Category: Words and Rabble

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That Word

The word appeared yesterday, offering itself to me, smiling with a lingering curiosity. Would I have the courage to take it up? The word seems tame enough, unassuming; but it asks something of me that will require all my courage. The word asks me to dance when I don’t hear the music, to walk in ways that might make me the fool. The word whispers heresy: there are things worse than being wrong.

This word speaks quietly, but the echoes go on and on. I can play it safe. I can claw after illusions. I can puff up my image and play the game. I can finish each day exhausted with all the machinations. Or I can shrug my shoulders, open my clenched-fists and take a stroll.

Trust.

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Foxes and Wrong Directions

I continue to reflect on what it means to be a bumbler. Bumblers aren’t always effective. Management rolls its eyes at bumbler-types. Sometimes we plod. Sometimes we meander. And – praise be! – sometimes we have potent bursts of inspiration that come as sweet surprise. On the whole, we get done what needs done – but rarely as pretty as others who break through the finish-tape in graceful stride.

One of my favorite Wendell Berry lines (from his poem “Mad Farmer Liberation Front“) gets at this:

Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

I used to be terrified of wrong directions. Wrong answers. Wrong calculations. Wrong words. Exhausting. It tires me just to type it. Of course, there’s no inherent virtue in being wrong, but the fear of making a misstep can keep a fellow glued to his seat. And you have to get out of your seat to live. Or love.

The fox roams about, making unnecessary tracks, tracks that serve no discernable function. They simply arrive as part of the day’s journey, the day’s discovery. They are what we leave behind as we are roaming, figuring out what exactly it is we are to do and where exactly it is we are to go.

And – as Berry says – all of this is the practice (the living) of resurrection. The resurrection refashions the whole order of things and gives opportunity for every step and every sprig – even the misplaced or misdirected ones – to brim with beauty and joy.

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May 21st: Is it Judgement Day?

A friend asked me about my thoughts on the predication of God’s return on Saturday. Here’s his email and my reply:

Winn –

I don’t know if it’s big down where you are, but this whole May 21 “Judgment Day” thing (www.familyradio.com) is getting a fair amount of coverage. It’s interesting that this specific iteration of the end times is so media heavy and coordinated. Maybe it’s just something else to talk about besides Arnold and IMF and all that garbage.

The standard Mt.24:36 retort should be enough here…and their mathematical methodologies seem to stretch things a bit…but I can’t help admitting a bit of uneasiness at this whole thing. Maybe I am just uneasy in my own walk…but still…Any reactions to this whole hullabaloo? Any good chatter in the pastorsphere about this?

with only the slightest amount of trepidation and guilt,

(name withheld)

Hey, _______,

I think it’s everywhere. We’re not the thriving metropolis of Chicago; but on Tuesdays and Fridays we get the news.

No matter how outlandish these predictions (promises, excuse me) seem and no matter how disjointed they are from what the Bible actually says, I understand the unease. I feel it a bit myself. I’ve had flashes of competing temptations: paint my chest with John 3:16 and go running through the streets – or to liquidate our retirement funds and rush the family off to Greece tomorrow, our last chance (ever) to see the Parthenon.

It’s no surprise that we are apprehensive, though – these shrill calls aim precisely at our fears. Our fears of ruin and catastrophic tumult. Most often, however, when Scripture writers spoke of the end of days, it was offered as comfort to those awaiting the redemption of things. The Peter passage (which the May 21st folks refer to regularly) is not a fearful tome but rather Peter’s encouraging word to the Church, to know that God has “not forgotten his promise.”

While God speaks straight words and (at times) firm words we’d rather not hear, God does not incite fear. God prods love. And, as I John tells us, “perfect love drives out fear.” So, if what you feel is fear, that’s not Love. That’s not God.

More importantly, God’s return is fundamentally about hope, not ruin. The “destruction” Peter refers to is not the end of things but the beginning of things, the arrival of the “new heavens and new earth.” (II Peter 3:11-13) Knowing that God is the good and just judge who will, one day, bring all things to their rightful conclusion should encourage us to think circumspectly about our life – and to live with hope, diligence and watchfulness. As Peter says, “Everything in the world is about to be wrapped up, so take nothing for granted. Stay wide-awake in prayer.” (I Peter 4:7)

This wide-awake life does not cower in fear. We walk wide-open into love and friendship. We tell the story of Good News in Jesus Christ. We make music and write poetry and build buildings and raise our children, all the things that God has always asked his image-bearers to be and do. When Martin Luther was asked what he would do today if he knew God was coming tomorrow, he answered, “I’d go plant a tree.”

So, have hope. Receive God’s love. Walk in faith. And go plant your tree.

peace, friend,
Winn

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Words. Seeds. Life.

