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.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Sweet Water
In the week before we throw a party, we take a pilgrimage to Trader Joe's in Westfield. It's not the bouquet and oak that draws us. It's where we buy 'Three Buck Chuck's.' A nick name for a good wine that fits into our budget. But if truth be told, the place we stop for dinner after we put the cases of Shiraz in the trunk is as important as the deal we get on the wine.
I found the place years ago, be accident. Dark wood, mission stained glass, fire place, good food, great martinis. It drew me back. The gravity was greatly enhanced by Jeffery. He was and is the spirit of the enviornment. After my first visit, he remembered my name, he remembered my then-girlfriend-now-wife's name, he remembered what I drink, he remembered me. As the theme song of "Cheers" floats through, bear with me.
This time Jeffery wasn't there. He was in Jamacia, "tanning up," as the waiter said. We soldiered through, inspite of his absence. Then a family came in. The octigenarian stopped by the table to flirt with Chris. The couple who seemed in charge bussled. They wandered around speaking to the waiters. They came over and introduced themselves. They were the owners. The grandchildren followed, all introduced in turn, including Mia, asleep on her mother's shoulder. Somewhere in the conversation it came out I was a minister. By this time we had our coats on. Frank, Dad, owner, boss, apologizing, asked me very humbly if I would offer a "small blessing" on the place.
I've read about the role of shaman. I've witnessed the power of curses and the fear of superstition. I've also seen the relief and gratitude that people carry from a moment when they receive a benediction.
It's happened to me before. Someone asking for words of assurance that are based not on some reasonable and relational moment of sharing, but rather on perceived access to power beyond understanding. I've heard it denegrated and treated with the distain of adults for the belief of children. Paternalism is ugly. It assumes authority, the authority of superior knowledge. It is arrogant at best and abusive at worst. But such posturing cannot deny the power of humility and respect.
The blessing of touch, of words that acknowledge the power that is beyond our definition, our reason, our wisdom, that is to be respected and not to be withheld.
I don't understand how any of this works. I don't understand the cause and effect relationship between plains of being. But I do know that it touched me and grounded me to be a part of that moment.
Besides, they make great martinis.
I found the place years ago, be accident. Dark wood, mission stained glass, fire place, good food, great martinis. It drew me back. The gravity was greatly enhanced by Jeffery. He was and is the spirit of the enviornment. After my first visit, he remembered my name, he remembered my then-girlfriend-now-wife's name, he remembered what I drink, he remembered me. As the theme song of "Cheers" floats through, bear with me.
This time Jeffery wasn't there. He was in Jamacia, "tanning up," as the waiter said. We soldiered through, inspite of his absence. Then a family came in. The octigenarian stopped by the table to flirt with Chris. The couple who seemed in charge bussled. They wandered around speaking to the waiters. They came over and introduced themselves. They were the owners. The grandchildren followed, all introduced in turn, including Mia, asleep on her mother's shoulder. Somewhere in the conversation it came out I was a minister. By this time we had our coats on. Frank, Dad, owner, boss, apologizing, asked me very humbly if I would offer a "small blessing" on the place.
I've read about the role of shaman. I've witnessed the power of curses and the fear of superstition. I've also seen the relief and gratitude that people carry from a moment when they receive a benediction.
It's happened to me before. Someone asking for words of assurance that are based not on some reasonable and relational moment of sharing, but rather on perceived access to power beyond understanding. I've heard it denegrated and treated with the distain of adults for the belief of children. Paternalism is ugly. It assumes authority, the authority of superior knowledge. It is arrogant at best and abusive at worst. But such posturing cannot deny the power of humility and respect.
The blessing of touch, of words that acknowledge the power that is beyond our definition, our reason, our wisdom, that is to be respected and not to be withheld.
I don't understand how any of this works. I don't understand the cause and effect relationship between plains of being. But I do know that it touched me and grounded me to be a part of that moment.
Besides, they make great martinis.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Prisoner
My father always wore tabs, the white strips that descend from the throat over the Geneva gown. Mom starched them every week. He insisted that wasn’t necessary, but she did it anyway. I think she considered it part of her role. I found out later that they stood for the tablets of the law. The Old Covenant that was the foundation for the New. It made sense to me. Those starched tabs were diving boards from which my father’s words bounced into the flips and swans that thundered and whispered from the high pulpit every Sunday.
When I started my ministry I wore a shirt and tie with the black robe over. In some ways I didn’t know what else to do. I was working, unconsciously, on a style, a voice. The tabs were from another era. I did the easiest. I was busy. But as I moved into the jungle, I realized I wanted something to help differentiate me in my role from the other denizens of the forest. I was a missionary, a warrior of the light, a Marshall come to bring order to Tombstone Territory. I needed a badge, a uniform, something to let folks know the Rev had come to town (Can you tell I was and am an unrepentant romantic?). So I shopped (It’s the all American thing to do).
