David's Back Pages

I’ll Be the One In Black

2011-12-16T08:44:00.000-08:00

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.

Omen

2011-11-03T10:49:00.000-07:00

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.

Waiting Rooms

2011-07-21T10:29:00.000-07:00

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.

Response to another writer

2011-06-15T08:59:00.000-07:00

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.

What Do We See?

2011-06-06T09:53:00.000-07:00

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.

Still Here?

2011-05-26T12:08:00.000-07:00

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.

Living on the Rift

2011-05-11T16:50:00.000-07:00

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.

In Like a Lion

2011-03-07T07:19:00.000-08:00

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.

Twitter this!

2011-02-28T16:20:00.000-08:00

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.

Fear

2011-02-23T14:26:00.000-08:00

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 found Jesus, I hope

2010-12-22T07:33:00.000-08:00

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.

Mitzvah

2010-12-15T06:47:00.000-08:00

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.

Advent

2010-11-11T08:50:00.000-08:00

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.

Deontologize the Principle of Parsimony

2010-10-08T09:32:00.000-07:00

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.

What's Next

2010-08-11T07:51:00.000-07:00

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.

Why can't they...

2010-08-02T06:23:00.001-07:00

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.

Drought

2010-07-21T13:38:00.000-07:00

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.

Whose fault is it?

2010-06-09T18:47:00.000-07:00

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.

Ya’ never know…

2010-05-26T08:19:00.000-07:00

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…

Solitary Confinement

2010-05-26T08:04:00.000-07:00

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.

the Rev.

2010-05-15T13:33:00.000-07:00

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.

I’d like to thank…

2010-05-03T07:13:00.000-07:00

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.

Resurrection

2010-04-05T06:54:00.000-07:00

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?

Do You Hate?

2010-03-25T13:05:00.000-07:00

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.

molecular resonance

2010-03-01T13:17:00.000-08:00

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.

Sweet Water

2010-02-04T05:24:00.000-08:00

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.

Prisoner

2010-01-02T08:05:00.000-08:00

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.

Should Old Aquaintence ...

2010-01-01T09:59:00.000-08:00

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?

Decorating

2009-12-08T10:24:00.000-08:00

I decorate for Christmas. Anyone who has seen my house around the third week of Advent knows that this is like saying, 'It gets warm in Death Valley.' My collection of angels has transcended the heady number of 500. That's when I stopped counting. I have no idea how many Santas I have. A couple hundred wouldn't be unrealistic. The manger scene is an amalgum of a few different collections. Olive wood from Jerusalem, plaster from my wife's set, antiques from my mother, and others that have become players in the story. It moves. The holy family and donkey are journying at the moment, surrounded by angelic escourts. The shepherds are out in the fields, somewhere toward the edge of the baby grand piano that provides the stage. The six wise guys and camels are over to the east, on the coffee table. They get to the piano on Epiphany. The baby is no where to be found, empty manger. It appears on Christmas morn. Cool huh?

I let it be known that I like angels and since then have been receiving all flavors and sizes of the heavenly messengers. The people of the church know that I have this affinity and gift me with great regularity. One of the best parts of this is that almost all of them disappear in January until Advent next year. My sister asked me why I don't edit them, the angels I mean. You don't get to choose people's generosity. Gifts are gifts.

That has taught me a lot about giving and receiving. I try to give things that match people. Sometimes this takes some research and I don't always assume I'm going to get it right. But it's more likely they'll know what to do with the gift. The other part of it is the receiving. I've tried to become a better receiver. I try to not only say thank you, but to see and notice and appreciate the gift that's given.

The gift of the angels was wild and crazy. It wasn't on the shepherds' list. But they received it with 'great joy.' So when someone gives me a chubby cuty-cute cherub, I swallow and look at it, the gift and the giver. And I mobilize the spiritual discipline of generosity. There is a message to be heard, even from cherubs.

Any way, come by sometime. But please, no snow men.

Fee Fi Fo Fum....

2009-11-24T09:10:00.000-08:00

Let's talk about football.

Now I know most of you have just stopped reading. Some of you are reading junkies so your eyes just kept moving in spite of your opinion of gladiatorial idiocy. To tell you the truth, the whole thing kind of astonishes me. I've read articles about concussions, I've seen people get into fights about teams, I realize this whole thing is a repressed primitive symptom of testosterone poisoning. I really do understand all of that and I don't minimalize it. But the long and the short of it is, I'm a Giants fan.

Go ahead, screw up your face and shake your head. I do it myself. It's a conundrum.

But truth be told, I love the whole cheering thing. I love the strategy. I love yelling at the TV. I love getting together with other football idiots and yelling at the TV. I love hearing "Fee Fi Fo Fum... The Giants are coming to spoil the fun." I even like cheer leaders, but paradoxically I'm proud the Giants don't have any. I love bad mouthing Eagle and Cowboy fans. And I love it when they do it back. It's what we do. See? It's a very paradoxical situation.

Studies on brain function have found that when people talk about politics they use the mid brain, not the cerebral cortex, the fore brain. In other words we’re just as primitive in our discussions about Republican and Democrat, Conservative and Liberal as we are about why Eli Manning is a great quarterback and why the Cowboys need to lose more often to keep civilization on its feet. It’s very paradoxical.

