Monthly Archives: August 2009

August 31, 2009 · 6:58 am

The Day After Being a Preacher

Like Cyrus, I’m not a preacher anymore.

After lunch with some friends, I sat for an hour in a stupor, then headed to a long Elder’s meeting.  Just after 8:30 I arrived at home, where I threw in a science fiction movie I was curious about, but ultimately uninterested in.  After flipping channels for awhile, I headed to bed.  Just before sleep, I chatted online for a few minutes with a former student who is writing his dissertation.  He gave me the names of some no-doubt great plays to read.  Maybe I’ll hunt one or two of them down before the day is over.

Now it’s morning, and my computer screen is on the fritz again.  It went haywire last Friday, but after 24 hours righted itself.   Thought I was out of the woods on that one, but guess not.

A blonde runs by, jogging, her Ipod strapped to her arm, ponytail bouncing.  A man hugs his son goodbye, and leaves the young boy alone in the coffee shop, where he will wait until time to wander over to the bus stop.   The pediatician who comes to Javasti’s almost every morning is with her husband and son this morning.  I think of Honduras when I see her; she has told me several times of her medical mission work there.  The espresso machine here in the coffee shop is one of the few like it in the world, I hear, it’s craftsmen meeting some relational disaster that derailed their company, but that assemblage of snatches of two conversations I overheard as I waited for my latte may be a complete misreading of the random nouns and verbs I picked up.

A slide electric guitar picks up my mood, hillbilly rock the music of choice this morning.

I’ll meet a friend for lunch, an accomplished artist-friend my preacher-life caused me to neglect, and then, later in the afternoon, I’ll pick up a fellow actor-traveler who saw a major tragedy among his friends (a devastating suicide) several years ago and we’ll spend a couple of hours hanging out, talking shop no doubt about the touring life, bringing comedy and drama, as he does, to church events and camps; high quality solo performance Jesus theatre.

High quality solo performance Jesus theatre.

There’s a phrase.  Could apply to preaching maybe, though if it did, would it refer to blistering critique or enthusiastic applause?  Depends on what you think theatre is.

One woman told me yesterday more preachers should go to acting school.  She was referring to my tendency to briefly inhabit the characters of any given biblical story.  Yesterday I was a child teetering on the edge of a cliff considering leaping into a parents arms.   I’ve been Jesus reclining at table, lounging on the floor of the stage.  I’ve been a huffing, puffing Rich Young Ruler just arriving at the feet of Jesus, hoping to get some reassurance about the quality of my religious life.   And yesterday, perhaps in as symbolic a gesture as I could find, in one of the services, I tried to grab the Holy Spirit from the ether and stuff Him into my chest, a demonstrably futile gesture.

The physical work of preaching is indeed a performance, at least the way I approach it.  But to say that implies no falsehood or pretense or hoped-for applause.  It represents a very particular kind of laying down of self, delivering all the life you can through the use of the body and voice and emotional structure, trusting that Spirit is in some inexplicable way, doing the driving, both in the delivery and the reception.

For the moment, I’m done.  Weary, too.

Other stuff for the day after being a preacher: the trip to Apple Genius Bar, memorizing lines for Enchanted April, rehearsal of the same, maybe a work out, maybe some clothes folded, and hopefully, a bit of talk on the phone with my wife.   Reflecting over what it will mean to stand before God, and have Him question me about the period of time between November 1, 2007, and August 31, 2009.   His is the only critique that matters.

I’d take any flicker of His smile.

Both my children texted me before I launched my last sermon as a real preacher, wishing me joy and fearless passion.   Both texts hit me hard, made me feel very loved.

Why God would give me this opportunity, I will never know.

So thankful…

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August 28, 2009 · 6:13 am

Where Heaven and Earth Meet

The nest is empty again.  Amy’s back in Cincy, and Daniel made it back to Ann Arbor late last night.  The house was quiet, and Anjie and I talked, quietly thankful for our kids.   Funny…with our children it’s easy to see and celebrate the two different worlds of what-has-been and what-will-be.

Intersecting worlds of that which we know and that which we don’t.

