demanded that we be willing to live each day like it’s holy. Which it is.
On the other hand the Christian vision includes ideals that extend beyond any reasonable hope of actualization. Beating our swords into plowshares isn’t going to happen this week. But it was part of the foundations upon which Jesus built his theology and ethic. He refused to deny that vision of peace even as he was tortured and executed by the powers and principalities that refused to pay any attention to the truth and the potential that vision indicates. The peaceable kingdom, the suffering servant, the mercy and love of God these all speak of a way of living that demands of us more than survival, dominance, vengeance, and other coin that purchase such ideals of the world as wealth, military might, and political power.
So, how do we live practically, in the world, while we follow a Lord who refused to be defined by its demands? By His behavior, we cannot live in judgment, we must live in the hope of redemption and reconciliation. That’s what He did.
See what I mean? One foot firmly planted on each side of the rift. And I think that’s where we are meant to live. When we get too comfortable on either side of the paradox, we’re not taking the world or Christ’s vision seriously.
Joy over the execution of Ben Laden is allowing ourselves to be seduced by vengeance. To deny the power of evil he wielded and his potential to wield more is to be naïve. So we struggle, we argue, we pray. And day by day we seek to follow in the footsteps of that crazy guy who broke rules and confused us and demanded that we be willing to live each day like it’s holy. Which it is.
Monday, March 7, 2011
In Like a Lion
March is a month of magic. I don’t mean making hankies come out of your mouth or coins disappear, I mean deep magic, transformation. It’s a wild month. Plans are chancy. What looks like a pleasant day, has the bite of winter. And sometimes winds, fierce blasting winds carry the texture of May in their rush.
Then there are the daffodils. When February is asserting its miserable gray domination, green tendrils refuse to pay attention to the grip of Winter that seems so consistent. They literally crack the brittle ground. March belongs to daffodils. A warm March is inundated by their yellow proclamation to shed the prison garb of winter and claim color again.
I’m ready for March. I’d better be. It’s here.
Then there are the daffodils. When February is asserting its miserable gray domination, green tendrils refuse to pay attention to the grip of Winter that seems so consistent. They literally crack the brittle ground. March belongs to daffodils. A warm March is inundated by their yellow proclamation to shed the prison garb of winter and claim color again.
I’m ready for March. I’d better be. It’s here.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Twitter this!
Psalm 2
The recent unrest in the Arab world is challenging the autocratic vice grip on millions of people who have lived with its pressure and restriction for decades, some would say centuries. Autocrats have no esteem for change. As Joe Klein said in Time Magazine, “They [autocrats] have an unrealistic view of their own indispensability.” The media revolution of recent years has changed the rules that have worked so well for so long. Suddenly people who protest cannot be separated from the herd and suddenly disappear in the night. They cannot be intimidated because they out number the intimidators. And they know a watching world is aware of them at every turn. Yet the rulers of this present age seem to think that in spite of all the changes, the old rules will work. They are surprised, defensive, aghast that these upstarts would dare to demand something as outrageous as rights, a say in what happens, freedom.
At the core of much of this unrest is not a technology of weapons or terror, but the ability to communicate with others, even millions at the touch of a key or a screen. Most of the time it’s put to trivial use, listing condiments as often as hopes and fears. But in this case the social media have become pathways toward connections between people never dreamed of by the generations that lived under the thumbs of rulers with less imagination than the willingness to insist that the past be the only reality available.
We see ourselves as beyond all this. We are people with a history of liberty and justice for all. Yet as the Psalmist contemplated the patterns of political power-broking of his day and lifted up the transcendent power of the living God and the useless posturing of the wielders of earthly power, he saw the distance between their sense of authority and the truth of their vulnerability.
If we as the people of God are to be anything but silly in a false security because of our slogans and our flags, if we are to have something other than an unrealistic view of our own indispensability, then we need be humble and willing to make room for the new among us, however strange it might seem. We must learn to honor each other as the autocrats obviously refuse to. For that is God’s will. All else will fall.
The recent unrest in the Arab world is challenging the autocratic vice grip on millions of people who have lived with its pressure and restriction for decades, some would say centuries. Autocrats have no esteem for change. As Joe Klein said in Time Magazine, “They [autocrats] have an unrealistic view of their own indispensability.” The media revolution of recent years has changed the rules that have worked so well for so long. Suddenly people who protest cannot be separated from the herd and suddenly disappear in the night. They cannot be intimidated because they out number the intimidators. And they know a watching world is aware of them at every turn. Yet the rulers of this present age seem to think that in spite of all the changes, the old rules will work. They are surprised, defensive, aghast that these upstarts would dare to demand something as outrageous as rights, a say in what happens, freedom.
At the core of much of this unrest is not a technology of weapons or terror, but the ability to communicate with others, even millions at the touch of a key or a screen. Most of the time it’s put to trivial use, listing condiments as often as hopes and fears. But in this case the social media have become pathways toward connections between people never dreamed of by the generations that lived under the thumbs of rulers with less imagination than the willingness to insist that the past be the only reality available.
We see ourselves as beyond all this. We are people with a history of liberty and justice for all. Yet as the Psalmist contemplated the patterns of political power-broking of his day and lifted up the transcendent power of the living God and the useless posturing of the wielders of earthly power, he saw the distance between their sense of authority and the truth of their vulnerability.
If we as the people of God are to be anything but silly in a false security because of our slogans and our flags, if we are to have something other than an unrealistic view of our own indispensability, then we need be humble and willing to make room for the new among us, however strange it might seem. We must learn to honor each other as the autocrats obviously refuse to. For that is God’s will. All else will fall.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Fear
At the end of one of my classes at the university some kids wanted to talk about fear. I told them there's nothing wrong with fear. It's normal to be afraid of some things. If you aren't, you're a little off. Fear is a response connected with self preservation and an acknowledgement of our limits. But fear that immobilizes us, that creeps over into our capability, that prevents us from action is anxiety. That is something we have to work on.
I quoted Frank Herbert. In his book 'Dune,' Herbert creates a mantra about fear that characterizes that kind of immobilizing fear. "Fear is the mind killer, fear is the little death. I will face my fear and let it pass through me and over me and beyond me and I will turn to see where it has gone and there will be nothing left in its path but myself."
They liked that. I told them I'd give them extra credit if they memorized it. That really scared them.
I quoted Frank Herbert. In his book 'Dune,' Herbert creates a mantra about fear that characterizes that kind of immobilizing fear. "Fear is the mind killer, fear is the little death. I will face my fear and let it pass through me and over me and beyond me and I will turn to see where it has gone and there will be nothing left in its path but myself."
They liked that. I told them I'd give them extra credit if they memorized it. That really scared them.
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