But then so is most of life. We live in the midst of nothingness and appreciate the view. We are vicious vermin who can be self sacrificing. We adore our off spring in spite of their propensity to make us nuts. See? I also know that most of our options in life are to appreciate or to scorn. We can function just fine. The larger question has to do with something more than function. Enthusiasm, hope, sharing, appreciation, fun, all of these are choices that we make, choices to claim a moment and cheer, or to be reasonable and get on with business. I find such opportunities with football.

So, when I put on my shirt and sit down to watch Big Blue struggle to live up to their traditions of greatness, please forgive me. Call me names if you want. That’s your choice. I’ve made mine.

Go Giants!

Where's the Advil?

2009-10-21T08:59:00.000-07:00

Romans 3: 19-28

It’s been one of those weeks. Challenges, threats, and grumby weather. I’m not sure if I have a sinus head ache or just a pain in the neck. What did I do wrong? I must have violated some basic tenant of ministry to get slammed with all this stuff at the same time. Long suffering Job I’m not. No running sores, and my wife is very supportive, but it feels like I must have said something, forgot something, didn’t deal with something that got me into this swamp.
My mother told me more than once not to worry about the reviews. Good or bad they have little value except as someone else’s opinion. Interesting in the short run, to be laid down next to all other opinions beyond that.
But it’s hard to wade into issues shrouded by entangling emotions. Exhausting at best, intimidating at worst. Dreams sprout from them. I wake with vague feelings of unease. Solutions and resolutions are shrouded as well. They depend so much on the opinions and reactions and attitudes of others that there are few reasonable agendas to follow.
Oh, to be a legalist. Wouldn’t it be great to have a list? Then I could wack myself or rear in self-righteousness with a clear conscience. This letting God be God is a pain in the neck. His is the only review I need to pay attention to. And this grace thing keeps bringing me back to being loved rather than condemned. Come on God, a nice neat condemnation and a good swift smack would be so much more convenient. Then I could rebel or at least be angry.
And I can’t even condemn the ones that are angry with me. They may be legalists, but even they belong to God, not to mention carrying around the burden of their anger. My job is reconciliation.
Ya know, I’m beginning to think God isn’t done with me. Where’s that Advil?

Thank God for Plumbers

2009-09-30T09:02:00.000-07:00

We got the call on the last day of vacation. "The plumber just told us he found the leak in your bathroom. It's everywhere." This rather penultimate statement led our trustworthy pipe manager to condemn the entire pile of plumbing and tile and recommend a redo. Demolition and reconstruction time. It didn't owe us anything. We figured the last time it was torn out and redone was sometime just after outhouses. It's about a two week job. It's the only full bathroom in the house. We've been going to the gym at odd hours. They have such nice shower facilities.

Transitions are weird. What will be isn't here yet. What was is gone. It is a time of grieving and letting go and expectation and anxiety and new opportunities. The trouble is that all of that lands at the same moment. It's nice when the transitions are scheduled and prepared for, and we are able to batten down the hatches emotionally and logistically. But transitions rarely come on our schedules and even when they do the new intrudes in ways we just didn't expect. (I had a dream the other night about soap dishes in the shower. Might be a little late to deal with that.)

To me this is very instructive about my sanity. If I'm sane, which I like to consider myself, I'll be able to roll with the hassles and anxieties and disappointments and upsets involved in ushering in a new era,
and a new color scheme. When I get nuts, angry, or just plain anxious it usually means I'm not processing well. A new bathroom is a minor speed bump on the road to tomorrow. However, there are, some transitions that are terrifying and horribly disruptive. But I consider the dust and discomfort and
inconvenience of this change to be training for the monsters. I'm trying to pay attention to my limitations and my sillyness. They indicate the when and where I need to breathe and pay more attention to the grace and the glory that surrounds me, in spite of the plaster dust. At such moments I make lists of gratitude.

I am very grateful for the competent people who work so hard for the church
I am very grateful for the lovely and graceful home in which we live.
I am very grateful for the artisans who know how to do this stuff.
I am very grateful for the patience and good humor of my family, particularly my wife.
I am grateful for the half bath we have down stairs.
I am grateful this will be over soon.

I think it's time to go to the gym for a shower. Whew!

September

2009-09-02T04:24:00.000-07:00

We just got home from the beach. In Jersey we call it the shore. This shore from which we've come is in North Carolina. Emerald Isle to be exact. Two years ago we honeymooned there and have gone back to the same place since. There's nothing to do except be. Admittedly, being at the shore is considerably easier than being other places. There's waking up and watching the sunrise with your first cup of coffee. There's reading on the deck. Did I mention the deck hangs over the beach? Then there's saying good morning to a sleepy eyed bare-footed young lady. She sleeps in 'till 7:00 or so. Then there's the morning walk on the beach. Two grocery bags go along, one to pick up garbage and one to bring back treasures. There’s very little of the former, but there are always heavy twisting conch and freckled scallop shells in various stages of wear, jingle shells shimmering in the palm like doubloons in a stream, and oysters, lumpy digits worn, all worn and smoothed and crenulated and carved by the sea, the ceaseless sea.
You get the rhythm. It doesn’t belong to our agendas. It coincides with the sun and the wind and the tides. Its sound track is laced with the speech of laughing gulls and the dry crackle of sea grass. And under it all is the karumph of the waves finding the shore.
We just got home from the beach, but no matter what the calendar says, September hasn’t claimed me, yet. I still have sand in my shoes. I have been washed up here, worn, washed, smoothed and carved by the sea, the ceaseless sea.

