I was thinking the other day…
When I was a boy and I went to the pool, I would find myself participating in what could be considered an unusual practice. I do not know if anyone else has done this, did this, or still does. My family or those who may have witnessed me in my young age have never asked me about this and probably never noticed. This probably shouldn’t be too surprising, as it was not a practice of a highly flamboyant nature. It might be that I was fulfilling some sub-conscious male role as hunter/explorer in my prepubescent years. It may be that I was simply a loner and did not care to play another rousing game of Marco polo. Perhaps it was some strange form of obsessive compulsiveness. Questions aside, I would find myself mysteriously drawn to the middle of the pool like a moth hovering towards a cabin light, wading there for a bit. As I waded I would look around to all sides and all corners, gauging the layout and population of what surrounded me within the confines of the pool. I would then suddenly get the urge to swim to all corners, wanting to search all points of the pool - every nook. Of particular enjoyment was going to those areas in the deep end that were unoccupied. Once I had successfully swam to these unexplored areas I simply waded for a bit, splashed around, hovered. Once my mission was accomplished and I had thoroughly been to all areas of the pool, I would be free to play and do what I wanted. In retrospect this whole ritual seems entirely odd. I suppose that a sufficient explanation of this was a need to conquer the great water-filled concrete dune. But what I want whoever is reading this to notice is not so much the peculiar nature of this practice, but the geography of the practice. In a defined pool, with clear markers of depth, I was able to explore every part of the pool. I was able to go as deep as the pool went, as wide as the pool went.
When I was a boy, I also went to the ocean two or three times. But it never crossed my mind to perform this ritual in the ocean. It would be quite ludicrous to attempt it. The ocean is enormous, almost infinite to a young lad. There are depths that no human has ever been able to achieve. There are caves holding creatures that no human has ever laid eyes on. There are no smooth concrete floors; no paved stairways leading out of it, no neatly defined measurements. The ocean is wild and untamed, full of ferocity and beauty.
The climax of my thought is this: I have often mistaken oceanic truth for pool truth. By truth I mean Truth: faith truth, Christianity truth, God truth, life truth, universe truth, reality truth – however you want to refer to it. I have the tendency to want to know all of truth, particularly what is revealed in scripture. I want to swim into all of its nooks and corners. I want to know it, to memorize it, to package it neatly and creatively, and teach it. But the more I study, the more I discover that the truth of my faith is not like the pool. There are certainly places I can swim to quite contently and confidently, but there are other places to which I cannot. The truth of my faith is fierce and wild. It is rowdy and stormy. It cannot be fully contained or grasped, and will never be.
So what is the moral of this aquatic lesson for me? Quite clearly, the moral is to be humble about what I can know and what I can master and to be aware of my need for God’s infinite grace. I’m constantly a student of the great mysterious God of Israel and will never be an expert. But there is a comforting, almost warm thought in this intellectual surrender. It seems quite a bit more appealing to base my life on oceanic truth rather than some chlorine-filled YMCA truth. It seems quite appropriate that the truth surrounding the God of the Universe is wild, unbounded, rowdy, and…holy. This is the type of truth I could never tire of swimming in.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Thursday, October 18, 2007
some poems
The Hitch-Hiker
I see you
Do i know that you see me?
You stand, for me, at a gap
Two things rage against one another
One tells me you're Jesus
My hand holds tightly, the steering wheel
Another says have the wisdom of a serpant
I don't understand
My eyes roam elsewhere
But you beckon and call me
7/30/07
Rolling silently
Filled-a liquid sky
Undistinguished between the streaked
Sky and the painted waters
Red against blue
Orange against lavender
The waters declare
The glory of the heavens
"Ye lights of evening find a voice"
Your kingdom is here
The seaweed sways to the rhythm of
Your waters - It's alive!
It waits for You
Your winds move the waters
Even now
I see you
Do i know that you see me?
You stand, for me, at a gap
Two things rage against one another
One tells me you're Jesus
My hand holds tightly, the steering wheel
Another says have the wisdom of a serpant
I don't understand
My eyes roam elsewhere
But you beckon and call me
7/30/07
Rolling silently
Filled-a liquid sky
Undistinguished between the streaked
Sky and the painted waters
Red against blue
Orange against lavender
The waters declare
The glory of the heavens
"Ye lights of evening find a voice"
Your kingdom is here
The seaweed sways to the rhythm of
Your waters - It's alive!
It waits for You
Your winds move the waters
Even now
Friday, September 14, 2007
A Remnant from the Garden
The other day I was driving through Illinois when one of those dazzling moments occurred. This was the type of moment that should be put to film or be the inspiration for a thousand songs, the type of moment in which reality pauses and indulges in something sweet. Left alone from any sort of traffic, the smooth asphalt highway was mine alone and consequently so were the beautiful Illinois wheat fields sprawled out from the highway for miles like great feathery wings shuffling from the slight breeze. Ahead of me on the right I was approaching a forested area with trees that lined the highway. And then, in a fleeting glimpse, a sudden instance, I saw two of the most exquisite creatures I have ever seen. With a delicate and quiet agility that only these two animals could possibly attain, the two creatures suddenly appeared in wondrous motion on the road ahead of me. In fact, they were nearly off the road and galloping into the forest before I set my eyes upon them. But as suggested before these exceptional moments tend to be extremely generous and even have the power to inflect time and even stop it. This afforded my eyes the opportunity to gaze at these creatures. I was able to see the fine and beautiful way that they were constructed and built. Their smooth muscles were fitting for their staunch but slender legs. The bob tails were bouncing up and down as they galloped. These creatures seemed so fragile yet so complete. There long necks were just strong enough to support their rapidly jittering heads. I was even able to glance at their eyes from a distance deep and wild, taking in vast amounts of information. The hooves that met the highway, although silent from my vantage, seemed to generate some gorgeous melody anyway. I heard this melody as I watched the escaping leaves, rustled away from the trees, gently descending in flutter as the two creatures’ beautiful light brown coats allowed them to disappear into the forest and continue on in magnificent wildness…
So exclusive and blazing with significance was this picture I was invited to see that I felt almost unworthy. The word that came to my mind… “Perfection.”
What I witnessed that September afternoon was so completely serene, so completely natural that I felt immediately transported to the garden. It was as if I caught a glimpse of that splendid garden in the east, where all creation is new and man and wild beast lived in unusual harmony. Not yet tainted by fall, creation was so pure that God walked among it, completing it with every lingering moment.
