Resurrection

I tend to be emotionally involved in most things I do. I operate by my gut. That's a rather visceral comment. All punning aside, my connections and motivations are usually emotionally motivated and grounded. So, if I want to change my approach to something, I find one of the best places to start is with my emotional approach.

For years Palm Sunday and Holy Week have been based in place of frustration about my inability to defend Jesus from the mess that He lived through. Perhaps because I'm growing up, or because I'm more secure and at peace in my home, I realized that this was defining an awful lot of my interactions during this time. Though it was authentic and very real. I decided that perhaps I needed to get out of my knee jerk authenticity and do a better job of modeling the Lord's behavior as He went through His passion.

It was weird how grace and peace slipped over this time that had been a battlefield. It didn't take away the impact of the passion at all. In some ways I sensed more of His pain and struggle because I wasn't in the middle of the whole thing any more.

Now don't get this wrong, it was more complicated than just making a simple decision. I worked on it. I guess that's what Lent's for, working on things. But one day I was talking to somebody about a burden they were carrying, and I brought up Grace and Peace. I reminded them that this was a greeting that Greeks used in their correspondence. 'Grace and Peace be unto you.' I'd never focused on the profound power of that binary vision of life. So I began looking at things with those two as a source and method.

Anyway, to make a long story longer, something changed. There weren't any lightning bolts. Just the opposite. Less lightning and more light.

Easter was different this year. There was just as much stuff to do. There was still the glory and beauty that always blows me away. But there was a real sense of peace that pervaded the whole thing. And it was incredibly more graceful, less turbulent, clearer. And tired though I was, I wasn't so exhausted. Now that's saying something for an old codger.

I hate to say it, but I seem to have learned something. Weird huh?

Do You Hate?

The number of hate groups in the US has risen 40% in the last year. These groups range from people who believe that only white people should have any rights here, to people who believe that Jews need to be separated from 'good people,' to people who believe that there is a conspiracy by the Democratic Party to open concentration camps and declare martial law, to people who consider teaching evolution to be a sin to be punished with death. The Oklahoma City bomber was a member of one of these groups.
As a proud American who believes that the Bill of Rights is critical to the freedom of each and every person in this country, I will defend anyone’s right to free speech, assembly, and all the other things I treasure for myself and would rather not offer to people who are willing to limit the freedom of those different than they are. But I insist on their right to hold their beliefs no matter how uncomfortable they make me. I also realize that they don’t feel that way about me. And I still believe that their rights must be defended. It’s not their beliefs that keep this country free. It’s the rights we all share. And as soon as those rights begin to be limited, we’re all in trouble.
To tell the truth, the thing that disturbs me the most is not their twisted version of reality or even their tendency to be violent and unreasonable. It is the immense rise in the rage of individuals and the nation’s sense that this a perfectly reasonable response to any or all moments when we are frustrated or when we lose an election. It presumes that our ideas and prejudices are holy and not to be challenged by anyone not willing to pay a price.
When we consider the actions of our Lord in the face of the oppression and injustice He had to face, it creates a stark contrast to the anger and prejudice that has moved like a cloud over our nation. Unless we are willing to discount the teaching and behavior of Jesus, I think we should reconsider how we react to those we disagree with. They are God’s children too.

molecular resonance

I was listening to Jackson Brown today. Painting a room goes better when there's music. It has something to do with the molecular resonance of the paint. Anyway, his music is kind of dark, in spite of the slide guitar and the rock rythems. I was thinking while I did the molding around the window panes that there were some songs that I liked, not because the song said what I thought, but because there was a phrase, musically or poetically that resonated with how I felt or thought, kind of like the paint molecules. It made me consider again the power of music and poetry and the way it speaks to us.
Some of the most important themes in my life are sympathetic resonances, not structured meanings. They have less to do with understanding than with some shadow of a childhood memory, or a mental snapshot of a moment at a stop light, or a song that played while I did something for the first time. Or maybe a shadow of another reality that calls through melody, rhyme, and rythem across the distances and dimensional gulfs that seperate us from there and then.
I definitely want to go to the Grateful Dead dimension.

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.

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.