Author: winncollier

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She Said Yes

Fourteen years ago (yesterday), Miska said yes. I giggled my way through most of the ceremony, an annoying (and quite manly, I might add) nervous response. The first few minutes, Miska thought my giggles were endearing. Ten minutes later, not so much.

We had a morning wedding and couldn’t wait to get on the road. Off on our honeymoon. It’s been a long road from there to here. I’ve been surprised by some of the detours and cul-de-sacs. But I’m thankful for every mile, even the hard ones.

Fourteen years later, the moments I most crave are our Fridays together. Just the two of us, thanks to the City of Charlottesville’s generosity (via the public school system) in watching our boys. We walk. We talk. Some Fridays, we grab Naan bread from the local bakery. We may watch a movie or take a nap. The day is a prayer. I love those Friday sabbaths, and I love the evenings on our balcony, after the boys are in bed. Tea in hand, Carter Mountain in full view. Sunlight fades, and love blooms.

There isn’t a person in this world I love more. There isn’t a person on this wide globe I respect more or believe in more. This I’m certain of: if you don’t know her, you are missing out on one of God’s good and beautiful gifts.

Over these years, we’ve had several stretches where love was hard, not easy. We had to say yes again and again. I plan on speaking that simple, powerful word ’til death do us part.

 

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Daring, Humbled Ones {a hillside sermon}

Blessings on the meek. {Jesus}

We live in a university town, home to a historic and prestigious academic institution that has traded titles (Best Public University) with UC Berkley the last 11 or 12 years. There’s a lot of smart people here. A lot. I love it, truly do. Important ideas. Fascinating discussions. Intriguing people. But stick around long enough, and you will notice the temptation to sound smarter than you actually are, to drop names of esoteric philosophers you don’t really understand and use words you haven’t exactly figured out yet. Not that I’ve ever done this, mind you – but I know people who have.

I’m a pastor. And you might find this hard to believe (or not), but pastors feel the compulsion to climb the totem pole just like everyone else. We have our matrix for success, though these days it’s often unspoken because someone finally realized how crass it is to actually say you’re measuring the Kingdom of God by seats filled and dollars gathered. We see other churches grow and other pastors become the superstars while we dawdle along — and we awake in the middle of the night, ravaged by the fear that we are failures. Not that I’ve ever done this, mind you – but I know pastors who have.

I’m a writer. I don’t even need to go into it. The cliches are true; we are tortured souls. You put your words to paper, sending them out into the wide world with fingers crossed that they’ll be received, if not (dare we admit) cherished. And months later, the resounding silence has squashed all that. Now, you’re just begging the great publishing gods to not let it go out of print before its first birthday. And then you see the blogosphere blow up with some schmuck’s flash of brilliance. He said something revolutionary like “Be nice to people” – and he offered his sagacity with all the artfulness of a South of the Border billboard. Overnight, he’s got 4 buzillion twitter followers and blog commenters – and you know this because you’ve counted. Everything turns green. Not that I’ve ever done this…

We exhaust ourselves with all these wranglings because we do not believe that when we are humbled (and this is the meaning of meek) that the mercy of God will be enough for us. To be meek is to be gentle. A gentle man. A gentle woman. We are free to be gentle with others because we recognize God is gentle with us. We have nothing to prove. We are whoever and whatever God has given us to be. And we offer the same freedom to others.

When we release the demand to get what’s ours, when we drop our shoulders and lower our guard and simply live the truth of who we are – we can trust that the God of all kindness will hold us together. We don’t have to pry our life out of other’s scattered opinions and perceptions of us. We are free to be tamed by God, to surrender to God’s good care.

Peterson’s rendering of this beatitude invites us to take a risk – and to breathe easy: You’re blessed when you’re content with just who you are – no more, no less.

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Mad Men

Miska and I, ever late to the party, have begun watching Mad Men. We’re into the second season, and I’ve yet to find a character I truly like. Early on, I asked Miska what she thought the symbolism was during each episode’s opening montage — that suited imaged falling, falling, falling. A couple nights ago, Miska figured it out. “He’s dropping into the moral abyss.” Bingo.

The writing is sharp. The set dead-on. A far cry from the same show, different channel gloom of most network drivel, Mad Men offers true craft, nuanced stories and dialogue that makes you want to actually listen to what the characters are saying. For television, that’s no small feat.
Still, there’s no character I really want to know, certainly nobody I’d like my sons to know. I’m watching Mad Men, but I realize I’m missing Friday Night Lights.
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For Those Who Mourn {a hillside sermon}

Blessings on the mourners. {Jesus}

I live with a woman who’s made friends with tears. And I tell you, Miska’s tears are one of the most powerful and beautiful things about her. When Miska and I first married, she rarely cried. I do remember that night during our first month in our first apartment, when we were still sleeping on a twenty-year-old hand-me-down mattress and box springs plopped on the floor. So many emotions, so raw. The tears came, but that was rare.