It suddenly occurs to me why I have such a strong fascination with watching animals and touring trees. Somehow, their complete complexity and intricacy along with the simplicity of their untamed nature humbles my heart in many ways. It moves me to watch a horse run. It moves me to watch a falcon soar. It moves me to watch a spider spin a silver web. It moves me to watch a cat bathe itself with its small rose tongue. It moves me to watch a dog gently rest at the foot of its master. It moves me to watch a butterfly flutter around in tiny flashes. It moves me to watch a tree stand against the mighty wind and cling to the earth. It moves me to watch a tree lift its seeping branches into the air. It is because these things are holy, created to be beautiful … created to be. God Himself declared them good. In some strange way on some different sort of plane of knowledge, it seems that these creatures understand things much better than humans.
In a book called That Hideous Strength, Lewis writes about a large pet bear named Mr. Bultitude and in an altogether accurate way describes the mind of the bear:
“Mr. Bultitude’s mind was as furry and as unhuman in shape as his body…He did not know that he loved and trusted [his owners] now. He did not know that they were people, nor that he was a bear. Indeed, he did not know that he existed at all: everything that is represented by the words “I” and “Me” and “Thou” was absent from his mind.”
But then Lewis goes deeper:
“The appetencies which a human might disdain as cupboard loves were for him quivering and ecstatic aspirations which absorbed his whole being, infinite yearnings, stabbed with the threat of tragedy and shot through with the colors of Paradise. One of our race, if plunged back for a moment in the warm, trembling, iridescent pool of that pre-Adamite consciousness, would have emerged believing that he had grasped the absolute: for the states below reason and the states above it have, by their common contrast to the life we know, a certain superficial resemblance. Sometimes there returns to us from infancy the memory of a nameless delight or terror, unattached to any delightful or dreadful thing, a potent adjective floating in a nounless void, a pure quality. At such moments we have experience of the shallows of that pool. But fathoms deeper than any memory can take us, right down in the central warmth and dimness, the bear lived all its life” (p. 306).
Perhaps, I merely dipped my toe in that lustrous pool on that warm afternoon as I watched two creatures that were fully immersed in it. For it is not this remnant of the garden that is tied down by the often-times vociferous naming and explaining of experience that can sometimes keep the beautiful but fallen human mind and heart from liberation. The remnant has discovered the delightful secret of living experience rather than trying to be a master over it.
Do you ever feel distance from the Creator? Friends, I adjure you to go outside and experience the fierce reality of creation. Do not merely go outside to read or draw or paint. Do not merely use creation as a vehicle for your own agenda. But go outside and look at it. Go and see it. Enjoy it for its own created sake. I would suggest conversing with it. St. Francis did this often. Allow God to renew your mind in the visions of His creation. Discover why the Pslamist wrote that His glory fills the earth. What does that mean? Then, perhaps, we will discover more of our holy Creator.
So exclusive and blazing with significance was this picture I was invited to see that I felt almost unworthy. The word that came to my mind… “Perfection.”
What I witnessed that September afternoon was so completely serene, so completely natural that I felt immediately transported to the garden. It was as if I caught a glimpse of that splendid garden in the east, where all creation is new and man and wild beast lived in unusual harmony. Not yet tainted by fall, creation was so pure that God walked among it, completing it with every lingering moment.
It suddenly occurs to me why I have such a strong fascination with watching animals and touring trees. Somehow, their complete complexity and intricacy along with the simplicity of their untamed nature humbles my heart in many ways. It moves me to watch a horse run. It moves me to watch a falcon soar. It moves me to watch a spider spin a silver web. It moves me to watch a cat bathe itself with its small rose tongue. It moves me to watch a dog gently rest at the foot of its master. It moves me to watch a butterfly flutter around in tiny flashes. It moves me to watch a tree stand against the mighty wind and cling to the earth. It moves me to watch a tree lift its seeping branches into the air. It is because these things are holy, created to be beautiful … created to be. God Himself declared them good. In some strange way on some different sort of plane of knowledge, it seems that these creatures understand things much better than humans.
In a book called That Hideous Strength, Lewis writes about a large pet bear named Mr. Bultitude and in an altogether accurate way describes the mind of the bear:
“Mr. Bultitude’s mind was as furry and as unhuman in shape as his body…He did not know that he loved and trusted [his owners] now. He did not know that they were people, nor that he was a bear. Indeed, he did not know that he existed at all: everything that is represented by the words “I” and “Me” and “Thou” was absent from his mind.”
But then Lewis goes deeper:
“The appetencies which a human might disdain as cupboard loves were for him quivering and ecstatic aspirations which absorbed his whole being, infinite yearnings, stabbed with the threat of tragedy and shot through with the colors of Paradise. One of our race, if plunged back for a moment in the warm, trembling, iridescent pool of that pre-Adamite consciousness, would have emerged believing that he had grasped the absolute: for the states below reason and the states above it have, by their common contrast to the life we know, a certain superficial resemblance. Sometimes there returns to us from infancy the memory of a nameless delight or terror, unattached to any delightful or dreadful thing, a potent adjective floating in a nounless void, a pure quality. At such moments we have experience of the shallows of that pool. But fathoms deeper than any memory can take us, right down in the central warmth and dimness, the bear lived all its life” (p. 306).
Perhaps, I merely dipped my toe in that lustrous pool on that warm afternoon as I watched two creatures that were fully immersed in it. For it is not this remnant of the garden that is tied down by the often-times vociferous naming and explaining of experience that can sometimes keep the beautiful but fallen human mind and heart from liberation. The remnant has discovered the delightful secret of living experience rather than trying to be a master over it.
Do you ever feel distance from the Creator? Friends, I adjure you to go outside and experience the fierce reality of creation. Do not merely go outside to read or draw or paint. Do not merely use creation as a vehicle for your own agenda. But go outside and look at it. Go and see it. Enjoy it for its own created sake. I would suggest conversing with it. St. Francis did this often. Allow God to renew your mind in the visions of His creation. Discover why the Pslamist wrote that His glory fills the earth. What does that mean? Then, perhaps, we will discover more of our holy Creator.
Saturday, August 4, 2007
The Finger
I must say that I use the term ‘offensive’ uncomfortably and with a great deal of hesitation. For some strange reason, it is difficult to say that something offends me. On the one hand, an offense implies that I have been attacked, that I have been rendered vulnerable. Vulnerability is an extremely humbling sort of thing, and a vulnerability that immediately goes away does not exist. Connected to this is the idea that offense seems to imply that I have been sheltered. It is hard for a man to admit that he has been sheltered. I suppose it means that he has been tamed or held in captivity from another world of experience that he has not yet mastered or understood. To communicate that something was offensive to you is to imply that others might not find it near as offensive, that others have mastered a particular realm while you have not. On the other hand, as a follower of the God/man Jesus, I am to be no stranger to offense – Christ was quite clear about that. In fact he taught that I am to be someone who rejoices and is glad to be insulted and persecuted – offended. So for me to write that something offended me seems kind of weak and after-the-fact. So in humility and for the sake of releasing some God-given creative energy I confess that I was driving home from a class I was taking at the Seminary recently when one of the strangest, oddest, and most offensive encounters I have ever had occurred.