Yesterday, late in the afternoon, I had a conversation with a friend–a very, very smart man–in which he described to me his own awe and fascination with our being.   That we are more than the sum of our parts, that we are born for eternity, from and for the realm of God.   He spoke eloquently and with passion, and I was glad to be reminded of the greatness of this essential mystery.

This morning, after a night of restless sleep, I read an article by N. T. Wright, the Bishop of Durham, that took me a bit further down this path.  Part of my talk for Sunday morning concerns the Holy Spirit, and Wright lays out in brilliant fashion the role of the Spirit’s work in the intersection of the human realm and God’s realm.  The brilliant enterprise of ushering in the forever reign of God into the now, so that God’s renewing and re-creating life flows into our broken days with power and beauty, is at the heart of the Spirit’s work, even as it was in the beginning.  The Spirit broods and hovers as He always has, but His orientation is somewhat different now, given that the temple in which He resides has changed form.

His temple is us.

Wright points out that according to Christian theology, the disciples of Jesus are walking points of intersection between Heaven and Earth.    That our bodies are dwelling places of God on the Earth, and that because this is not pantheism, wherein rabbits would be every bit as much God’s dwelling place on Earth as Christ-followers, God’s presence and work in our embodied spirits really matters.   Wright observes that this is, of course, offensive in today’s world, where democratic spirituality is the order of the day, all people and religions having equal access to everything, including the mysteries, the wisdom, and the presence of God.   But no, Wright says.  Just as the Jerusalem temple was in fact, the dwelling place of God’s “Shekinah” (visible, manifest) glory, so today, that same “Shekinah” glory resides in His temple still…namely, the church.

Read the article to hear Wright’s answers to the various objections to this notion, the most prevalent of which is how little heaven Christians seem to bring to Earth.    True enough, we’re not very good at this Heaven-making business, but then it’s not our job to make Heaven.  But it is our job to get out of the way so the Spirit can do his creative thing with us.

It’s an inspiring thought, Heaven and Earth meeting here in the little coffee shop where my friend is just sitting down to join me.  Sobering, too.   Where we walk today, there is a portal through which God wants to pour blessing, wisdom, grace, and love, none of it belonging to or originating with us.

May a trail of Heaven-dust litter the trailing path of all who follow Jesus today.

Open the door wide…life coming through…

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August 27, 2009 · 10:20 am

Meaning of Life 1.6 – Incarnation

For those who might want to catch up with the Meaning of Life posts (they’re spread out over time), here are the links.

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The Sinai Pantocrator (6th C.)

The Sinai Pantocrator (6th C.)

INCARNATION

Invisible made visible.  Immaterial finding expression in material.  Idea taking physical, sensual form.

Again…making.

At the start, God makes a universe and a world.   That world bears the marks of His glory, His character, His being.  But it is not Him.  The world’s essence, its beauty, its laws–physical and moral–spring from who He is, but it is not His Being in the flesh. Incarnation is at work in this initial act of creation, undoubtedly.   God’s idea, His dream, His desire, His life…all of these somehow finding expression in His work of those six days, finding culmination in the creature He stamps with His image. Humanity, the most god-like of creation, God’s image setting these beings apart.

But the image gets damaged, all sinned-up, cracked, distorted…yet, the image remains.  The image goes on making, laboring as intended, but now struggling against the entropy, the inertia, the reluctance of the ground, fury building, breaking into fouler incarnation, anger and hate emerging as words and blows meant to maim and kill.   Division rules; every English Lit. class teaches it–man against man, man against nature, man against God, man against himself was the way I first heard it.

The whole world agrees…something is wrong.

Who will deliver us from this body of death? The Apostle Paul

The Romans 7 cry, universally understood…the cry of the race.

Now comes a new making.  A pregnant mother, the common 9 months, the birth into humanity, and the Image of God comes again, but this time, all is intact, unbroken, untainted, the hovering Spirit of God bringing pure creation once more.