The Protestant version of the collar, a stripe around the throat, kind of turned me off. I have no idea why. I opted for the Roman collar, with a notch. I guess I’m secure in my Protestant identity, I can wear Catholic. I wore and wear it for worship and during Holy Week. It’s my discipline. It makes sense to me.
I subsequently found out that the collar is a symbol for slavery. It’s a slave collar. That reaffirmed the whole thing. It gave me an angle. It resonated with Paul. But after 9-11 it became much more than an angle.
I live near New York City. A lot of my folks work there. Some of them were there. Some of them died. I worked at Ground Zero with the rescue workers, helping them stay sane and at the family of victims’ center in the old ferry station in Jersey. But I also wore my collar, every day, every where I went. People stopped me on the street, in diners, wherever. They took my hand, they told me about their son or their sister or their cousin. They asked for prayers. They cried. We all needed something we could depend on. Our security was gone. People needed a symbol.
It changed my attitude toward my collar. It changed my attitude toward being a slave of Christ. It’s closer to my old attitude of warrior of the light and is much more real. I am part of God’s army, the host of heaven. I am a pillar. Lean on me. But never forget, I am a slave. And never forget the one I belong to. It’s where I get my authority, my orders, my direction, my hope.
Spider Man, not quite. The Rev, definitely.
When I started my ministry I wore a shirt and tie with the black robe over. In some ways I didn’t know what else to do. I was working, unconsciously, on a style, a voice. The tabs were from another era. I did the easiest. I was busy. But as I moved into the jungle, I realized I wanted something to help differentiate me in my role from the other denizens of the forest. I was a missionary, a warrior of the light, a Marshall come to bring order to Tombstone Territory. I needed a badge, a uniform, something to let folks know the Rev had come to town (Can you tell I was and am an unrepentant romantic?). So I shopped (It’s the all American thing to do).
The Protestant version of the collar, a stripe around the throat, kind of turned me off. I have no idea why. I opted for the Roman collar, with a notch. I guess I’m secure in my Protestant identity, I can wear Catholic. I wore and wear it for worship and during Holy Week. It’s my discipline. It makes sense to me.
I subsequently found out that the collar is a symbol for slavery. It’s a slave collar. That reaffirmed the whole thing. It gave me an angle. It resonated with Paul. But after 9-11 it became much more than an angle.
I live near New York City. A lot of my folks work there. Some of them were there. Some of them died. I worked at Ground Zero with the rescue workers, helping them stay sane and at the family of victims’ center in the old ferry station in Jersey. But I also wore my collar, every day, every where I went. People stopped me on the street, in diners, wherever. They took my hand, they told me about their son or their sister or their cousin. They asked for prayers. They cried. We all needed something we could depend on. Our security was gone. People needed a symbol.
It changed my attitude toward my collar. It changed my attitude toward being a slave of Christ. It’s closer to my old attitude of warrior of the light and is much more real. I am part of God’s army, the host of heaven. I am a pillar. Lean on me. But never forget, I am a slave. And never forget the one I belong to. It’s where I get my authority, my orders, my direction, my hope.
Spider Man, not quite. The Rev, definitely.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Should Old Aquaintence ...
Last night we watched the ball drop to Beethoven's 9th, Ode to Joy. There are few things more beautiful than that grand, triumphal symphony. Such a conclusion and a beginning. It has already spanned centuries, now it has lapped another year and decade.
I think it is beneficial to alter the sound track of our lives. It changes what we see and understand. It lifts the sights away from the sounds, cutting off the cacophany of the moment and allowing harmony blessed by genius and passion to move from background to dominant presence. It allows us to remember the sweep of history, even the history of each of our lives that transcends the difficulties and complaints of now, laying down themes that move through variations only to return again. Today and yesterday all entwined, connected up and down the minor and major keys of life, pointing toward resolution.
Now I'm making resolutions. Some of the same, unfinished business worth continuing. Some new, mostly spurred by my desire to center my time and energy toward the love and beauty of my love. See what Beethoven will do to you? Ain't romance grand?
I think it is beneficial to alter the sound track of our lives. It changes what we see and understand. It lifts the sights away from the sounds, cutting off the cacophany of the moment and allowing harmony blessed by genius and passion to move from background to dominant presence. It allows us to remember the sweep of history, even the history of each of our lives that transcends the difficulties and complaints of now, laying down themes that move through variations only to return again. Today and yesterday all entwined, connected up and down the minor and major keys of life, pointing toward resolution.
Now I'm making resolutions. Some of the same, unfinished business worth continuing. Some new, mostly spurred by my desire to center my time and energy toward the love and beauty of my love. See what Beethoven will do to you? Ain't romance grand?
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
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!
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!
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
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?
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?
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