As I study to be a pastor I am living in this very small town in the middle of Kentucky. As I understand it in the past, this town has been dubbed “the Holy City” on account of the two large evangelical (that’s “evangelical” in a good way) institutions that lie at its center. It has the reputation of being surrounded by a bubble through which none of Screwtape’s best tempters can seem to penetrate. Of course much of this reputation is in jest, and anyone who lives in the town knows that it is like any other town with its fair share of dark and light, hope with struggle. Yet this particular encounter in this particular town still surprised me.
I had stopped at the blinking red lights at about 5:15 in the afternoon. To the right of the three way stop was the street I lived on in the southern most tip of town. At the same moment I stopped, a small black datsun truck had also stopped across from me on the other side of the intersection with a few other cars coming in behind it. I saw the face of the man driving the datsun, a man in a mesh hat with no facial hair who was looking at me. The man looked a bit dazed as if he had just had a long day, but I distinctly remember him casually looking at me. After an initial pause on both our parts and wanting to be polite, I raised my hand and made a sweeping motion with it indicating that he could go ahead of me for I observed that he too had his turning signal on and was wanting to turn onto the same street. And then suddenly, the man made his own gesture at me: left middle finger extended towards the sky, slightly tilted, with the back of his hand facing me. The man gave me the finger, he gave me the bird, he flipped me off, whatever you want to call it. I remember that this gesture did not appear slowly, but it appeared suddenly. It almost seemed reactionary and so uncalculated. But what was possibly more startling in this instance was the man’s face. From what I could see there was no change of expression. He just kept looking at me with those same dazed eyes, that same-tilted head, middle finger extended. There was coldness there, the kind of coldness you would find in a character from a Flannery O’Connor story. It seemed like nothing to him to make this gesture at me.
That was it. This was the encounter, the encounter I found so offensive Now at this point I would like to say that there may be some reading this (although that in itself may be held in question) that are laughing at me. I don’t blame them. How could such a simple encounter garner such attention and such a lengthy discourse? You may call me soft and weak. Again, I admit these feelings humbly as I continue. For an instant, I was stunned. It was so unexpected. I was emotionless and expressionless. In my confusion, I simply shrugged and said to myself, “Okaaaaaay?” I turned onto the street. Then I saw the man turn onto the same street behind me, and I remembered his turn signal. As I drove down my long street, I contemplated many things. I wondered if he would follow me to my house. I almost wanted him to. I wanted to know what I had done wrong. I wanted to know if I had offended him in some way, if he had misinterpreted my hand gesture. I wanted to make things right between us. But about seven or so houses before my own he turned onto a driveway. As I write this I wish that I would have gone back there and asked him why he gave me the finger, why he felt compelled to do that. A flood of emotions raged inside of me spurred by that finger. I was angry, frightened, confused. Soon those emotions gave way to something deeper. I realized that I was hurt. My soul felt murdered, torn, shredded, lacerated. I felt extremely low. I was knocked in the gut. The weakness was strong and lingered. I remember that I was leading a bible study that night, but I suddenly felt unequipped for it because of that finger. In laymen’s terms, that slender finger had ruined my day.
Now, I certainly do not mean to suggest that I am the first person who has ever been given the finger, and I do not mean to make something out of nothing. I’m only describing what carried within me after that moment, and when I feel my soul affected like that I pay attention.
It’s amazing isn’t it? A simple gesture, a simple shape of hand can create so much hurt, so much offense down to the very soul. How could something so simply physical, not to mention very culturally defined, hurt my soul so much? It’s almost silly. If the dualists, neo-Platonists, and Gnostics are correct and the spiritual realm is so separated from and superior to the physical, then how come that man’s physical gesture had such a potent power over my spirit on that afternoon?
But it occurs to me that in the eighth chapter of Paul’s letter to the Romans [enter my standard transition to the bible] a picture is painted of this earth, this creation that we touch and in which we move and breathe, being mysteriously held in bondage by the falleness of this world. Among other things, this can be seen in humanity’s tremendous impact on the environment for the worse. A physical world that was originally good was subject to suffering through our sins, those same sins that are rooted in the spirit as Jesus showed us. The spiritual deeply affecting the physical. Furthermore, it seems to suggest that creation will actually experience the same liberation that children of God will experience one day.
What does this have to do with the finger? The point is that, from my studies, it appears that the scriptures are clear that the spiritual has a powerful impact on the physical. Now take the Rabbi, Jesus. I think that the Apostle Paul in Romans 8 was agreeing with the teachings of his Rabbi and could see it all over creation. The area between the physical world and the spiritual world is blurred and intricately bridged. I’ve been having coffee with the thought that Jesus not only came to redeem the fleshly, the physical, the material, showing us that creation is good. But he also came to show us the great degree to which the spiritual and the physical are entwined. He taught that the dispositions and tone of our spirits directly affect what happens in the world around us, in our relationships, in our physical environment. Clean the inside, and the outside will be clean. He said that those who love God would be known by the fruit that they produce. This is not fruit attached to vines wrapped around your heart that no one can see, but it is fruit that is open and tangible. He taught that what makes a man unclean is what comes out of him not what goes into him. The state of one’s heart is not merely determined by what dwells in your heart, the particular color of your heart. It is also determined by that phrase, “comes out,” the way in which what is in your heart manifests itself into the light of day, the world around you. The cleanliness of your heart is determined by how its produce goes out and interacts with the world. I’m arguing that the spirit of a person has a tightly bound relationship with the tangible and seen world around it. If this is the case then it seems that the physical can equally affect the spiritual just as the spiritual has tremendous impact on the physical. We are deeply and equally spiritual and physical beings, walking filters taking in and giving out. Therefore, we as people with such potent spirits have tremendous responsibility for what our hearts release out into this beautiful world. Will our hearts sing melodies that harmonize with the earth in which we move and breathe and act promoting such things as peace between warring nations, feeding the poor, freeing the captive, proclaiming Jesus as Lord, and being at peace with the natural world around us? Or will our hearts bellow harsh and unnatural sounds that create disharmony, idolatry, and the failure to love? As someone who has made both kinds of sounds, I will take the former.
I will ask a third time, “What does this have to do with that silly finger?” The answer is a whole lot in the way that I see it. That finger that I was given by the man in the datsun truck was not simply a finger. It was the vomit of his heart, the physical manifestation of his inner being. Our spirits, meant to love and be at harmony with one another, met instead on the tip of that rebellious appendage. My soul wasn’t the only thing affected. I could feel the air differently. It changed things; it changed the way that I saw things. Suddenly, the beautiful trees that lined the street were no longer beautiful, but strangely distorted. I could no longer enjoy the painted sky and the setting sun.
