Through a Glass Darkly Archives - Page 22 of 36

February 21, 2012February 21, 2012

Lenten Possibilities

Some days
one needs to hide
from possibility
{Kooser and Harrison}

Recently, Wyatt pronounced a liberating confession. "Dad, I'm going to start watching TV instead of Netflix."

"Why?" I asked.

"Well, Netflix has a 1,000 choices, and I can never choose. But the TV only offers three choices. That's better."

We were not made for vast infinity. We were made to be creatures with limitations. Some resist this axiom and pursue a dogged determination to contravene the fact that our body is sagging, our energy fleeting, our years narrowing. What are midlife crises other than a panicked effort to wrench every conceivable possibility from the past and ride it wildly into the present? I speak as a man who has moved into that mid-life shadowland.

But it is a grace to know our place, to know that we are not defined by our possibilities, whether missed or exploited. We are defined by the one who has loved us – and by the love that, having settled into our heart, eeks out meagerly and lavishly to the ones we are uniquely able to love. To live with perpetual options is to never settle into gritty and particular living, into gritty and particular love. Only God is able to truly love the whole world. And we are not God.

To try to live everywhere is to never truly live anywhere. To try to love, with equal fervor, all things is to never deeply and generously love anything. To attempt to live another person's expectations is to surrender the one true thing you have to give. Let the young have their limitless paths – there's a grace in that too. Yet the hope is not to roam eternally, but to find the place of belonging. And then belong.

Lent is a grace because it strikes at the idol of endless possibility. When, on Ash Wednesday, we are marked with burnt soot, we hear the words from dust you came and to dust you will return. Dust doesn't have numerous options; its trek is pretty much complete. Of course, dust isn't the end. There's Resurrection and new creation and all the truths that kindle our faith. But first: dust.

There are many (in the church as much as anywhere else) pushing endless visions of all we might accomplish, but Lent asks us to take an honest look at all that. Lent asks us (could we please, just for this stretch of 40 days) to be more discriminating, more present. Sometimes to seek your one truth thing, you have to hide from hundreds of others.

February 13, 2012February 13, 2012

Beautiful Mundane

I woke this morning, as I do many mornings, to my alarm cranking out “Desperado.” It seems appropriate (for numerous reasons) to be asked at the moment of waking whether I intend to come to my senses. It was too early for my taste; it’s almost always too early for my taste. It’s a second Monday, so I dressed and joined a few friends downtown at The Haven where we dished out a hot breakfast of coffee, cream of wheat, cinnamon apples and fried eggs.

Most mornings, I’m dishing breakfast at home to two boys and a wife. Boiled eggs, oatmeal, grapefruit – we don’t vary much. We eat at 7:30. We read a bit of Scripture around the table. After a few frantic rounds of hunting misplaced socks and signing homework and dashing up and down the stairs for sundry forgotten items, we pack the boys off to school. After, I’ll usually take a run, with a few prayers offered along the way. Then, like most every adult on the planet, it’s to the grind. There may be writing or meetings, study or planning. There’s always a list to be tended to, that list scribbled somewhere on this cluttered desk of mine. Fridays offer sweet Sabbath, followed by Saturdays with family chores and grocery shopping and sometimes an attempt at a family adventure. Sunday brings Bodo’s bagels at our kitchen table followed by worship around Jesus’ Table, with an evening nightcap of egg sandwiches, tea and Downton Abbey. Mondays, we begin again.

This rhythm provides a mundane beauty. It’s beauty – a firm beauty that bears up under the years. But it’s also mundane. It’s rhythmic. It’s love that proves itself by the unwavering decision to love well and love steady, over and over. It’s a love that lets a boy know that what he needs will always be here, sure and regular as the sun rising. Perhaps he won’t notice it for years, but the day will come – I promise you the day will come – when that gracious rhythm will give him a lifeline. It’s a love that a wife offers her husband and a husband his wife, a love that says I’m right here, right by your side. We’ll steal a kiss every chance we get; but between those toying moments, my love will be present, my love will show up. And keep showing up.