Building a Bench

2009-08-11T07:20:00.000-07:00

I do Bonsai. I need a place to do it outside, dirt, clippings tend to mess up the kitchen. So, I built one, a bench that is. We already have a kitchen. Scrap lumber from the basement and one eight foot two by four. I got it all screwed together. Not pretty, but functional. But it wasn't right. It sloped toward one corner. I sat and looked at it, bothered.

Just then six, yep six titmice, that's a bird, came into the back yard and proceeded to comment on everything while they ate and trounced each other and generally acted like a bunch of teen aged boys in a gym class. As I sat wondering and smiling at this display of general disorder and fun I looked up. A humingbird had lighted on a branch above me. It was a dark form, cut out of the bright sky above.

I fixed the bench. No big deal. But the afternoon was transformed. I ought to make mistakes more often.

2009-07-22T03:47:00.000-07:00

Out of Darkness

Ephesians 2

I spent some time in Africa. I was young. The kind of young that is still impressed in the open mouthed, eyes wide, stand still and stare way. I lived in a monastery out beyond the end of the bus lines in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. We got to know a lot of people where they lived, by name, who they were. It was there I first ran into paganism. It stopped me as cold as seeing my first pack of hyenas roaming around outside the walls of the compound. The thing that blew my mind about the worship of small gods was the terror of the worshipper. These folks lived defensively. The gods were their enemies, very, very powerful enemies, bullies that rolled over them like a motorcycle gang over children in a playground. If these powerful beings noticed you it was not a good thing. The only reason you worshipped was to get on their good side. It was no guarantee they’d be nice to you. Gods have bad hair days. But when and if you came to their attention, maybe, if you shed some blood and offered some sacrifice, maybe, just maybe they wouldn’t swat you like the bug you were to them.
These folk saw these young Americans as allies of another god. The guys in the black dresses, the Christian Monks were magicians. They had given their lives to be servants of this Christian god. He wasn’t very nice. No god was. But he seemed to be very powerful. And we young Americans were allies of these men in black. We were living proof of the power of this not very nice god. Look how big we were, six feet tall, though we were considered barbarians, uncouth at best.
I wondered about this one day to a woman we knew who knew enough English and some Italian words to communicate when assisted by the high art of charades. I wondered why she didn’t consider worshiping the Christian god if He was so powerful. Her eyes got big and she shook her head very slowly, hunching and looking over her shoulder. She leaned forward and whispered to me, “They listen. They will take my children.” She cried and then told me she would live. “Each day without death is life.”
I still have dreams about her, hunched and whispering, “…alienated…, strangers to the covenants of promise, having no hope and without God in the world.”
We have a gift. Too often we forget. We forget about the covenants of promise, sealed in God’s blood, not curses sealed in ours. Thanks be to God. Amen

2009-07-21T05:53:00.000-07:00

Bonsai
Thoughts

There are few things I do that can be said to be classical disciplines. I sing. But I don’t have the time to pursue the discipline of classical voice, or the time to hook up with a choir to do music that constantly raises my game. My writing is a lot like my reading, not very classical or consistently disciplined.
But Bonsai is classical in its very nature. “Trees in saucers” have been around for a couple thousand years, and the maintenance of them demands discipline if I’m going to keep them alive. I’ve lost a few because of lapses. Years of work down the tubes because I wasn’t disciplined. Not to mention the loss of a life.
Anyway, loses aside, this is a rather unique presence in my existence. It is a sanctuary from the frenetic norm of my day to day and it demands a focus and an awareness of the needs of another. In short it gets me out of myself and forces me to slow down.
Every once in a while I bump into another bonsai’er. They consistently light up to know that there is another weirdo in the world that sinks into this small world of trees and moss and rocks and crockery. We talk about what a pain cedars are and have we had any luck with flowering trees and what kind of fertilizer we use and stones. Stones are very important. It’s one of those moments that you tend to remember, relationships built on common interest.
But the relationship that matters, the real center of the whole thing is the tree. You get to know something when you spend time with it and watch it and partner with it. But this can’t be compared with a human relationship. I really think when we do the first sit down with alien species, the ones from out there some were, there should be a bonsai’er in our delegation. They’ve spent a lot of time in communion with another species, like years.
It’s a lot different than having a dog or a cat. But that’s a different story. Just ask Sam.