Invisible made visible.  Word finding expression in material, namely, flesh.   The Divine One taking physical, sensual form, walking, breathing, growing, learning, healing, changing, repairing, restoring…bringing transformation to the whole enterprise.  The Messia–Yeshua (Jesus to the Greeks)–even takes the brokenness onto himself, allowing the malady to infect him and kill him, suffering humiliation, torture, and finally death in the process.  After the dark of all this, the burial stone rolls back, and now it’s Death that’s cracked and busted, and “living water” pours into the world through the fissures.   This living water, Jesus said, is the Spirit of the Living God, and once again, the connection between “Maker” and “made” comes back online. “Cool of the evening” walks with God are possible again.   Making can take on new joy, new power, new life.

New life.  Metabolism, through which the human being draws life from its very source.

That’s the story.  Stewardship of time, energy, resources, and creativity as we walk through life in the company of God, made possible by His Living Word…is it much different from what Adam and Eve were told?

What if incarnation was the whole point to begin with?  What if incarnation, the move from idea to form which sparks new ideas which lead to new forms–what if this process was the whole point?  Could it be said that the meaning of life is found in incarnation, in creation, in making, especially when the essence being incarnated (made flesh) is God’s?

Again, it points to making–making life, love, moments, hope, newness, disciples, and possibility.  Through the Incarnation of the Christ, life is saved, rescued, put back together.   Could it be that meaning is found in joining just that enterprise, through making lives like His, or better yet, by allowing His life to empower ours, so that He, through us, can continue to save, rescue, and put back together through His Spirit, the same creative Spirit that was there at the beginning?

Sounds meaningful to me.

But there’s a problem…children of God are missing…

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August 26, 2009 · 8:52 am

Is War the Best Metaphor for Prayer?

On my daughter’s 21st birthday, cherishing the time we’ve had together, and the joy it has and will continue to bring me, I have a question about our life and communication with God.

Is it all about war?

“Prayer warriors” is a term that comes up a lot in conversations, referencing, of course, the spiritual warfare language of Paul from Ephesians 6 and other scripture.  But in a reflective conversation this morning with a man who knows something about the life of prayer, we wound up reconsidering how we frame our communication with God.   Wondering as we often do at the small number of participants at various prayer events, we wandered around the various metaphors scripture uses to describe our relationship with God.  Father/Child is used far more often than General/Private.  The conversation of “Abba, Father” intimacy is vastly different than the “destroy the enemy” conversation.   Enoch “walked with God” and was not.   The Eden experience was an experience of walking in the garden in the cool of the evening.   The Moses on the mountain conversation was a make-your-face glow kind of being together, and the fruit of walking with the Spirit–of which I assume conversation is a big piece–results in amazing things: love, joy, peace, patience…you get the idea.   Why don’t we say “Prayer Gardeners” or “Prayer Walkers” or “Prayer Caretakers”?  You could even take the conversations of Jesus and his followers, or between Jesus and those who were seeking him, as metaphors for prayer life.

If prayer isn’t primarily laundry-list-asking-for-what-I-want, but is instead rooted in seeking relationship with God, perhaps “Prayer Warriors” may not be all that helpful as an overarching moniker for the whole enterprise.  If I went into every communication with my wife through the lens of war…well, how often would I want to talk?   There are certainly times when war is on in life–both as metaphor and as literal fact–so “Prayer Warrior” is right on target some of the time.   Evil is out there, and the enemy certainly is at work, and to pray against his work is necessary and appropriate, and perhaps a daily activity.   I’ve certainly been on my knees in battle, and the “attacks” of life are pretty non-stop.  But surely war is  not the whole deal.

I’m having dinner with my son tonight.  I hope he just talks to me, not framing everything in terms of battle and help me, help me, help me.  Knowing him, and knowing us together, it won’t go that way at all.   We’ll talk friends, music, the upcoming school year, questions, and oh yes, some specific things he is going to need from me as the next few months unfold.  And do I have some things to say?  Things he needs to listen to?  Sure, and I’ll bet he takes some time to listen.

I can’t help but think God must want that from us as well.   Just to walk with Him, talk about the full range of life, listening, wondering, asking, describing, hoping, meditating, hanging out, even fighting.   I wonder if we’d talk with Him more, listen more closely, let Him color our thoughts more, if we didn’t always think of prayer as war, but instead saw it as walking in the cool of the evening with Him.

