Category: Words and Rabble

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For God I Row

Keep yourself from continually converting your occupations into disturbances and anxieties of spirit. Even if you are being tossed around on the waves and blown about by the winds of many perplexities, look up constantly and say to our Lord: “O God, it is for you that I row and for you I sail; you are my guide and my helmsman!” {Padre Pio}

How difficult it is to give ourselves to peace, to calmly rest in the heart and power and purposes of God. Most mornings recently, I awake refreshed and eager for the day. It isn’t long, though, before some fear or worry or pressure pushes against my soul. What do I do then?

Unfortunately, too often I run off after the angst. Thing is, though, no matter how hard I run, I will never never catch that ol’ fox.

Much of my anxiety and frantic activity comes from the fact that I do not hold to God as my true center. I buy into the lie that my identity depends on my ability to produce, to make something happen. If I am a good dad, a devoted husband…If people take me seriously as a writer…If my books sell…If I lead well in this process of forming a new spiritual community…If I’m witty and smart and keep losing weight… Lots of ifs there. It’s enough to keep me sprinting, always sprinting, heart and soul and mind always darting about. Never at rest.

Thing is, I don’t (or don’t want to) live to produce. I don’t live to be noticed, to secure approval. At my core, I’m a simple bloke – you’ll just find me: a man whose full hope leans on the belief (with doubts and questions and screwups still intact) that God is and that God is for us and that God has created us for immense goodness. Connected to that truth, I am free to discover who God has truly made me – to unshackle my true self and walk into the wild wind and the brilliant sun: bold, care-free, unguarded. I don’t live to have people like my writing. I write because the art is in me; and to be true, I must give it away. I love my boys because my heart is for them; and I want to live from my heart. I am madly in love with Miska – not because I’ve set out to be a romantic throwback – but because a mystery has captured me, the mystery of deep communion when two people give themselves, soul and body, to each other.

And this is what I believe – all this comes from God, a gift. Just a gift. Open the hands and receive.

But when I feel I am losing grip on any of my “roles” (husband, friend, dad, writer, pastor) – that’s when I’m tempted to thrash about, to work and get busy and pace around, to just do something, for crying out loud. And the noise grows deafening. The fear kicks in. It’s a mess.

What I want to do in these panicky places is to remember. To remember who I live for, what I live for: God, whose heart is immensely good. I love for God. I write for God. I hope for God.

And, then, let go of the rest.

Calm yourself. Don’t pay any attention to these vain and useless fears. Fill the emptiness of your heart with an ardent love for Jesus. {Padre Pio}

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Villification and the Way of Jesus

More often than not, I find my Christian brothers and sisters uncritically embracing the ways and means practiced by the high-profile men and women who lead large corporations, congregations, nations and causes, people who show us how to make money, win wars, manage people, sell products, manipulate emotions, and who then write books or give lectures telling us how we can do what they are doing. But these ways and means more often than not violate the ways of Jesus. {Eugene Peterson}

With our move to Charlottesville, our book club has fallen behind. However, Eugene Peterson’s The Jesus Way refuses to be ignored. A couple years ago, I heard Eugene give a lecture based on one of the themes he develops in this book, the observation that Jesus lived in stark contrast to all prevailing societal modus operandis of his day, both to the way of the Pharisees (the way of religious rigidity) and to the way of Herod (the way of power). It wasn’t only the message of these groups that Jesus resisted – it was just as much their way, the manner in which they pushed their message. The cliche has truth: the medium is our message.

However, dominant church culture has bowed at the feet of pragmatism. If it works (however that is defined), then by all means, do it. With this conviction, we baptize commercialism and individualism and every manner of gimmicky shlop in the name of Jesus. Art becomes merely propoganda. Friendship and justice and hospitality become merely bait. The Gospel is made subservient to a political philosophy or a theological grid or a historical prejudice.

At odds with all this message stands the crucified and resurrected Jesus. Jesus does not offer merely a message or an agenda or a bullet-point list of cultural ills to eradicate. Jesus offers himself, God made flesh. Jesus offers his words and his actions and his friendships and his conversations and his pains and his love. Jesus is the truth, absolutely. Jesus is the life, thank God. But Jesus is also the way, the how, the manner. It is simply a perversion of Jesus’ message if we assume that message to be codified only by theological assertions. Jesus’ message is himself, the son of God, come to save us.

All this seems timely to me. You might have noticed we are in an election year. Why do politics often bring out the worst in us? I’ve already written about the shameful smeer campain on Obama. Unfortunately (but certainly not surprisingly), it has not slowed. I continue to receive forwards and video links and alarming emails with lots of exclamation marks and capitals. A small bit of it centers on policy, fair enough. Most of it, however, maligns character, distorts positions and uses fear as a prime weapon. The Christian response is clear: none of that is the way of Jesus.