Demons

2009-07-05T15:23:00.000-07:00

Putting together the sermon for Sunday, I stumbled on a presupposition that sticks between my teeth. This whole thing of Evil is dismissed in one way or another by the mythology of our culture. So I was forced to give a preamble to my sermon that was probably the most Philosophically Metaphysical that I've gotten in the pulpit for a while.
I'm writing a book right now, a novel that deals with Evil. It's a bear, or should I say a beast to finish it. I'm somewhere near the fourty-fifth chapter and as I come closer to wrapping it up, the laws of relaltivity have begun to take effect. I get shorter and shorter and infinitely heavy, or something like that. When I get the thing done and move into the editing phase, it will be a grand relief. Then I might get into this evil thing from a more philosophic perspective. Nobody else seems to be doing it. They're too busy twittering.
In some ways I think we don't have much of a perspective on evil because we don't have much of a perspective on anything that we can't touch, measure, or quanitfy. So, in some ways the labor to get a grip on this beasty would be an effort to lift our sights out of the technological and into a grander vista.
I know, I know, if you don't talk about it, it becomes less real. Tell that to the predator that follows you in the night. Said in less creepy terms, most things we ignore end up having power over us. We've all had a few of those.
Don't worry, I won't attempt any of this in this light hearted arena. But I might offer bits for reaction. Such a down to earth dialogue might be fun. Or in philosophically metaphysical language, "A diologic approach has often proved fruitful when the participants' presumptive limits can be put aside for the sake of approaching a new synthesis."
Okey dokey?

Presbytery

2009-06-25T05:20:00.000-07:00

My family’s been Presbyterian since it became impractical to be Druids. I grew up with it around me like air. But in the wisdom of my youth I decided that if I was going to do this theology thing, I ought to shop. I don’t know if I was looking for low bids or what. I attended a seminary/graduate school hooked up with the University of California at Berkeley. As the Presbyterian San Francisco Theological Seminary it was one of twelve such schools in the Graduate Theological Union. I took classes in them all, Buddhist, Unitarian, Episcopalian, Franciscan, Jesuit, Baptist, etc. It was interesting. Lots of different spins going on all at the same time. Interestingly, the more I wandered, the more I gravitated back to good old Calvinism.
So, thirty odd years later, I’m looking back on a career. Pretty wild, huh? I’ve worked all this time in a handful of churches, using a theological perspective that my ancestors helped build. Nothing like coming full circle.
The night before last we had a Presbytery meeting. All the ministers from about fifty churches and lay representatives to balance them meet periodically to do the business of this governing body. Conflict simmered beneath a crust of parliamentary function. It was more fun than chicken pox, but not much. Differences in perspectives and attitudes coupled with a power vacuum have yielded a lack of trust and loss of common vision. It’s a microcosm of our culture. The gorilla in the room refused us to let us get much done unless we operated at a level so shallow as to make the meeting nearly meaningless. At one especially difficult juncture, after a hasty conference with my wife, I got up and commented on the presence of the gorilla, and in an effort to deal with our commonality invited the whole presbytery to our house for a party in October. They laughed. But I waded in and finally convinced them Chris and I meant business. Hospitality created the church. Maybe Hospitality can help it now.
I love the church. I love its scholarship and insistence on self criticism. I love its inclusiveness that demands an openness uncomfortable in a polarized society. I love its unflinching approach to suffering and its willingness to stand in the face of injustice. I love the way it supports art and music and drama and in a cynical and lonely world insists on celebrating and pot luck suppers. I love the way it shelters the victim, prods the arrogant, invites the greedy, embraces the isolated, touches the outcast, and tells jokes to the self important. I love the way it points beyond itself toward something we may not be able to see but that something opens the mind and the universe to relationships more powerful than death. I can’t stand its marginalization because of narcissism and traveling soccer.
I think the world should take lessons from my wife. I do. She knows how to be good. It’s called loving. She wants to make sure we don’t overcrowd the house. People won’t have the opportunity to really get to know each other. Maybe there should be two parties. She understands.
The Hispanic church is making tostadas. Here goes nothin’. Or maybe here goes something.

Buying a House and Dying

2009-06-11T04:55:00.000-07:00

We bought a house! That may seem a prosaic observation. Not real philosophic, but this is like my first girl friend. No it's not, it's better. My first girl friend was more a product of my own imagination than real flesh and blood. This place has a front yard and a kitchen and a mortgage.
The process is amazing, offers and counter offers flying through agents. They should be called seconds. They carry our blades and make sure we get to the dueling field on time. (See? I'm out there in my imagination already.) Getting married is easy compared to all the hoops of buy a house.
In some ways that's appropriate. Claiming one another needs no signature, it needs a commitment of spirit. Claiming a property as your own requires a putting down of foundations and roots that have a profound effect on a whole community of people. Maybe we should sign more papers to get married. We'd probably take it more seriously. Who would do the inspections? Anyway, the process of choosing, bidding, signing reorients world order and perspective. That specific part of the map begins to grow in importance.
Here's where death comes in.
In the movie Signs, the main character's wife is pinned agains a tree by a truck. She's basically cut in half, killed, but kept alive by the pressure of the truck, momentarily. Her husband comes to see her and hold her hand as she dies. The movie made me think about the process of dying. Do we desperately try to hold on to the life we've known, the life of wonder and glory that has meant so much to us? Or do we turn in expectation to the unknown that is a whisper away?
One could say it's only fear that keeps us from turning to the new and leaving this, all of this behind. But I think that's cheap. The bonds of affection and appreciation run deep. And we not only grieve for the loss of our own life here, we grieve for the others who are not going with us on the great adventure of life beyond life. No wonder there are tears. They are a mixture of joy and pain, of anxiety and anticipation.
So now here I am, feet on two sides of moments of my life. It will be a while before we leave, years. But the tide is changing. No one else can see it. It runs within me, a tide of the heart. But it is coming.