These mundane rhythms, as much as the brilliant flashes, form the person we are. These mundane rhythms are our quotidian liturgy.

This is true in every family, even the family nurtured in faith. We’re eager to latch on to some new-fangled way of being Christian. Disappointed with our slow progress or restless with the boredom that inevitably sets in whenever you are participating in things that are beautifully mundane, we think there must be some quick way, some non-mundane way. There isn’t.

Because I’m a pastor, I’m often asked our strategy for helping people obey and follow Jesus. There’s lots of things we will do along the way, as we pay attention to our family and to the particular needs of the particular people in our midst. However, if you want to know our plan, it’s about as quotidian as it gets: Gather with your community and worship your God on Sunday. Pray prayers and sing prayers. Receive and give the peace and mercy of Jesus Christ. Hear and believe the Scriptures. Confess your Sins. Receive the Eucharist, drinking deep draughts of grace. Receive a blessing. And then go out into your mundane, beautiful world and love your God and love your neighbors.

If we do those things, over and over, we will find ourselves following Jesus. We will find ourselves receiving and giving love.

image: wildhotrad

January 26, 2012February 16, 2012

Church and Grace

A video’s gone viral, perhaps you’ve seen it. It talks about loving Jesus but not religion. I appreciate some of the sentiment; but truthfully, the kind of dichotomy that guides this common phrase makes me want to scream and yank fists of hair from my head. Meanwhile, the internet-o-sphere has also been abuzz with tales of a well-known church that seems to rule its congregation with a heavy hand. That’s sad, sad and tiring. We need the common, plain practice of “pure and undefiled religion,” but we’re desperate for grace. We’re one confused lot. I’ve been thinking of jotting a few thoughts, but then a friend wrote in response to a series of posts (Why the Church?) I did a bit ago. I think our interaction offers a good entree into all this.

Dear Winn,

I was just reading through your blog and came across the “why the church” series. You invite (albeit from 18 months ago) people to comment. I have one question which you did not address.

Background: I like my church. It’s over 200 years old and has a splendid collection of conservatives and liberals, young and old, homeless and rich, etc. Problem is, Trudy and I don’t have much time to give it. Often, waking up on a Sunday morning is the only real down-time we have throughout our week. Putting our daughter Emma down for a nap and watching CBS’s Sunday Morning are the perfect ways to worship our Creator. We go to church, just with less frequency. I’m becoming convinced that this is not necessarily a bad thing. Nowhere is weekly attendance mandatory for us, perhaps unless we are paid by the church to do work.

So I guess my question is: What do we do for the uber-busy church attender who lacks time for an engaged church life?

Looking forward to hearing your thoughts.

I am, as always, your friend,
Dwayne

Hey, Dwayne.

I’m glad you read those pieces; I enjoyed writing them.

There’s probably a lot of things I could say in response to your question, but I’m not your pastor and don’t know the textures of your life. So, it’s hard for me to give concrete advice. I’ll just say a thing or two in general. They may feel in opposition; but, heck, such is most of my life.

First, I’d say, relax. Take what comes and give whatever you have to give. In the church, people give what they’re able and take what they need. These things come and go. There really is no more time-annihilating season than early on with kids. It’s just hard, crossing the Rubicon hard. Do the best you can. Love will cover the details.

Second, I’d also say that everybody’s busy, and typically we make space for the things we truly want. Over the long haul, I can’t imagine a spirituality with roots deep enough to nourish and sustain us that isn’t melded with the communal practices of word and sacrament. God is everywhere, but God is uniquely present among the awkward and beautiful people He’s called His Body. Church is about physicality, presence. God with us, us with God – and all of us with one another. They say church isn’t about having your butt in the seat, but sometimes it’s about having your butt in the seat.

Does this mean such things ebb and flow in seasons? They must. Does anyone (including us pastor-types) need to freak out because we’re stretched in a season and need to call a timeout? Surely not. Does everyone (especially us pastor-types) need to be more playful about these things and (as Miska says) refuse to get our panties in a wad? Uh, yeah. Should we have questions if we find ourselves habitually unmoored from the practices and the people of faith? We probably should.