I think that every follower of Christ goes through different stages of understanding in how to live faith. As a young boy, loving God primarily meant ‘being nice’: not cussing, not hitting your sister, saying kind things, doing what you are told to do, not having sex outside of marriage, going to church, and praying before you eat. It interests me that almost all of the new believers in Jesus that I talk to always seem to be very aware of the language that they use, and they often name it as their primary sin struggle. But as you grow in faith you soon discover that there is a whole lot more to loving God and loving your neighbor than ‘being nice.’ In fact, much of the time in the gospels I wouldn’t necessarily call Jesus ‘nice.’ True love can often seem harsh and rather not nice to those around us. In an effort to grow deeper in this true love, I have had a tendency to neglect ‘being nice’ and to write off as useless in many ways. But as I have reflected on the finger I’ve come to realize that there is something deeply significant about ‘being nice.’ A smile here, a hello there, a thank you, being polite to your waitress, and opening the door for someone are all cultural gestures that have the same degree of effectiveness as that finger. I think that it delights God when we are nice, of course, never at the expense of real love, truth, and honesty. But it is important to understand the gestures and polite manners of the particular culture in which you live and to utilize them. Jesus even went a step further. We should pay very close attention to which Jesus had meals with, what he did on Sabbath days, and how he treated children. Jesus took the cultural gestures of his time and he redeemed them. When the Pharisees lost the love on which the Law was founded they refused to eat with the sinner, they refused to help dying men on the Sabbath, they shut the kingdom of heaven in people’s faces, and tied up heavy loads on them without lifting a finger to move these loads themselves. In all their effort to keep themselves ‘clean’ and ‘superior,’ it seems that they simply developed new ways to offend, new ways to give the finger. But Jesus changed all that. He invited the sinner to come and eat with him. He attended to suffering people on the Sabbath. He opened the kingdom of heaven to everyone. He did not come to condemn; he came to liberate and to say, “My yoke is easy and my burden is light.” The beautiful things that Jesus did on earth were nothing more and nothing less than the Spirit of God interacting through him with the world around him. In the same way, it seems natural for those who follow Jesus to take the cultural symbols today and to redeem them to promote the newness of life that only Jesus can bring, to bring some kingdom on this earth. Instead of using our middle finger to hurt, let’s use our middle finger to heal and to bandage wounds and to hold hands in unity. Instead of using our middle finger to offend others, let’s use it to read the scriptures and allow the scriptures to transform our hearts so that the Spirit of God can impact our world.
As uncomfortable as I was, I prayed for the man in the datsun truck as I finished the drive down my long street. When I arrived home, I told my friend what had happened at the blinking red lights. I asked him, “Aaron, what would compel someone to do something like that? Think about the anger and the bitterness that are inside of that man that would even allow the expression of such an offensive reaction in such a harmless situation.” My friend encouraged and sympathized as he reflected on his own share of experiences with the bitter anger and cruelty of others.
There is one part of the Gospels, to my knowledge, where Jesus’ finger is specifically mentioned. He was in the temple courts when a woman caught in adultery was suddenly brought forward by the teachers of the law and the Pharisees. And they asked Jesus if she should be stoned to death as the Law of Moses commanded. Instead of answering their question, he does something peculiar. He slowly bends down and begins writing something on the ground with his finger. I am fascinated and mystified by this action, as I have no idea what he was writing, and the Gospel does not tell us either. But somehow out of that writing came the most magnificent reply: “If anyone is without sin, let him be the first to throw a stone at her.” Then he continued to write on the ground. Those who came to condemn the woman were dumbfounded, dropped their stones and left the woman there alone. Afterwards, Jesus straightens up and asks if anyone has condemned her. She replies that no one has. Jesus says that neither does he then and tells her to go and leave her life of sin. If I could offer any sort of explanation I would say that the man in the datsun truck was stoned somewhere along the way. He was condemned by some gesture, by some manifestation of cruelty experienced in this world. There was no finger to write in the ground, no finger to declare that there is in fact no condemnation in Christ Jesus.
[I have the overwhelming sense that what I have written here is a little naïve. Particularly in the wake of such tragedies and dangers as the recent bridge collapse in Minneapolis and the large number of Korean Christians being held captive by the Taliban in Afghanistan. Two of which have already been murdered. I am, after all, someone has a lot more to experience. I suppose I wonder if I even know what a true offense is. So please understand this as if you have cared to read this writing.]
As I study to be a pastor I am living in this very small town in the middle of Kentucky. As I understand it in the past, this town has been dubbed “the Holy City” on account of the two large evangelical (that’s “evangelical” in a good way) institutions that lie at its center. It has the reputation of being surrounded by a bubble through which none of Screwtape’s best tempters can seem to penetrate. Of course much of this reputation is in jest, and anyone who lives in the town knows that it is like any other town with its fair share of dark and light, hope with struggle. Yet this particular encounter in this particular town still surprised me.
I had stopped at the blinking red lights at about 5:15 in the afternoon. To the right of the three way stop was the street I lived on in the southern most tip of town. At the same moment I stopped, a small black datsun truck had also stopped across from me on the other side of the intersection with a few other cars coming in behind it. I saw the face of the man driving the datsun, a man in a mesh hat with no facial hair who was looking at me. The man looked a bit dazed as if he had just had a long day, but I distinctly remember him casually looking at me. After an initial pause on both our parts and wanting to be polite, I raised my hand and made a sweeping motion with it indicating that he could go ahead of me for I observed that he too had his turning signal on and was wanting to turn onto the same street. And then suddenly, the man made his own gesture at me: left middle finger extended towards the sky, slightly tilted, with the back of his hand facing me. The man gave me the finger, he gave me the bird, he flipped me off, whatever you want to call it. I remember that this gesture did not appear slowly, but it appeared suddenly. It almost seemed reactionary and so uncalculated. But what was possibly more startling in this instance was the man’s face. From what I could see there was no change of expression. He just kept looking at me with those same dazed eyes, that same-tilted head, middle finger extended. There was coldness there, the kind of coldness you would find in a character from a Flannery O’Connor story. It seemed like nothing to him to make this gesture at me.
That was it. This was the encounter, the encounter I found so offensive Now at this point I would like to say that there may be some reading this (although that in itself may be held in question) that are laughing at me. I don’t blame them. How could such a simple encounter garner such attention and such a lengthy discourse? You may call me soft and weak. Again, I admit these feelings humbly as I continue. For an instant, I was stunned. It was so unexpected. I was emotionless and expressionless. In my confusion, I simply shrugged and said to myself, “Okaaaaaay?” I turned onto the street. Then I saw the man turn onto the same street behind me, and I remembered his turn signal. As I drove down my long street, I contemplated many things. I wondered if he would follow me to my house. I almost wanted him to. I wanted to know what I had done wrong. I wanted to know if I had offended him in some way, if he had misinterpreted my hand gesture. I wanted to make things right between us. But about seven or so houses before my own he turned onto a driveway. As I write this I wish that I would have gone back there and asked him why he gave me the finger, why he felt compelled to do that. A flood of emotions raged inside of me spurred by that finger. I was angry, frightened, confused. Soon those emotions gave way to something deeper. I realized that I was hurt. My soul felt murdered, torn, shredded, lacerated. I felt extremely low. I was knocked in the gut. The weakness was strong and lingered. I remember that I was leading a bible study that night, but I suddenly felt unequipped for it because of that finger. In laymen’s terms, that slender finger had ruined my day.