ICONS

2009-05-20T10:01:00.000-07:00

I was talking with a class the other day about what moved an individual from important or powerful or famous into the place of an icon. We nosed around it for a while, looking at people that had iconic place in our culture. FDR, Kennedy, Regan, Martin Luther King, Mohamed Ali, Janis Joplin, Sinatra, people that stood out. It had nothing to do with our approval or sense of resonance with their thoughts and attitudes. It had to do with how they siezed their moment in history, how they lived in such a way as to help define that moment.

It made me consider individuals that have done that for me. How my history has been defined, for better or worse by individuals I have known. Some of it has to do with them and some of it has to do with me. It would be nice if such dominant personalities in my life had been all positive, lovely people. But such is not the case for any of us. Our struggles are just as formative as our blessed days. A considerable amount of my life has been spent in defending myself from the incursions of people who weren't very nice to me. It took me a long time to find a style of balance that kept me away from fear of losing myself.

I said to the class that one of the best definitions of a healthy person is one who doesn't feel the need to defend or justify themselves, but is willing to accept people for who and what they are and allow them the space to be that way. It's not easy to be graceful, partly because we do react in fear and we do spend a lot of our lives defining ourselves according to ego boundaries that are rarely more sophisticated than our two year old protestations of "No" and "Mine." Our vocabulary is larger and we have all kinds of justifications but it's hard to grow into a secure person. Another reason it's hard to be graceful is that sometimes it's painful. We get punished for not seeking to win or convert or have our own way.

Anyway, I think if I want to put a few icons on my psychic refrigerator, it might do me good to consider what I've learned from them. How have they facilitated my growth toward demonstrating grace and peace in my life? How do they, in their own way teach me about living? Abraham Lincoln does that for me. As does Michaelangelo. So does my wife. There are a few others that shall not be named. I tend to get hives when I consider them. Boy, are they instructive.

Finals

2009-05-05T09:27:00.000-07:00

This is the time of year when I finish my classes at Monmouth University. I don't give a final exam. I grade according to projects that the students work on all semester. So the final class is always kind of bitter sweet. The students are leaving and the students are leaving. I miss them. I've gotten to know them over the semester and they've come to me with issues and bits and pieces of their lives. I help them through. It creates a bond that is important to me and is one of the main reasons I teach.

In that last class I bring junk food, lots of junk food. Popcorn, peanuts, cookies, chips, salsa, crackers, pretzels, all the stuff that they eat. The cheeze doodles leave us with orange hands, but they're popular. It's a party. We do the Kiersey Bates temperment sorter. It gives them a chance to talk about themselves and where to from here. And I give them a speech.

I tell them that school is an amazing place. It's a powerful place that offers them opportunities that they will never have again in their lives. I also apologize for teachers who don't appreciate them. I ask them to never forget that even when they think we teachers are fools, they can learn from fools, if they hang in there. And then I tell them to always remember that if they feel judged or put down by a teacher, that they should never forget that learning doesn't depend on teachers. Learning depends on a willing and an open student. Teachers in all their vaunted authority are very vulnerable. Teachers need students to be teachers. I tell them they should never forget that they carry within them a seed of star dust. In my language, they are children of God. I tell them that it has been a great privilage to be their teacher. I thank them and bless them on their way.

It seems to touch them. It doesn't seem they are used to being affirmed.

Robert Frost said that the first green is gold. They are so beautiful and unaware of it. They are young and full of the potential that rests in each and all of us. Stardust, golden....

I get to bring home what's left from the feeding frenzy. Cheeze doodles!!!!!!!

May 2009

2009-05-04T07:03:00.000-07:00

I was always taught that places are not holy. Only God is holy. But there are places that are sacred for me. Places that are the environments of moments in my life. Places where the spirits of people who are dear to me seem close. And some places where I feel a resonance that transcends scenery and memory. Places that seem to vibrate with power beyond my understanding or control. Some are places of peace. Some are places of harmony. And some are not.

I have visited the battlefield at Gettysburg many times, as a child and an adult. The hills and fields are full of striving and pain. Sometimes when I've walked near the light house on Long Beach Island, especially at night, I can feel the fear and sorrow of all those lost on the shoals. Call me weird. I have found a new place. It is a place of calm and peace.

I've talked before about walking my dog, Sam, early in the morning, through the cemetery to our sanctuary. Sometimes Chris comes with me, but most of the time, Sam and I make the trip on our own. It is quiet. For part of the year it is dark, another part it is dim, and now it is dawn. Away from the road, against the trees, there is a cross, Celtic, in the ground, with a stone standing at its center. It is new. Its shape came to the designer in a dream. It grew from the commitment and work of many. It is not temporary. It feels ancient, though the plantings aren't even in the ground.

Its purpose is to be a memorial garden. But it is already more than that. It is a place of peace for any and all who come to it, and pause there. It inspires me. It humbles me. Give it a try. It's really good around dawn.