It’s pretty sweet…

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August 25, 2009 · 6:29 am

21 Years of Amy

My Daughter

Reflecting on a daughter…

21 Years of Amy (to borrow a phrase).  I can’t remember what it was like before her, really.  I have memories of pre-Amy days, but they’re all colored with the knowledge of her coming.  I even have a couple of pre-birth letters I wrote to her, though I didn’t know her name.  Too much drama in me, probably, but it seemed good to speak to her even then as if she were all grown up.

My first words about her when she actually arrived during that 4 a.m. hour August 26, 1988 were–predictably–”She’s beautiful.”  Frankly, I was surprised.  Not that I didn’t expect her to be beautiful, but I hadn’t expected to feel it so clearly, so powerfully.  She was beautiful, and her birth is one of the most cherished and powerful images in my imagination.   Birth: the most natural, most miraculous thing in the world.   People showing up who were not here before, beginning the long, human journey even as others slip away.  My father had passed away the previous month; just then, I was well aware of life’s rhythms, and determined not to take anything for granted.

Every morning, she woke with a smile.  I took ridiculous amounts of pictures and videos, lingering in close-up for long periods, as if looking for whatever secret she possessed.   Had anything ever held my attention so completely?   I watched her sleep, watched her eat, watched her kick her chubby arms and legs, watched her cough, even watched as she wailed.  Mesmerizing, frankly, as if she was a creature from another planet.  She was a dream of mine, this daughter who so completely overwhelmed my expectations.  Occasionally (though it was Anjie who did the bulk of the work here, I’m sorry to say), I’d hold her in the middle of the night in an old bentwood rocker, her face on my shoulder, her small mouth slack with peaceful sleep, her weight on my arms and chest.   I can feel her there still if I try, and Anjie and I sometimes reflect on how we miss that weight in our arms.

Frankly, I worried about our next child, if there ever was one.  How would I find love for him or her, when Amy had cornered the market?

Now’s she 21, or will be tomorrow.  She’s on a flight just now, headed for her senior year in Cincinnati, where’s she been preparing for a life in the theatre.   Yep, her too.  She’s a fine actor with a bright, incisive mind, has a great eye for talent and direction, and is determined and strong.  And of course, she’s still beautiful.   When I tell people she’s an actor, sometimes they ask if that worries me.  No, I tell them, it excites me.  She’s pursuing her heart and her giftedness in the company of great friends and family, all of whom believe in her completely.  And she’s not tricked that it will be easy.  And as any journeyman artist knows, the journey is unpredictable and the endgame unknown.   Therein lies the adventure, the danger, and the joy of this gift we’ve been given.  Therein lies the dependence on the God who gave all the gifts in the first place: life, hope, strength, faith, and above all else, love.

A few images: The first time she kissed me.  We were playing–perhaps she was between a year and 18 months, hard to say–and it was as if a thought appeared, a brand new thought, and with great intention and bright, bright eyes, she leaned over and planted one on my cheek.   I don’t know who was more pleased by it, her or me, but I was pretty wrecked.   Then her small, 3rd-grade frame silhouetted in light as she sang for the talent show at Soos Creek Elementary, me playing guitar behind her.   I only zeroed in on what was actually happening once during the song, and promptly burst into tears and fouled up whatever I was playing.   And oddly, I’ll always remember what I missed–Amy singing the lead in Rags at Interlochen (the famous arts camp in Michigan) between her high school junior and senior years…how did I miss that?  But when I heard the recording (and when I hear it still), it thrills me.  Stunning.  The years in sports (soccer and softball), the early acting roles (that beautiful Our Town–you, too, Casey), and, of course, the broken-heart moments that are most precious to fathers like me, the moments when you’d do anything in the world for your girl.

Amy, for all the images in my heart, for what you have taught me about life, for the grace you have given me as I have floundered along as a dad, for all the goodness you will bring to those who know you in the coming years..

Thank you.

You are still–obviously–beautiful.

Pearls, indeed.

And don’t forget…there is One who loves you infinitely more than I.

Hard to imagine…

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