Now, I certainly do not mean to suggest that I am the first person who has ever been given the finger, and I do not mean to make something out of nothing. I’m only describing what carried within me after that moment, and when I feel my soul affected like that I pay attention.
It’s amazing isn’t it? A simple gesture, a simple shape of hand can create so much hurt, so much offense down to the very soul. How could something so simply physical, not to mention very culturally defined, hurt my soul so much? It’s almost silly. If the dualists, neo-Platonists, and Gnostics are correct and the spiritual realm is so separated from and superior to the physical, then how come that man’s physical gesture had such a potent power over my spirit on that afternoon?
But it occurs to me that in the eighth chapter of Paul’s letter to the Romans [enter my standard transition to the bible] a picture is painted of this earth, this creation that we touch and in which we move and breathe, being mysteriously held in bondage by the falleness of this world. Among other things, this can be seen in humanity’s tremendous impact on the environment for the worse. A physical world that was originally good was subject to suffering through our sins, those same sins that are rooted in the spirit as Jesus showed us. The spiritual deeply affecting the physical. Furthermore, it seems to suggest that creation will actually experience the same liberation that children of God will experience one day.
What does this have to do with the finger? The point is that, from my studies, it appears that the scriptures are clear that the spiritual has a powerful impact on the physical. Now take the Rabbi, Jesus. I think that the Apostle Paul in Romans 8 was agreeing with the teachings of his Rabbi and could see it all over creation. The area between the physical world and the spiritual world is blurred and intricately bridged. I’ve been having coffee with the thought that Jesus not only came to redeem the fleshly, the physical, the material, showing us that creation is good. But he also came to show us the great degree to which the spiritual and the physical are entwined. He taught that the dispositions and tone of our spirits directly affect what happens in the world around us, in our relationships, in our physical environment. Clean the inside, and the outside will be clean. He said that those who love God would be known by the fruit that they produce. This is not fruit attached to vines wrapped around your heart that no one can see, but it is fruit that is open and tangible. He taught that what makes a man unclean is what comes out of him not what goes into him. The state of one’s heart is not merely determined by what dwells in your heart, the particular color of your heart. It is also determined by that phrase, “comes out,” the way in which what is in your heart manifests itself into the light of day, the world around you. The cleanliness of your heart is determined by how its produce goes out and interacts with the world. I’m arguing that the spirit of a person has a tightly bound relationship with the tangible and seen world around it. If this is the case then it seems that the physical can equally affect the spiritual just as the spiritual has tremendous impact on the physical. We are deeply and equally spiritual and physical beings, walking filters taking in and giving out. Therefore, we as people with such potent spirits have tremendous responsibility for what our hearts release out into this beautiful world. Will our hearts sing melodies that harmonize with the earth in which we move and breathe and act promoting such things as peace between warring nations, feeding the poor, freeing the captive, proclaiming Jesus as Lord, and being at peace with the natural world around us? Or will our hearts bellow harsh and unnatural sounds that create disharmony, idolatry, and the failure to love? As someone who has made both kinds of sounds, I will take the former.
I will ask a third time, “What does this have to do with that silly finger?” The answer is a whole lot in the way that I see it. That finger that I was given by the man in the datsun truck was not simply a finger. It was the vomit of his heart, the physical manifestation of his inner being. Our spirits, meant to love and be at harmony with one another, met instead on the tip of that rebellious appendage. My soul wasn’t the only thing affected. I could feel the air differently. It changed things; it changed the way that I saw things. Suddenly, the beautiful trees that lined the street were no longer beautiful, but strangely distorted. I could no longer enjoy the painted sky and the setting sun.
I think that every follower of Christ goes through different stages of understanding in how to live faith. As a young boy, loving God primarily meant ‘being nice’: not cussing, not hitting your sister, saying kind things, doing what you are told to do, not having sex outside of marriage, going to church, and praying before you eat. It interests me that almost all of the new believers in Jesus that I talk to always seem to be very aware of the language that they use, and they often name it as their primary sin struggle. But as you grow in faith you soon discover that there is a whole lot more to loving God and loving your neighbor than ‘being nice.’ In fact, much of the time in the gospels I wouldn’t necessarily call Jesus ‘nice.’ True love can often seem harsh and rather not nice to those around us. In an effort to grow deeper in this true love, I have had a tendency to neglect ‘being nice’ and to write off as useless in many ways. But as I have reflected on the finger I’ve come to realize that there is something deeply significant about ‘being nice.’ A smile here, a hello there, a thank you, being polite to your waitress, and opening the door for someone are all cultural gestures that have the same degree of effectiveness as that finger. I think that it delights God when we are nice, of course, never at the expense of real love, truth, and honesty. But it is important to understand the gestures and polite manners of the particular culture in which you live and to utilize them. Jesus even went a step further. We should pay very close attention to which Jesus had meals with, what he did on Sabbath days, and how he treated children. Jesus took the cultural gestures of his time and he redeemed them. When the Pharisees lost the love on which the Law was founded they refused to eat with the sinner, they refused to help dying men on the Sabbath, they shut the kingdom of heaven in people’s faces, and tied up heavy loads on them without lifting a finger to move these loads themselves. In all their effort to keep themselves ‘clean’ and ‘superior,’ it seems that they simply developed new ways to offend, new ways to give the finger. But Jesus changed all that. He invited the sinner to come and eat with him. He attended to suffering people on the Sabbath. He opened the kingdom of heaven to everyone. He did not come to condemn; he came to liberate and to say, “My yoke is easy and my burden is light.” The beautiful things that Jesus did on earth were nothing more and nothing less than the Spirit of God interacting through him with the world around him. In the same way, it seems natural for those who follow Jesus to take the cultural symbols today and to redeem them to promote the newness of life that only Jesus can bring, to bring some kingdom on this earth. Instead of using our middle finger to hurt, let’s use our middle finger to heal and to bandage wounds and to hold hands in unity. Instead of using our middle finger to offend others, let’s use it to read the scriptures and allow the scriptures to transform our hearts so that the Spirit of God can impact our world.