The week after

2009-04-15T12:05:00.000-07:00

This week is always like limbo land. Easter Day is nuts. It's exciting and nerve wracking and wild and over the top. The lead up to it is exhausting in other ways, but the final result of the whole kit and kaboodle is a pretty verticle trajectory. Which leaves me screaching into the heavens and slowly slowing down as the gravity of physical limits and emotional burn out assert their inexorable pull. Now I'm beginning to pick up speed again, down toward the thicker regions of the atmosphere of my life.

This year it seems I'm rather healthy, knock on wood. I usually am able to run myself into the ground and pick up some disease. This year I'm back at work and I just wobble now and then.

I wonder what the aftermath of the whole thing must have done to the bunch back then. Miracles are one thing, stress induced pooped-ness is another. And they had plenty of stress. Maybe I'm getting older and wiser. The older part is obvious. The wiser part is dubious. But I do feel more grateful for the entire experience. Gratitude does not preclude fatigue, but it does allow us to appreciate the moment. As a result that moment is a gift, a pleasure.

This is a week to feel a bit of low pressure between the ears, not quite a vacuum, but low pressure. And it's tinged with a glow. That's not limbo, that's a place of life, and life abundant.
I think I'll take a nap.

Broken Cross

2009-04-09T08:42:00.001-07:00

It's Maunday Thursday. It's time to bring the big cross, the one made from 4 X 4's, up out of the boiler room and lug it over to the Sanctuary. Tonight it's inside. Tomorrow it goes out in front of the church. It's part of my discipline for these days.

I went to check on it, the cross I mean. It was broken. Sometime during the year it had fallen over and the top broke off. I said a prayer of thanksgiving that some one hadn't pitched it. Broken stuff is trash after all. Then I went to get the wood glue. Someone who knew better reminded me that I needed marine wood glue. Water disolves the other stuff. There are no guarantees about weather.

In some ways it makes sense to have a busted and repaired cross. The original wasn't pretty. Just another blood stained torture devise. And besides, we're busted, broken by the ups and downs, the ins and outs and 'round about's. We all carry scars. But that doesn't make us any less important. The nasty thing stands there are a brutal reminder of our broken-ness and the power of love to heal.

I like the cross. It matches me.

Broken Fence

2009-04-08T09:48:00.000-07:00

Out my study window I can see the white board fence around my back yard. For years the bottom board has been broken. Right in the middle there's a gap of about eighteen inches. On my list of things to get done this summer is replacing that board and painting the fence. I guess the whole happily married thing is inspiring me.

But sitting here looking out my window, at my broken fence with daffodils and hyacinths blooming at its feet, I'm nostalgic and kind of attached to the whole scene. I'll fix it and get it painted. But I kind of like it the way it is now. Does that make it official? Am I certifiable? Or am I turning into someone for whom change is to be feared and avoided?

I choose to call myself a romantic. The scene is kind of pastoral, lovely and interesting in its own way. I don't like to change beauty. And neat has never been one of my favorite criteria for good looking. So I'll appreciate the spring flowers blooming around the broken fence and the rustic feel of the whole scene. And when it's fixed, I'll appreciate the face lift. By then the lillies will cover it anyway.

So much for bunnies

2009-04-03T05:40:00.000-07:00

Easter has always been a problem for me. It doesn't lie in the emotional roller coaster of the passion and death, let alone the reality bending ressurection. That I go with. It's not only my job but it's where my gravity takes me. I guess this is the 'ground of being' that Tillich talked about. These rocks are the home soil of my home. I know them. Painful and paradoxically joyful all together they take me back to center.

Nope, that's not the problem. It's the cute factor. The kiddie fun and frolic thing. The family get together and sit down to a Thanksgiving dinner with a different menu moment. Now don't get me wrong, I think Easter egg hunts are great. And I really like fresh pork and lamb. The two poles, ressurection and family fun don't create a tension, they create a dissenence. They jangle my soul. It's like we're trying to go in two directions at the same time. Disconcerting at the least.

Analogy time. An earthquake just happened. Everything is shaken and some of the stuff we depended upon is broken. And we are joyous that we are alive and grieving at the suffering around us. Mint jelly and giggles just don't fit.

Now, admittedly, exhaustion may have something to do with the whole thing. But I'm exhausted at Christmas and I don't suffer the disconnect. So, call me a curmuddgeon, however you spell that. I've tried for years to participate and fit in and even organize these events. But I've always felt like I needed to leave after I hid the eggs and set the table. I guess that's not all bad and maybe I need to stop feeling guilty about not being more enthusiastic about this stuff. This is Easter. Easter. Whew.

So, a blessed Easter to you all. Have a nice dinner. I'll be out in the grave yard. He is risen.

Black Holes

2009-03-27T05:45:00.000-07:00

The grand starry sky is lovely to behold from this warm corner of the universe. It twinkles and touches us with a tender awe. But when I consider the vast reaches of empty space and blazing extremes, the lovely vistas brought down from Huble's scope seem trifles compared to the fierce silence and gargantuan forces that push galaxies out, out, ever out.

I admire astronomers. Astro-physicists stare at the impersonal beasts that roam the sky, crunching and crashing, blowing up and radiating, and with the patience of love pick through signals that started on their way billions of years ago, all to find a single blip that yields a clearer understanding of this monster that cares about them not at all.