I can’t tell you exactly what rhythm presence and physicality require, but you’ll know it when it’s missing. Pay attention to that. And, in the mean time, catch sleep when you can and enjoy those Sunday mornings when needed.

peace and love,
winn

January 19, 2012February 12, 2012

The Lingering God

I wonder if you’ve met this God St. Francis knows. A God who isn’t tapping his fingers, asking you to hurry it up. A God who lingers, who kneels, who adores. A God who is prejudiced in your favor.

I think God might be a little prejudiced.

For once He asked me to join Him on a walk

through this world,

and we gazed into every heart on this earth,

and I noticed He lingered a bit longer

before any face that was

weeping,

and before any eyes that were

laughing.

And sometimes when we passed

a soul in worship

God too would kneel

down.

I have come to learn: God

adores His

creation.

{St. Francis of Assisi}

December 29, 2011February 6, 2012

On the Fifth Day of Christmas…

For all the long waiting we must do before we get there, it’s a good thing Christmastide stretches twelve days. This way, we can ease back into life, after we’ve taken moments for gratitude and moments for quiet and a few moments for going stir crazy.

Gratitude. Christmas morning, Miska gave me a pair of fuzzy Keen slippers that say “Winn” if ever a pair of slippers have. She also gave me a calendar, with photographs I’ve taken and words I’ve loved or will come to love. And she gave me a book with fabulous pictures of treehouses from around the world. If a guy’s got fuzzy slippers and good words and a treehouse to wander off into and (best of all) the kind of wife who knows him well enough to give him such things … what more?

Quiet. Our house has been quiet the past few days. We still have two boys, so there’s noise – but not the kind of noise that sits heavy, noise from the pace of things. I don’t know that I’ve used this time as well as I’d hoped. I’ve only started (and barely) one novel, but then quiet space is the sort of thing you simply have to take as it comes. Otherwise, you’ve entirely missed the point. Miska did buy a bottle of Carolans Irish Cream – and that’s a fine companion on a quiet evening. A quiet evening with the woman you love and Carolans and fuzzy slippers.

Stir-crazy. I did mention the two young boys, didn’t I? Yet another reason for the Carolans.

In this stretch of Christmastide, I wish you gratitude and quiet — and even a little stir-crazy (or some brand of crazy) to keep you honest.

December 26, 2011February 6, 2012

On the Second Day of Christmas…

The boys like pallets on the floor
during the holidays

Seth and our dog Daisy went running with me this morning. Seth wanted to bring along his pack of Mentos that arrived in his Christmas stocking. He thought he might need a snack. Seth wore his Clemson jersey, and we hit the pavement. We walked as much as we ran, which is alright with me – you can talk more with a slow pace. When we reached the spot where, when I’m running alone, I begin to pray for my sons, I told him. And I told him what I pray for each of them. We walked that road that has become hallowed ground. I love that boy.

When we returned, it was Wyatt-time. Wyatt had his big Christmas gift, a Lego Kingdoms set, scattered across his floor. I built a castle tower while he constructed a tower and a wall and another tower and sundry other expression of medieval architecture. Wyatt paused his rapid focus only for the several occasions when he felt the urge to comment on how painfully slow my single tower was coming. Wyatt’s decided he’s into rap, God help us; and so for Christmas I searched around for a rapper with appropriate lyrics. We listened to rapper Lecrae and stacked Legos, a strange combo that somehow works. Those moments are prayers, and those spaces are absolutely hallowed ground. I love that boy.

Tonight, I pulled the boys close and told them a story of Prince Calyn who was courageous and strong and true but who, if he would only have listened to Merlin, would have been wiser. But Calyn’s young, and goofing up is the way we actually learn wisdom — there’s plenty of time, plenty of time. Seth lay next to me, nodding off. After The End, Wyatt said, “That story’s alright, but you know…” He makes a tough crowd, but I’ll keep trying. If I want to tell good stories for anyone, it’s these two. Those moments are prayers, and those spaces hallowed ground. I love those boys, I do.

December 23, 2011February 6, 2012