As uncomfortable as I was, I prayed for the man in the datsun truck as I finished the drive down my long street. When I arrived home, I told my friend what had happened at the blinking red lights. I asked him, “Aaron, what would compel someone to do something like that? Think about the anger and the bitterness that are inside of that man that would even allow the expression of such an offensive reaction in such a harmless situation.” My friend encouraged and sympathized as he reflected on his own share of experiences with the bitter anger and cruelty of others.
There is one part of the Gospels, to my knowledge, where Jesus’ finger is specifically mentioned. He was in the temple courts when a woman caught in adultery was suddenly brought forward by the teachers of the law and the Pharisees. And they asked Jesus if she should be stoned to death as the Law of Moses commanded. Instead of answering their question, he does something peculiar. He slowly bends down and begins writing something on the ground with his finger. I am fascinated and mystified by this action, as I have no idea what he was writing, and the Gospel does not tell us either. But somehow out of that writing came the most magnificent reply: “If anyone is without sin, let him be the first to throw a stone at her.” Then he continued to write on the ground. Those who came to condemn the woman were dumbfounded, dropped their stones and left the woman there alone. Afterwards, Jesus straightens up and asks if anyone has condemned her. She replies that no one has. Jesus says that neither does he then and tells her to go and leave her life of sin. If I could offer any sort of explanation I would say that the man in the datsun truck was stoned somewhere along the way. He was condemned by some gesture, by some manifestation of cruelty experienced in this world. There was no finger to write in the ground, no finger to declare that there is in fact no condemnation in Christ Jesus.
[I have the overwhelming sense that what I have written here is a little naïve. Particularly in the wake of such tragedies and dangers as the recent bridge collapse in Minneapolis and the large number of Korean Christians being held captive by the Taliban in Afghanistan. Two of which have already been murdered. I am, after all, someone has a lot more to experience. I suppose I wonder if I even know what a true offense is. So please understand this as if you have cared to read this writing.]
Friday, July 27, 2007
Homesick
Alone I climb up this hill again
I've skinned my knees and I've broke my hands
I dined with pigs and I soiled my clothes
I played with toys that I did not own
Now I'm singin'...
I all but turned my back on you
Oh wait just a second, I did do that too
I felt so entitled wanted to rip you a part
Take all my riches and run somewhere far
Now I sing
Father, I want to come home now
Father, I want to go home now
I want to be a child again
To curl up inside you, hold on to your hand
Innocence dangled and fell from my tree
I watched it roll down and sink into the sea
Licked the world like a lollipop on an indulgant stick
Its diet of refuse and trash made me sick
These words must seem hollow as I crawl back to you
But I'll be your hired hand before I swim against your truth
Now I sing
Father, I want to come home now
Father, I want to go home now
Grace is hard for a thinking man's head
You can't understand it 'till you've tasted death
So I'll kneel in awe as you cover me with robe
Put a ring on my finger and welcome me home
Now I sinng
Father, I'm coming home now
Father, I'm going home now
I've skinned my knees and I've broke my hands
I dined with pigs and I soiled my clothes
I played with toys that I did not own
Now I'm singin'...
I all but turned my back on you
Oh wait just a second, I did do that too
I felt so entitled wanted to rip you a part
Take all my riches and run somewhere far
Now I sing
Father, I want to come home now
Father, I want to go home now
I want to be a child again
To curl up inside you, hold on to your hand
Innocence dangled and fell from my tree
I watched it roll down and sink into the sea
Licked the world like a lollipop on an indulgant stick
Its diet of refuse and trash made me sick
These words must seem hollow as I crawl back to you
But I'll be your hired hand before I swim against your truth
Now I sing
Father, I want to come home now
Father, I want to go home now
Grace is hard for a thinking man's head
You can't understand it 'till you've tasted death
So I'll kneel in awe as you cover me with robe
Put a ring on my finger and welcome me home
Now I sinng
Father, I'm coming home now
Father, I'm going home now
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Delays
I once watched a film that told me that whenever I get all crumby about the world I should go to an airport. It’s apparently there that I can see through reunions and various displays of affection that “love actually is all around.” Now, I love the hope and spirit of optimism that surrounds this observation, but in all honesty I must disagree with the prime minister. A couple of weeks ago I sat in the Oklahoma City airport for about nine hours to test this theory. Okay, not really. I sat in the Oklahoma City airport because my flight was delayed, but I can testify that I was there for nine hours.
Rather than seeing tearful smiles, deep gazes, and reunions that would make your heart flutter away; I was confronted with rolling eyes, under-breath cussing, cranky phone calls, and people whose god was their schedules. To a certain extent, I could understand their frustration. After being in the airport for about 7 hours, I began to turn a little restless myself. And I do realize that a fallen world will produce frustrations such as these and pretty nasty reaction to them.
But suddenly, without any particular reason or source, a small breeze of peace began to gently blow into my heart. I began to look around at everyone, at tired people waiting for information at the desk, at a woman sitting by a child as he was eating some ice cream, at a man holding a small chihauhau in his coat pocket, at the front desk as airport people frantically typed in information often with two fingers. It was at this moment that I was suddenly reminded of a conversation I had with a friend of mine. He made the simple observation that the weather was inescapably uncontrollable and unpredictable. Even in Oklahoma, where I am from and where I am told the ‘weather experts’ are, the weather is still unpredictable and uncontrollable there.
You see, friends, the reason why my flight was delayed was for the simple reason that a rather large thunderstorm decided to plant itself right on top of the Houston George Bush Intercontinental Airport, which was the place of my connecting flight. The airport was apparently shut down for about three hours delaying flights across the country. As I reflected on this and the many upset people at that airport that Tuesday I began to think about all of the technology that we have created for ourselves. We have built huge flying machines that can turn fourteen-hour trips into two-hour trips. We have built intricate computer systems that allow thousands of these machines to lift off everyday without running into each other. We have built elaborate airports with restaurants, televisions, and comfortable chairs in order to make our stay in airports as comfortable and as similar to home as possible. Yet, when a simple storm, something we have all seen before and are quite familiar with, decides to plant itself in just the right place, all of our plans, our schedules and our technology are useless. And we are inevitably delayed.
But as I sat there with that breeze of peace still blowing on my heart and a crying baby next to me, I couldn’t help but be thankful that we are not in control. I am thankful that we do not always get what we want and that delays come. It is a good thing. I repeat: IT IS A VERY GOOD THING that we are ultimately not in control. It is a good thing that we cannot control and predict the weather; it’s a good thing that we can’t control and predict God.
Delays mean waiting, and waiting is something we have all experienced. I read a book recently that said, “We often equate waiting with God’s inactivity.” But when you read the scriptures, something is happening when we wait. Isaiah 30:15,18 says:
“This is what the Sovereign Lord, the Holy One of Israel, says: ‘In repentance and rest is your salvation, in quietness and trust is your strength, but you would have none of it…Yet the Lord longs to be gracious to you; he rises to show you compassion. For the Lord is a God of justice. Blessed are all who wait for him!’”