They have come upon the boogie man in my closet. They gleefully study it, a phenomenon that scares the socks off me. Out there, occasionally, a star crunches down, burned out. But it's mass is so great it cannot rest and finally it becomes a well of gravity that pulls everything, even light into its maw, insatiable. They call it a singularity. They call it a black hole.

I believe in light. It is not a phenomenon for me. It is a philosophy. It is my ground of being. Darkness will one day learn light, as hate will one day learn love. Ah, but there's the rub. What of apathy? What of that maw that swallows feeling, all feeling, that doesn't even waste the time of day or night with concern, because after all, what does it matter?

When I face the idea of these grand vacuum cleaners of space, I shiver. And I wonder, is there something beyond them, down inside or through them? Or do they just suck everything down, down, down?

Daffodils are my cure, this week, daffodils and my love's smile. Einstein said that it was not fair. Astronomers and physicists labor mightly to climb the icy crags of theory to carry human understanding up the pinnacles of knowledge. Blasted and exhausted they triumphantly plant their banner of discovery, and looking up find a group of theologians having tea. They'd been there for a while.

I'm a theologian. I have to chew on this one. Perhaps it's my job to look into the darkness and consider, what's in there, and what's beyond. Looking at it that way it's not so creepy. But I still like the daffodils and Chris.

April 2009

2009-03-26T10:16:00.000-07:00

I looked through one window to another

The sky shone clear there, deep blue graced

With clouds come down to float across the pane

All because of dark and light, within and beyond.

I am full of darkness, fear and prejudice shadow

Day's brightness, dim mornings and afternoons

Of life. We all are. Well defended, isolated, documented,

Over-extended. The day of life is lost in our shadows.

But now and then we gaze out and see. Now and then

Day's light touches us, reminds us, opens us to a world

Of light and life. Windows' gifts, these moments blessed

Show us brilliance, and possibility, and freedom wide.

And on this day the sky, high above brought down,

Reflected on the pane, showing me the source of

Light's wide grace. Perhaps our dimness can be more

Than curse and blight. Perhaps a blessing of the light.

The tomb is so, source of fear and darkness.

Brutal loss that dims the day and leaves us lost.

But look again. See there reflected by the light of love

God's brightness in the life of one. He is risen!

A blessed Easter. Hallelujah.

David

Letting Go

2009-03-25T05:21:00.000-07:00

I don't know about you, but change ain't easy for this humble servant. I have spent my life doing the church thing. This isn't a hobby or a membership in a pool club. This has been the focus of the most important events and moments in my life. My parents, music, art, love, coming of age, marriage, death, the presence of the almighty, friendship, learning, literature, fighting injustice, family, loss, sacrifice, capability, mysticism, and the list goes on. All of these have come into focus and been part of the solar system that has been defined by this locus of community and devinity. I got into this business partly because it's a congenital disorder. It runs in my blood. Then there's the very real sense that this focus of power and love put me up to this. I have a call. All of that I'm sure will be the focus of future installments. But resting there, right there with these others is the most human and simple reason: I love the joint.

In spite and because of its warts and idiocies, it is my home. And I think it's a grand place. I like its style and grace. I like its geekiness and innocense. I like its grandure and power. I like what it stands for and how it goes about grappeling with the beasts that beset us. And now I'm watching it struggle to survive. It's far from dead, but it's having a hard time holding together.

I get defensive when charges of irrelevance, hypocracy, judgemental, and all the other stones that have hit it come lobbing in from 'out there.' I get angry when some from 'in here' say and do things that make me want to weep. And I fume at the apathy of most about the life or demise of this glorious entity that means so much to me. After all, soccer practice is so important.

Last night we had a meeting. It was a good meeting. It dealt with the issues of hunger and justice and the blessed earth and the safety of our children. We talked about how to more effectively work through conflict. I'd say that is a pretty relevant and honest agenda. And I realized that we are swimming upstream and we are exhausted.

God doesn't depend on the church. It's a gift to us. God will be fine. And who knows what the shape and style of the next incarnation of the Body of Christ will take? It has morphed and will continue to do so. But it's really hard to let go of something that has nurtured and prodded me toward the grand horizons of life.

I think I'm going to have a hard time giving up my driver's liscense.

cold snap

2009-03-24T04:59:00.000-07:00

Spring's here. I know it is. The light comes earlier and stays later. Proof positive that the sacrifices offered on the Equinox were not in vain. But why then is it cold? Isn't spring supposed to be warm? Now that we've been given the gift, why aren't warm fuzzies there to embrace us on a consistant basis?

But then again, life doesn't allow a presumptive comfort. Bases are rare. Sanctuary is an unusual comfort and perhaps not even a real one. Such an assumption that we don't have to deal with that which comes to us, on its own, without filter or padding is rather arrogant. The world is given to us, a gift as it is. People come to us as they are. The best of them are honest polite enough not to abuse us. Their honesty helps create the edges and bumps in the topography of our living.

I like bumps. They've been tough enough to live through the erosions of peer pressure and exhaustion. They stick out and say, "Hey, wait a minute." And when they come from people I love they are interesting enough to appreciate. Sometimes moss grows on them and they become outcropings of new ways of looking and considering. Or they become reminders of my own limitation. Or they become foundations for new structures. I guess that's called learning, perhaps that's called living.

Anyway, the cold makes my face hurt. But the daffodils are still blooming. Appreciate the gift, even when you're shivering.