A couple years later, Miska began her grad program in counseling. She started to pay attention to her story; and she learned to pay attention to other’s stories. Miska is one of those rare people who truly listens, who hears you. Her tears signal strength, not frailty. A courageous woman, this wife of mine. She bears other’s sorrows and has become well acquainted with grief. She takes in other’s joy and weeps for all the beauty she sees. If you’ve never told your story to another and felt the sheer presence of someone’s tears over you, with you – well, I pray someday you receive that gift.

Of course, tears aren’t the only way to mourn (or express gratitude for beauty). But however one mourns, the mourner is not one we’d think of as blessed. The mourner is the one who knows the weight of things, the one who’s mistakes have brought him low, the one who can’t get over the loss, the one who carries another’s pain. The mourner lives with acute awareness of all the things we’ve lost in our world, all the places where we’ve gone wrong.

Some might call the mourners sentimental. Some might hurry them along the “stages of grief.” The mourners are the people we learn to work around, to acknowledge but keep on the edges where they won’t bother anyone.

But when Jesus announces the kingdom of God, he throws his arms open wide and speaks these words. Blessed. Blessings on you who mourn, on you who know the sting of grief. To you who can never escape the tears, for you or for others. God is here. And you are blessed.

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On the Anniversary of 09/11

Ten years ago today, I was driving into downtown Denver, heading to my office at Schwab. I was dialed into the same news station that always accompanied my drive. Updates came staccato-style. What a tragedy – this malfunctioned plane (or was it pilot error?) that had set one of the Towers ablaze. Then I remember the somber panic of the announcer: This was not an accident. A second plane has just hit the second Tower.

I walked into the fourth floor of the Schwab building. The room was normally a-chatter with brokers doing broker business. But we were all huddled around the TV monitors hanging ever fifteen feet or so from the ceiling. Normally, we had CNBC’s coverage of the market’s pre-bell hype. We watched the flame and ash, the people diving out of windows. We worried about our colleagues in our Trade Center office – had they escaped?

We went to war, or three. Lives have been saved, I’m sure. Lives have also been lost, far more civilians than on that horrid day. What has come of us? Today, I wonder what we’ve learned as a people. What have I learned?

Lord, have mercy on us.

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Go Looking for It

Joy will surprise you, sneak up on you like a quick-hit kiss. I’m thankful joy comes when we least expect it, when we least deserve it. Some of us tilt toward the sour side, and we need a disruptive shock of laughter or foolishness to punch us in the seat of the pants. Having two boys is good for this. Well, sometimes — let’s be honest.

That said, being surprised is not enough. We need to look for joy, scout it out. I say it’s good to be greedy on this score. The more joy you receive, the more you can give away. And God knows we need more joy in this world.

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Ridiculous Blessings {a hillside sermon}

Blessed are the poor. {Jesus}

Blessed are the sat upon, spat upon, ratted on. {Paul Simon}

No matter the continent or century, we agree: the destitute and impoverished among us are the oppressed, not the privileged. The poor are beaten down by the man, undone by their addictions or overwhelmed by unjust systems. However we might describe the downtrodden, they are most certainly not blessed.

Yet Jesus leads off his litany of blessing in his sermon on the hill, the sermon launching revolutions and befuddling readers, with these strange words: blessed are the poor. Is Jesus glossing human sorrow with sentimentality? Has Jesus surrendered to an inner, “spiritualized” idealism, making a clean break from reality, from the poverty staring him in the face? Has Jesus lost his ever-loving mind?

Some have wondered if Jesus’ words minimize the plight of the poor, as if those under the heels of economic strain should stop bitching and thank their lucky stars they have received such an odd mercy. It hurts, but it builds character says the cliche. Of course, few of us want to get in line for this brand of mercy. Odd, isn’t it, how we can twist words so that the one who came (as the old prophet Isaiah said) to “bring good news to the poor” sounds darn close to a callous robber baron.

Jesus has no idyllic vision of poverty. Jesus is not suggesting that the hungry boy trapped in the slums simply surrender to squaller because – doesn’t he know?? — he’s blessed. Rather, Jesus announces the presence and power of God’s Kingdom, that reality that unseats and overturns every other reality, by proclaiming that the very ones gathered round him (the sick, the diseased, the outcast) who were in every way poor were welcomed, were desired and would by God’s grace be blessed, made well. As Glenn Stassen said, “The poor are blessed, not because their virtue is perfect but because God especially does want to rescue the poor.”

Matthew casts a wider net, telling us that all who are “poor in spirit” are blessed. Poverty makes it round to all of us. The poor in spirit includes all of us who are humbled. All of us who think we have nothing, are nothing. All of us who have slammed up against our limitations or another’s ridicule. All of us who feel small and insignificant. All of us who have been crushed by disappointment or shame. All of us who have been ignored or dismissed.