The past few weeks, I have been just as apalled at the vile and venom that has been spewed at Sarah Palin. Again, debate on policy and questions of experience are fair game. But the relentless attack on her family, the cruel mockery and elitist jabs at her rural home are, in my opinion, despicable. Of course, it bears repeating: none of this is the way of Jesus.

Personally, I am disgusted by the villification. I know that both parties have their own blame to bear. And of course both sides will claim the other side fired first (sounds eerily like Russia and Georgia). But when we begin to view the other as our mortal enemy, one who we must crush at all costs, we have truly lost our way.

I return, then, to the subversive way of Jesus. I discover that if I proclaim to be a Jesus-person, then my entire life sits under his authority: not only what I believe – but how I believe, not only what I say – but how I say it, not only the vote I cast – but the way I live toward those who cast their vote differently. As Eugene said, “Once we start paying attention to Jesus’ ways, it doesn’t take us long to realize that following Jesus is radically different from following anyone else.”

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Winn’s Been Had

So, apparently the video posted below is a scam. If I had been up to date with my friend Justin Scott’s blog, I would have had fair warning.

Piecing all this together, then, two conclusions:

[1] I obviously am a scientific imbicile because, according to Justin, “[i]f you know a little bit about physics and/or electronics you can figure out pretty quickly that this is a scam.”

[2] I am not alone; David Zimmerman is right there with me 🙂

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Remembering

Ladies and Gentleman, there has been a tragedy in New York city. A commercial jet has apparently veered off course and crashed into one of the Twin Towers.

I was in my maroon Toyota 4Runner, driving into work in downtown Denver, when the words split across the radio airwaves. A horrific disaster. I could not imagine the fear and agony of one who, at that moment, was living through this nightmare. And then even more terrifying words followed.

Oh my God, this was not an accident. Another jet has just crashed.

The nation sat stunned. How could this happen? Why would this happen? Who would do such a thing? I walked into the fifth floor of the Schwab building, the television monitors filled with scenes of smoke and tears and fire and grey dust and bodies flung out of high windows. I called Miska – had to talk to my wife, to hear her voice and know that the entire world wasn’t going down in flames.

I remember these words, these feelings, these horrors. I remember feeling angry, sad, beligerant. I wanted somebody to do something, anybody to do something.

And many more grief-stricken words have come since then. Words from a father in South Dakota, a mother in Afghanistan, a relief worker in Iraq, a dauther in Texas.

My son is gone. My husband is gone. My neighborhood is gone. My mother is gone.

Sad words that remind us of how much we need redemption, how lost we are as a people. I must add my words to theirs.

God, help us. We are killing ourselves. In the name of love, stop our violence. Give us hope. Please.

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Poetic Patience (or No Place for Tourists)

If we wish to understand [a place] it must not be as tourists or inquirers, it must be with the loyalty of children and the great patience of poets. G.K. Chesterton

A few nights ago, several friends from out of town visited. We went to dinner @ West Main over on, well, West Main. The waitress asked if we were from around here (something about our zillion questions and fascination with their pepper jack macaroni and cheese must have sent signals), and one of my friends answered, “No, just visiting.”

And the words came from deep inside me. “Not me. I’m from here.”

Charlottesville is my home. I’m throwing my lot in with this city, these people. I don’t know how long it takes to become a true local, years at least I imagine. But I have the time.

To know a city is more than an ability to recite its demographics or to point out its prominent sights (of which there are many here). To know a city is to know its story, to have taken the time to rub your soul along the city’s texture, to see the scars and to hurt along with your neighbors over the many places that have yet to heal – to hurt not with the phantom pain of empathy (only) but with the true pain of shared experience, shared hope, shared grief. As Lilla Watson said, “If you have come here to help me, you are wasting your time. But if you have come because your liberation is bound up with mine, then let us work together.” I want my liberation, my welfare, to be bound up with the welfare of my neighbors, my city. To weep with those who weep and to rejoice with those who rejoice, a wise poet once said.

So, I’m often asked these days what exactly we are doing as we begin the long process of forming a spiritual community in the way of Jesus. Well, I’ll be speaking in churches and having meetings with city leaders and spiritual leaders. I’m working on a strategic plan and doing a bit of fund raising. I’m doing some work on grounds (the Wahoo’s name for “campus”) at the University of Virginia. But, truthfully, in this season, my best work is the simplest kind. I walk around. I meet people. I hear stories. I bike down the street. I take my boys to school. I read the local papers. I listen to more stories, like Johnny’s story of how he and his dad Ernie opened Ernie’s Frye’s Spring Garage 43 years ago – and how he is going to have to close it down this year. I hear stories from various new friends I can find most any day on the downtown mall. Stories of Vinegar Hill, the historic African American community that was tragically dismantled decades ago. Stories from my neighbor who is pretty angry at the multi-million dollar bricking project downtown, angry at the money being spent on aesthetics when her son can’t find a job. Stories. Stories. Stories.