This seems to suggest to me that salvation happens when we are waiting. Changing and God’s favor happens when we wait. God is actually doing something in the midst of this waiting, and those who wait are actually becoming something. In the waiting there is a growing in relationship with God. How do you view waiting? Is it a time of looking forward to something in the future or is it a time to focus on the now, on the significant change that is happening now? I wrote a short meditative song not long ago on this theme of waiting:
I will wait on you Lord
I will wait on you Lord
I will wait on you Lord
I will wait on you Lord
It’s in the waiting that you are changing
It’s in the waiting that you’re rearranging
It’s in the waiting that you’re preparing
It’s in the waiting that you are saving…
Delays are a significant part of the rhythm of life, the sounds of dissonance before the beautiful resolution in a symphony. Delays remind us that we are not in control, that there is One who knows better. Thank God for thunderstorms. Thank God for delays.
Rather than seeing tearful smiles, deep gazes, and reunions that would make your heart flutter away; I was confronted with rolling eyes, under-breath cussing, cranky phone calls, and people whose god was their schedules. To a certain extent, I could understand their frustration. After being in the airport for about 7 hours, I began to turn a little restless myself. And I do realize that a fallen world will produce frustrations such as these and pretty nasty reaction to them.
But suddenly, without any particular reason or source, a small breeze of peace began to gently blow into my heart. I began to look around at everyone, at tired people waiting for information at the desk, at a woman sitting by a child as he was eating some ice cream, at a man holding a small chihauhau in his coat pocket, at the front desk as airport people frantically typed in information often with two fingers. It was at this moment that I was suddenly reminded of a conversation I had with a friend of mine. He made the simple observation that the weather was inescapably uncontrollable and unpredictable. Even in Oklahoma, where I am from and where I am told the ‘weather experts’ are, the weather is still unpredictable and uncontrollable there.
You see, friends, the reason why my flight was delayed was for the simple reason that a rather large thunderstorm decided to plant itself right on top of the Houston George Bush Intercontinental Airport, which was the place of my connecting flight. The airport was apparently shut down for about three hours delaying flights across the country. As I reflected on this and the many upset people at that airport that Tuesday I began to think about all of the technology that we have created for ourselves. We have built huge flying machines that can turn fourteen-hour trips into two-hour trips. We have built intricate computer systems that allow thousands of these machines to lift off everyday without running into each other. We have built elaborate airports with restaurants, televisions, and comfortable chairs in order to make our stay in airports as comfortable and as similar to home as possible. Yet, when a simple storm, something we have all seen before and are quite familiar with, decides to plant itself in just the right place, all of our plans, our schedules and our technology are useless. And we are inevitably delayed.
But as I sat there with that breeze of peace still blowing on my heart and a crying baby next to me, I couldn’t help but be thankful that we are not in control. I am thankful that we do not always get what we want and that delays come. It is a good thing. I repeat: IT IS A VERY GOOD THING that we are ultimately not in control. It is a good thing that we cannot control and predict the weather; it’s a good thing that we can’t control and predict God.
Delays mean waiting, and waiting is something we have all experienced. I read a book recently that said, “We often equate waiting with God’s inactivity.” But when you read the scriptures, something is happening when we wait. Isaiah 30:15,18 says:
“This is what the Sovereign Lord, the Holy One of Israel, says: ‘In repentance and rest is your salvation, in quietness and trust is your strength, but you would have none of it…Yet the Lord longs to be gracious to you; he rises to show you compassion. For the Lord is a God of justice. Blessed are all who wait for him!’”
This seems to suggest to me that salvation happens when we are waiting. Changing and God’s favor happens when we wait. God is actually doing something in the midst of this waiting, and those who wait are actually becoming something. In the waiting there is a growing in relationship with God. How do you view waiting? Is it a time of looking forward to something in the future or is it a time to focus on the now, on the significant change that is happening now? I wrote a short meditative song not long ago on this theme of waiting:
I will wait on you Lord
I will wait on you Lord
I will wait on you Lord
I will wait on you Lord
It’s in the waiting that you are changing
It’s in the waiting that you’re rearranging
It’s in the waiting that you’re preparing
It’s in the waiting that you are saving…
Delays are a significant part of the rhythm of life, the sounds of dissonance before the beautiful resolution in a symphony. Delays remind us that we are not in control, that there is One who knows better. Thank God for thunderstorms. Thank God for delays.
Monday, June 18, 2007
A Bowl of Beans
“Why don’t ya go get you some of them beans, boy,” Saunders asked me as I had just finished eating a delicious cheeseburger prepared for me. I sat on an old but very comfortable couch while Saunders sat in a large, dark-blue recliner in the corner adjacent to me, his usual place. We were in a living room at the bottom of an awkward five-story house with rooms stacked on top of each other. The first time I had entered and toured up into the house I couldn’t help but think that I was ascending the steps of some swaying and unbalanced tower of Pisa considering that one careless step might send the whole thing toppling over.
“Were they good, man?” I asked him, stuffed and pretty content with my cheeseburger and fried potatoes.
“Yeah, boy. Go in there and get you some,” Saunders persisted with his eyes remaining fixed on the television watching Steve McQueen escape from prison in Mexico. This had been my third time to hang out with Saunders, each time we would sit and watch television together. Saunders was a very tall man maybe in his late fifties or early sixties who I rarely saw leave his recliner chair. Saunders found a strange sort of freedom in that chair with the television in front of him, and he did not like to be bothered one bit. I remember in our first time together, when he quite frankly wanted nothing to do with me, we were (with his eyes still firmly gazing at the television) making small talk during the commercial break of an intense re-run of “Law and Order.” When the commercial break ended and I was in the middle of a sentence, he slowly raised his hand and quietly said, “Okay, okay, I’m done witchya.” I understood. I wasn’t offended. The man wanted to watch his show, and it wasn’t my place at that time to interfere.
“They were really good beans, huh?” I asked again still quite content with the hearty cheeseburger I had just eaten. To be honest, I didn’t want any beans. On the one hand, a bowl of beans didn’t sound good to me at this time. In fact, it kind of sounded gross. I was full and the last thing I wanted to do was to eat some beans. On the other hand, I was content with just remaining on the couch, watching “Papillion,” and making small talk during the commercial breaks.
“They’re right in there. Go in there and get you some. There’s bowls in there,” he said a third time.