Daffodils

2009-03-23T06:08:00.000-07:00

I cut three daffodils for Chris today. I always feel a little guilty cutting flowers. But I reconcile it by considering the joy they bring when I give them to her. These were some of the first to open. They trumpeted the Vernal Equinox better than any headline. And when she saw them I knew they felt appreciated. They are.

2009-03-18T05:30:00.000-07:00

St Patrick's Day
I never really paid any attention to the day of the saint. Protestants are so boring sometimes. I guess with a name that comes out of the mists of the Hebrides my family had better things to do that to drink green beer. We’re snobs. Besides, this guy was responsible for kicking the Celtic kings out of the western annex of Scotland that is Ireland. The kings carried dragons, tattooed up their arms and legs. Patrick was a tough guy and he knew that unless he could get rid of these pesky Celts, Christianity would be wrestling with the Druids. Time for a coup. It got translated into pushing the snakes out of Ireland. That’s the legendary version.

Anyway, my first church was in Irvington, that bastion of Irish tradition. Well, in 1975 the Irish mob still ran a lot of the area. There was a parade to celebrate the wearing of the green. It went by my house. Late on the 16th, some of the faithful would follow the parade route and put a stripe down the middle of the street, a bright green stripe. I guess it helped the paradees not make any wrong turns.

After watching this whole production an adolescent dragon, a wee beastie whispered in my ear “Mee boy, therr be a way to scatter dismay and consternation among these upstarts. This Patrrick be celebrated by all an’ none stand for the serpents. Justice! (that’s the way Celtic dragons talk). “

So late on the next March 16th, after the semi drunk crew had left green proof behind them down the middle of my street, I ventured forth in the wee hours of the morning, armed with two cans of orange spray paint. I confess I was not wearing a kilt. But my spirit was. The orange stripe began a block beyond Donovan’s Pub, the place where the parade began and where the faithful got tanked up before staggering forth. It ran parallel to the green, coexisting for fifty yards, and then with glee, as much glee as an orange stripe can exhibit, tangled and superimposed itself upon the green. The paint ran out a bit beyond my house. No sense leaving too much proof from whom the blessing of the orange had come.

The next day I sat on my stoop, early. I heard the first whoops of consternation an hour before the parade. Ahh, it was better than the pipes upon the moors. Being the day to party, they were not ready to repel such an assault. Besides, the time for the parade’s beginning came upon them, leaving them no choice but to go on with the show.

On that day the sons of Erin followed and orange stripe for half their jaunt. They scowled. It was beautiful. I could hear the beastie chuckling at them.

They posted guards the next year. Dragons must be reckoned with.

New Endeavors

2009-03-12T09:37:00.000-07:00

This is a brand new topography for me. The worn paths and road signs that seem so mundane and familiar to so many are exotic and largely meaningless to me. I have guides. They are patient. They have to be. I'm dumb. But I think they get a kick seeing me going "Wow!" over simple and basic operations. "Look at the bunny!"

This is somewhere I will return and go beyond, soon. Then I will be less amazed. But it will be no less a miracle and the guides will be no less reasons for thanksgiving.

Here we go.

March 2009

2009-03-10T11:12:00.000-07:00

There's an angel in the cemetery that I hang around with on a regular basis. She's delicate, graceful, though worn from spending so much time out in the weather. Sometime before I got to know her, she had a mishap, so one of her wings is stubby. You'd think it would mar the angelic effect, but somehow it fits. She doesn't move when I'm around, so to face her I have to look east. As a result. I've seen the glory of her halo. It shines around her at sunrise. The circle above the head thing doesn't express the halo of dawn.

Sometimes when I look at her, I realize that all our concepts and ideas of that which is above and beyond are almost useless. It is enough to say that there, as I face east, the eternal shines in her so clearly, stubby wing and all.

The other day we woke up to a white world. The snow had fallen soft on every branch, with no breeze to dislodge it. So the bare trees were bare no more. In the moment before dawn the coming sun whispered around the corner of the horizon in hints of lavender and rose. The master of our sky often does this, teasing us with hints of the glory to come. Glory's great, but whispers draw us in, like children awed by candles' glow. And on this dressed up morning, the sky king's colors reflected from each and every surface. Shadows became color pots. There was no black and white.

She stood there, as she always does when I come to call. A bit of ice had coated her hair before the snow offered her ermine for evening-wear. And now her gown graced the morning. A bit gaudy for walking the dog, but that kind of beauty cannot be limited by the small categories of appropriate or fashionable. It sets its own style, claiming the moment as its own.

I wish there were more to see her, just then in her radiance. I wish that vision could grace the eyes of every person who stands in awe of the coming sun, and all who don't notice it at all. We all need it, that momentary reminder that the order of our living can wait for such a sight. And she deserves oooh's and ahhh's from more than just one.

But that's the way eternity is. It sneaks up on us without an appointment or a warning. If only we could plan for it. We could fit it into our busy lives. But that's the rub. We can't fit something that amazing "in." We accept it on its own terms and share the magic when it comes, or miss it in our rush to somewhere else.

I don't spend much time with her, but I treasure our moments together. And I think I'll shave before I walk the dog. A lovely lady deserves a bit of respect.

David