Continuing a trail from last week, I’ve been pondering the creative power of words. Words are not merely tools, functional symbols. Rather, words are like seeds. They can burrow deep; and given the right conditions and good timing, all kinds of life and beauty can sprout.

John O’Donohue, Irish poet, philosopher and former-priest, recorded an interview with Krista Tippet a few months before his untimely death at age 52. Tucked amid the dialogue, O’Donohue asked, “When is the last time you had a great conversation? Not just two intersecting monologues, but a great conversation?”

What an important question, what a disturbing question. O’Donohue went on to describe what, for him, are signals of fertile conversation:

you overhear yourself saying things you never knew you knew


you overhear yourself receiving from somebody words that find a place within you that you thought you’d lost


you experience an inventive conversation that brought the two of you onto a different plane


the conversation continues to sing in your mind for weeks afterwards

This might not be our list, but it gets at something that happens in enlivening interchanges. Something given, something received. The heart awakens. A discovery. Friendship blossoms. We know it when we encounter it precisely because it’s so rare, a gift.

Often our words are merely a means of passing information or making a transaction rather than a conduit for sharing and receiving life. When Miska asks me about my day, she’s typically not hunting for a ramshackle list of hourly events. She’s wondering what I loved, what I hated, where I was bored – and if I caught any glimpses of God or was caught in any moments of wonder. She curious about me, and words are the raw material for the story she’s asking and the story I’ll answer.

I’ve found that you can’t make such conversation happen, but you can till the soil to be ever ready for the seeds. You can create the space. You can hope for the moments where you truly see and hear another – and are truly seen and heard by another.

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A Stump

Be rooted like a tree / Planted by the stream  
                                                 {Brendan Jamieson}

Clyde Kilby, an English professor I wish I had known, crafted a catalog of 11 Resolutions (and I love that it was 11, not 10). This was his personal creed, his this I believe and this is how I will live. His sixth resolution is my favorite:

I shall open my eyes and ears. Once every day I shall simply stare at a tree, a flower, a cloud or a person. I shall not then be concerned at all to ask what they are, but simply be glad that they are. I shall joyfully allow them the mystery of what Lewis calls their “divine, magical, terrifying, and ecstatic” existence.

I’ve borrowed this practice; and on most days after I run, I’ll stroll a few minutes extra. I breathe deeply and try to pay attention to my world. I’ll look around for some physical object, something on which to gaze. It may be the billows of white clouds or moss covering a portion of rock. A leaf tossed by the wind. A fence. A blade of grass. I take in the sight. I ponder the sheer fact that it exists. I notice that I had nothing to do with making it exist; and after I walk away I have no impact on whether or not it continues to exist.

Sometimes it’s good to remember that, valuable as I may be, I do not hold the world together.

Today, the object was a stump. Not a tree. Not a sapling full of possibility. Just a stump. A gnarled, cracked stump. A piece of creation that’s already had it’s day. It isn’t good for much. Other than a dog hiking a leg it’s direction every now and then, I bet no one pays this stump any attention. Yet there it sits. It sat there yesterday. It will be sitting there tomorrow. The rain will thrash. The sun will bake. The winds will flurry. But the stump merely sits, nestled in its little spot, its roots dug deep into the soil that will not let it loose.

Amid a world of noise, a world insisting we have something good to say, something smart to say …  amid a culture where we are jostling for position, spreading our branches so to speak, it’s balm to my weary soul to watch a stout old stump and know that sitting there, out of the way – sturdy and solid but unbothered and at rest –  can be enough.

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Courage of Being You

I did not intend to be ‘Stanley Hauerwas.’ I am aware, however, that there is someone out there who bears that name.

So begins the memoir penned by, of course, Stanley Hauerwas. One of the things I believe Hauerwas eludes to is his recognition that the person he has become is not the well-crafted result of a life wrested toward this end.

I believe it one of the grandest illusions of modern humanity, this notion that we can make ourselves to be whoever it is we want to be. I don’t tell my sons that they can do whatever they put their mind to. They have many options, and there are years ahead to discover what is in their heart and how they are to give what is in their heart away to their world. However, there are some things that simply are not meant for them.

The problem is not lack of will or tenacity. The problem (which really is no problem at all – but a gift) is that we are particular beings, with particular bents and unique treasures. Our narrative is uniquely ours, and this narrative is made up of all kinds of intricate details. What we love, what we hate, what we see and how we see it, what makes us cry, what makes us want to gouge our eyes out. All these things make who we are.

I am not made to be anything. I am certainly not made to be everything. I believe each of us are created to be someone particular, to offer something particular. No matter how hard I try, I will never be an Olympic marathoner or at the helm of a Fortune 500 behemoth, thank God. I’m free from that bland and crushing expectation.