These are the stories that make a place what it is. And, if I want to be immersed in this place, if I want it to be truly home, then I must listen. I’m hoping to have the patience of a poet. I’m not just a sightseer, dropping in, snapping photos and moving on. I’m here to stay. I think this must be one of the implications of Incarnation – that we enmesh ourselves into the narrative and the contours of the places God has given us to love.

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Hodge Podge

A few random tidbits on random arenas of thought, two from Wyatt (our 6 year old) and one from a sportswriter:

Wyatt on politics

God is like the president because the president owns the country.

oops.

Wyatt on theology

The Trinity is like root beer. There’s lots of brands, but they’re all still root beer.

a little improvement on the Nicene Creed from the mind of a first-grader.

a Sportswriter on the ACC’s horrific first week woes

Heck, this league can’t even get a pregame flyover right — the Tar Heels hired a crew to parachute in the game ball. They landed at Duke’s Wallace Wade Stadium, eight miles away.

I wish Clemson had stayed eight miles away.

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Miller Time

Even though Donald Miller has sold more books than me (and when I say more, I really mean more, by like maybe 300:1 – but who’s counting?) and even though Don and I apparently hit a similar theme (that will go unmentioned) at a similar time and now everyone thinks I’m the copycat and even though Don was an unwholesome influence on my wife Miska in her innocent high school years, goading her (at least the way I see it) into an altercation with the Colorado Springs Mall crack security force, I still think that every gifted, artful voice can use all the promotion they can get.

And, anyway, this is one of the funniest things I’ve read in a very long time.

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All Shall Be Well

All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well. {Julian of Norwich}

Tonight, Miska quoted this line from Julian of Norwich, these words we have both come to love. As she spoke it, tears came. Oh, I do love her tears. Our recent weeks have been full of upheaval and chaos. And there is more to come. That is the way of things when you are finding your way in a new city, a new home.

I dropped Wyatt off for his first day of first grade on Wednesday. He was nervous, but he was a trooper. He’s always been keenly sensitive to transition and change – and well, there’s been loads of both for him here lately. And that day asked a lot from him. There Wyatt stood among a line of kids he didn’t know with a teacher he didn’t know at a school he didn’t know on a street he didn’t know in a city he didn’t know. The whole thing overwhelmed me – and he’s only six. When Wyatt turned to wave his final goodbye, I cried. You have to let go, though. You have to remember: all shall be well.

Here, I’ve been struck with the overwhelming sense of what it is to be the outsider. I’m the outsider in my neighborhood. I’m the outsider in the bookstore and coffee shop, at the neighborhood park, as I tool around town. The outsider in most conversations, in almost every social situation I encounter. Truthfully, this is good for me. I want to always remember the loneliness of not being known, of there being no one in the room who can honestly say, “I know who you are – and I believe in it.” Right now, the aloneness is thick, but this I believe: all shall be well.

As I sit in our house tonight, I have no idea how our next few years will take shape. I don’t know what kind of community we will come to give ourselves to. I don’t know the places that will tug at our hearts or the sadness we will encounter or the fresh hope that will touch our soul. However, I do believe that God is generous and kind and is bent on the ultimate restoration of all things. So, this is why I agree so zealously with Julian. Not because of some self-help mumbo jumbo insisting that smiley faces will win the day – not at all. I simply believe that in the end, after all the tears and the pain and loneliness and the disillusionment and the chaos – in the end, when the final pages of our lives are written (whenever and however that will be done), we will truly be able to say with rested and joyful hearts: and all manner of things shall be well.

Peace.

(and as my new friend Ed, who reads tarot cards most days on C’ville’s downtown mall, answered when I offered him the same salutation: and peace on us all)

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From Compulsion and Toward Freedom

Whatever form it takes, the movement of the soul and God is always finding its way toward freedom. In prayer as in the rest of life, it is a movement toward freedom from willfulness, from the compulsion to be in charge and the fear of loss of control. {Gerald May}

Toward freedom. Away from the addictive compulsion to hold on tightly and manhandle our environment, our relationships, our future. Manhandle God. Away from the fear of losing control.

Well, lose control, I say. Let lose of that sucker and let it run free. Control is mostly a mirage anyway. And when I exert such energy toward control, I miss the subtle activity of God all around me. I miss God in the faces I meet. I miss God in the smells and the sounds and the hopes and the longings, in the places of mystery and silence and laughter.

And in the tears. When I am bent toward keeping my life in check, then I will always miss God in the tears – because when we are addicted to composure, tears are always viewed as an enemy, never as a friend. And, of course, that lie has killed far too many a heart.

These words emerge from where I find myself today. I can not (must not) attempt to manipulate the many uncertainties of our new life. That will be death. I must be open for surprised, curious as to where and when God might reveal himself. Open. Free. Curious. Losing control.

{I reflect on this a little more and from a different angle – and tell an embarrassing bike story from last Tuesday on the Relevant blog}

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