In one way or the other, at some point or another — and if we possess the courage to be honest — each of us will discover ourselves situated firmly in the company of the poor. We will be among those whom no one mistakes for an expert, who have no wide following, who fail to make the list marked elite. We are the silly ones, the bumbling ones. No one would come to us for an endorsement or to raise cash. We have little power. We are a poor fool.

And strangest of truths, Jesus announces to us in our impoverished place, the Kingdom is yours. Welcome. Blessed.

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Friendship

The older I get, the more I value the simple cadence of friendship. I crave the spaces and people who are music for my soul, who help me see where I shine as well as where I fade – and who care not one bit which it is because the friendship we share isn’t about getting anything fixed but about walking together toward the person we truly are. True friends see the good in me more than I’m able to see it myself.

Buechner got it right. “Friends are people you make part of your life just because you feel like it.” I have a few friends like this. I hope to God you do to.

I have an image. We’re sitting around a night sky (probably Colorado), miles from the noise. We have a fire popping. We have our pipes. We’re sitting round a circle, our breath blowing mist into the crisp air, deep rhythms. We sit, maybe for an hour, silent, with only puffs of smoke and crackle of fire to distract. Finally, someone shifts, signaling a readiness to speak. We listen expectantly as he breathes in, soon to break the long quiet. Well, he says, peering into the fire. He exhales a long sigh, his shoulders releasing again. We all nod in agreement and then return to our conversation amid silence.

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Mark Rife: Give Life a Chance

Last Thursday, a guy I went to college with, Mark Rife, committed suicide. As I understand the story, three years ago his wife Sarah died due to complications from a fall off a 75 foot waterfall. She fell; he dove in after her. Against all odds, they thought she had recovered. In fact, in one of the messages he left, he reminisced about her caring for him during his recovery while she had landed back at work and routines. Life had returned to some degree of normal; but then six months later, she died in her sleep. Mark was devastated.

In a video he left behind, Mark describes leaving Sarah’s funeral, driving who knows where and simply wanting to die — but he remembered the time they watched the film Juliet and Her Romeo, a film he loved, and he remembered Sarah’s question: “Do you think Romeo would have still killed himself if he’d waited 1,000 days?”

So, Mark went on a 1,000 day odyssey, with funds from Sarah’s life insurance policy, to give him time to see if his choice would still be the same. Would he still want to kill himself? Mark traveled, explored, met knew people. He says he “followed every impulse.” Mark had been a pastor in Hawaii, and he left his life behind. Apparently (though I didn’t see it) he suggested that perhaps he left his faith behind. I don’t know what to say about all that, but Mark spoke of the many places where he spent time volunteering and serving the same marginalized and forgotten people for whom he had always felt compassion. This much is obvious: Mark was a man searching.

After 1,000 days, Mark determined that yes, he still wanted to end his life. This man searching had convinced himself that taking his own life was the best way to discover whatever it was he was looking for. He put up a website, called 1,000 days (which Tumblr took down over the weekend) and told his story, with images, videos and posts about his long journey, his experiences, his questions, his grief. He spoke often of the power of love, and he asked forgiveness from anyone hurt by his decision. And then he signed off.

I didn’t know Mark well. Other of my friends knew him much better. The last time I saw Mark was probably 2003 or 2004 at a conference in Atlanta. But Mark’s death, the story of his last few years, has sat heavy on me the past few days. Late last year, another friend committed suicide. This isn’t the way things are supposed to go. I’m angry at death.

If you are contemplating suicide, don’t play that card. Talk to someone. Ask for help. Pursue hope, not death.

 

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Storyteller

I appreciate those little white styrofoam cups you’ll happen upon near the cash register of small, out of the way diners. These cups have a few dirty coins clinging to the bottom and words something like this scratched in blue ink across the front: If you need a penny, take one. If you have a penny, leave one.

I’d like to hitch a ride with one of those pennies, to discover who was generous and who was in need, who was a little short and who had a little extra. I bet I’d meet a few people worth knowing and hear stories worth hearing. I’d find reasons to laugh and reasons to cry and plenty of reasons to scratch my head at the craziness of it all.

Everybody has a story. And, I’m convinced, everybody wants to hear a story – only some of us don’t know it yet. Or we know it, but we’ve forgotten.

I’m desperate for stories because I’m hungry for life. I’m looking for mercy. I’m scratching around for hope. I’m convinced that there’s something good in you and darn it! there’s something good in me too. I think we tell things in our stories that are difficult for us to say any other way – we discover truths we hadn’t landed on just yet.

Norman Maclean shares my leaning: “A storyteller, unlike a historian, must follow compassion wherever it leads him.” When I scrawl ink on paper or push my nose in a novel, I’m sniffing out beauty. And mercy. And joy. I’m dropping in a penny. Or taking one out, whichever the case may be.

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