Prisoner

My father always wore tabs, the white strips that descend from the throat over the Geneva gown. Mom starched them every week. He insisted that wasn’t necessary, but she did it anyway. I think she considered it part of her role. I found out later that they stood for the tablets of the law. The Old Covenant that was the foundation for the New. It made sense to me. Those starched tabs were diving boards from which my father’s words bounced into the flips and swans that thundered and whispered from the high pulpit every Sunday.

When I started my ministry I wore a shirt and tie with the black robe over. In some ways I didn’t know what else to do. I was working, unconsciously, on a style, a voice. The tabs were from another era. I did the easiest. I was busy. But as I moved into the jungle, I realized I wanted something to help differentiate me in my role from the other denizens of the forest. I was a missionary, a warrior of the light, a Marshall come to bring order to Tombstone Territory. I needed a badge, a uniform, something to let folks know the Rev had come to town (Can you tell I was and am an unrepentant romantic?). So I shopped (It’s the all American thing to do).

The Protestant version of the collar, a stripe around the throat, kind of turned me off. I have no idea why. I opted for the Roman collar, with a notch. I guess I’m secure in my Protestant identity, I can wear Catholic. I wore and wear it for worship and during Holy Week. It’s my discipline. It makes sense to me.

I subsequently found out that the collar is a symbol for slavery. It’s a slave collar. That reaffirmed the whole thing. It gave me an angle. It resonated with Paul. But after 9-11 it became much more than an angle.

I live near New York City. A lot of my folks work there. Some of them were there. Some of them died. I worked at Ground Zero with the rescue workers, helping them stay sane and at the family of victims’ center in the old ferry station in Jersey. But I also wore my collar, every day, every where I went. People stopped me on the street, in diners, wherever. They took my hand, they told me about their son or their sister or their cousin. They asked for prayers. They cried. We all needed something we could depend on. Our security was gone. People needed a symbol.

It changed my attitude toward my collar. It changed my attitude toward being a slave of Christ. It’s closer to my old attitude of warrior of the light and is much more real. I am part of God’s army, the host of heaven. I am a pillar. Lean on me. But never forget, I am a slave. And never forget the one I belong to. It’s where I get my authority, my orders, my direction, my hope.

Spider Man, not quite. The Rev, definitely.

Should Old Aquaintence ...

Last night we watched the ball drop to Beethoven's 9th, Ode to Joy. There are few things more beautiful than that grand, triumphal symphony. Such a conclusion and a beginning. It has already spanned centuries, now it has lapped another year and decade.

I think it is beneficial to alter the sound track of our lives. It changes what we see and understand. It lifts the sights away from the sounds, cutting off the cacophany of the moment and allowing harmony blessed by genius and passion to move from background to dominant presence. It allows us to remember the sweep of history, even the history of each of our lives that transcends the difficulties and complaints of now, laying down themes that move through variations only to return again. Today and yesterday all entwined, connected up and down the minor and major keys of life, pointing toward resolution.

Now I'm making resolutions. Some of the same, unfinished business worth continuing. Some new, mostly spurred by my desire to center my time and energy toward the love and beauty of my love. See what Beethoven will do to you? Ain't romance grand?

Decorating

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....

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?

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

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

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.