However, I also think Hauerwas’ wry line hints at his belief that who he truly is may not be who everyone has imagined him to be. The name and the image have taken on a life all their own. Most of us spend far too much of our time attempting to be a good version of ourselves, an acceptable version, a moderate version, a version that lives up to the billing. Too often, I am too aware of other’s reactions to me, gaging whether or not I should put on the brake, tone down the language, give someone an easy exit.

But if I do any of those, if I become who I’m expected to be rather than who I actually am, I silence the distinct and remarkable gift God intends to offer the world through me. And the same is true for you. It is an act of holy rebellion to refuse the safe path of meeting other’s expectations. It is courageous to listen to God’s voice, to hear God tell you who you are and what you are to be in this world. It is courageous to hear that – and then to live that.

And, let me tell you, our world needs courageous people. We need you.

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Joy

There’s much to lament in this world. Every day offers a hundred reasons to cry. But, I also believe every day offers at least a hundred reasons to laugh or sing or make love or give an extra big tip or do something that costs you much – but brings a revelry all its own because you feel the pleasure of having done right, done well.

If it is the easy thing for us to slap a cheery word on top of misery, then we need to connect with the reality of sorrow. But if it is the easy thing for us to wallow in dismay, then we need to jump heavy into joy.

For many of us, joy is the harder effort, certainly is for me. I’m not sure why. Perhaps we have been disappointed too often. Perhaps we are comfortable in the gloom. Perhaps we don’t have eyes to see or ears to hear what the Apostle John calls the “river of joy overflowing.”

The good news is you can find joy just about anywhere. For instance, this week I found joy in my seven-year-old:

Seth: Par Fat? Par Fat?? Mom, this is going to make me fat?!?

Miska: No, Seth, that’s Parfait. Parfait.

Joy can surprise you at any turn. Watch for it. I’ll bet you find it.

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The Undertaker

Tonight I told the boys I had a new book to pick up at the library for our evening reading. A friend recommended Ferrol Sams and his tales of Porter Osborn, Jr., a boy growing up on a Georgia farm during the depression.

Wyatt was eager. But Seth needed one detail clarified: “Does anyone die in this story?”

Last Friday, we watched Where the Red Fern Grows, the new version with Dave Matthews looking right at home in those baggy overalls. During the infamous scene that shall not be named, Seth was mortified. He cried out and jumped up on the couch with Miska and me and buried his head in the covers in a futile attempt to erase the horrors he had just seen. “This is a bad, bad movie,” he said, gulping down the tears. “Why would anyone watch this???”

Now you understand why, when he heard that a story was coming about a boy and a farm, Seth wanted to know whether anyone or anything would be meeting their maker. He’s no fan of death.

Fair enough, neither am I.

Still, we’re all heading there. The line about death and taxes may be tired, but it’s true. And I wonder why we don’t talk about it more, why we don’t plan for it more, why we don’t ponder if how we are living will help us be the people we hope to have been when the time for living’s done?

On the bookshelf next to me, I have a book by poet Thomas Lynch who also happens to have a day job as an undertaker. The title alone deserves a read: The Undertaking: Life Studies from the Dismal Trade. Lynch’s first page begins: Every year I bury a couple hundred of my townspeople.

Every year, come rain or shine. And it’s the same in every town and hamlet and village world ’round. There’s nothing much more common than dying, you’d think we’d be good at it. But we aren’t, least not most of us. A couple days ago, one of my friends mentioned that he’s thinking about reading an obituary every day during Lent, the spiritual discipline of remembering who was here, who lived and who isn’t living anymore. The idea isn’t to be morbid, but to remember, to “count your days” as the Psalms instruct. The point really isn’t death at all — but life.

Eugene Peterson once said that the pastor’s job is to prepare people for a good death. When you do that, you’re preparing them for a good life. On this month when we are thinking about beginnings, let’s also ponder endings. And then let’s live well toward that.

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Toward the New

And we begin again.

When the calendar turns, we do not erase what was; but, gathering the wisdom from the scuffs as well as the shining moments, we move beyond, forward. We learn from our mistakes. We remember and adjust. We take joy in all the laughter and love we have known in past days. We gather ourselves for the good we hope will come. And it will. Good will come.

Of course, everything we experience won’t be good – and some things that we’re certain aren’t good actually will be. Funny how that happens. But good awaits you. In some form. In some surprising place. Even now, good is waiting for you.

If your year past has been filled with failure or pain, do not despise it. There are years yet for the God of kindness to craft something of it. If your year past has been a coup of joy, savor it. Don’t hold it too tightly – it isn’t yours to possess. But savor it for the gift it is.

Either way, the new begins again. Not a negation of the past – no, even better: a creative remaking. A beginning. Again.

___

If you don’t know the writer Robert Benson, you should. He offered a gift of words for the New Year. I hope you’ll have the joy of receiving them.

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