It was at this point that something stirred inside of me. Something began to tell me that this was no ordinary exchange. There was no bright light in the sky and no mighty voice from heaven, but I soon felt a tremendous urging to answer Saunders’ request and make myself a bowl of beans. Suddenly I knew that this would not be just any bowl of beans. This was not simply a recommendation like urging someone to try your favorite dish at your favorite Italian restaurant. Saunders was offering me much more than beans. He was offering an opportunity, a gift. Saunders knew that we came from very different places with different experiences. Perhaps Saunders also knew that I was there to build a relationship with him. He would be right. I was there asking God to cultivate a relationship between me, him, and the other men living in that house praying that the truth of Christ might penetrate their hearts through our fellowship together. No, this was no ordinary bowl of beans. This was a piece of Saunders himself, a part of his life from his side of the tracks. Saunders was asking me to eat what he eats, to join him in his life, which was very different from mine. I was in the mission field and that bowl of beans was like an exotic and uncomfortable food placed in front of me. I had to eat. I recalled Jesus’ table ministry in that moment and the importance He placed on eating what was offered by those who hosted Him. The Lord was offering me an opportunity to sacrifice my individual desire this moment so that He would have an avenue by which He might begin to harvest a relationship between Saunders and I.
I silently and with a great deal of new-found urgency went into the other room, got myself a bowl of white beans, came back in and sat down on the couch next to Saunders still gazing at the television screen. Nothing incredibly powerful happened after that that I could see. But I could sense a change in our relationship. Suddenly, as our conversation began to open up more I realized that we had moved farther from casual conversation to the realm of friends. Another brick in the bridge had been laid by a not so ordinary bowl of beans, which by the way actually turned out to be quite tasty.
“These are good beans,” I turned and said to Saunders.
“Yeah, boy. Them beans is real good,” he quietly said with his eyes still rigidly fixed on Steve McQueen.
“Were they good, man?” I asked him, stuffed and pretty content with my cheeseburger and fried potatoes.
“Yeah, boy. Go in there and get you some,” Saunders persisted with his eyes remaining fixed on the television watching Steve McQueen escape from prison in Mexico. This had been my third time to hang out with Saunders, each time we would sit and watch television together. Saunders was a very tall man maybe in his late fifties or early sixties who I rarely saw leave his recliner chair. Saunders found a strange sort of freedom in that chair with the television in front of him, and he did not like to be bothered one bit. I remember in our first time together, when he quite frankly wanted nothing to do with me, we were (with his eyes still firmly gazing at the television) making small talk during the commercial break of an intense re-run of “Law and Order.” When the commercial break ended and I was in the middle of a sentence, he slowly raised his hand and quietly said, “Okay, okay, I’m done witchya.” I understood. I wasn’t offended. The man wanted to watch his show, and it wasn’t my place at that time to interfere.
“They were really good beans, huh?” I asked again still quite content with the hearty cheeseburger I had just eaten. To be honest, I didn’t want any beans. On the one hand, a bowl of beans didn’t sound good to me at this time. In fact, it kind of sounded gross. I was full and the last thing I wanted to do was to eat some beans. On the other hand, I was content with just remaining on the couch, watching “Papillion,” and making small talk during the commercial breaks.
“They’re right in there. Go in there and get you some. There’s bowls in there,” he said a third time.
It was at this point that something stirred inside of me. Something began to tell me that this was no ordinary exchange. There was no bright light in the sky and no mighty voice from heaven, but I soon felt a tremendous urging to answer Saunders’ request and make myself a bowl of beans. Suddenly I knew that this would not be just any bowl of beans. This was not simply a recommendation like urging someone to try your favorite dish at your favorite Italian restaurant. Saunders was offering me much more than beans. He was offering an opportunity, a gift. Saunders knew that we came from very different places with different experiences. Perhaps Saunders also knew that I was there to build a relationship with him. He would be right. I was there asking God to cultivate a relationship between me, him, and the other men living in that house praying that the truth of Christ might penetrate their hearts through our fellowship together. No, this was no ordinary bowl of beans. This was a piece of Saunders himself, a part of his life from his side of the tracks. Saunders was asking me to eat what he eats, to join him in his life, which was very different from mine. I was in the mission field and that bowl of beans was like an exotic and uncomfortable food placed in front of me. I had to eat. I recalled Jesus’ table ministry in that moment and the importance He placed on eating what was offered by those who hosted Him. The Lord was offering me an opportunity to sacrifice my individual desire this moment so that He would have an avenue by which He might begin to harvest a relationship between Saunders and I.
I silently and with a great deal of new-found urgency went into the other room, got myself a bowl of white beans, came back in and sat down on the couch next to Saunders still gazing at the television screen. Nothing incredibly powerful happened after that that I could see. But I could sense a change in our relationship. Suddenly, as our conversation began to open up more I realized that we had moved farther from casual conversation to the realm of friends. Another brick in the bridge had been laid by a not so ordinary bowl of beans, which by the way actually turned out to be quite tasty.
“These are good beans,” I turned and said to Saunders.
“Yeah, boy. Them beans is real good,” he quietly said with his eyes still rigidly fixed on Steve McQueen.
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
Frisbee Dog
I have learned a lot over recent years. I have learned very significant and important things. I’ve learned about various cultures, religions, and histories. I’ve learned of complex theories and of complex problems. But, without a doubt, one of the most important things I’ve learned, one of the most considerable things I have gained knowledge of is…that one-day…
I want to own a Frisbee Dog.
That’s right. I want to own a Frisbee dog. I want a dog to which I can go outside and toss a Frisbee thirty yards out into the air, and the dog will run and catch it gracefully in mid-air. We would do that all Saturday afternoon and it would be terrific. There’s something amazing about these dogs to me. Maybe it was from watching ‘Flight of the Navigator’ too much as a kid.
The context of this motivation lies in an experience I had one day while going to a park. There is a park that I go to nearby from time to time to read, play guitar, think, and reflect. While enjoying a fantastic book one day, I began to notice a beautiful black Labrador off in the distance. The Lab was very excited about something, and I soon figured out why. The owner was nearby and he started to pull out a Frisbee. This dog became so incredibly excited. The owner proceeded to launch the Frisbee out into the air. I watched in amazement, as this dog would chase this Frisbee nearly thirty yards out. This dog would effortlessly jump into the air and catch the Frisbee. I could hear the chomp cut through the air like it was a few feet away. Once the dog caught the Frisbee, he would bring it back to the owner, stand very still, and anxiously wait with intense attention knowing that at any moment the Frisbee would fly again. The owner would proceed to throw the Frisbee into the air, and the same would happen.
But as I sat there watching this activity, I could not help but notice the sheer joy on the dog’s face. The dog was in utter joy at this simple disc. The dog was passionate about this activity, as if this was his single, most important purpose in the world. He looked like he was smiling as he sailed through the air and his stiff ears were forced to shake in the wind. It was as if this was what he was created for. As I stood there just watching, I came to this conclusion:
I want to be God’s Frisbee Dog.
I know it sounds weird. But I want to be God’s Frisbee dog. I want to chase after the plans and the will that God sends flying over my head for me. I want to chase after God’s Frisbee with the passion and joy of the Labrador I saw that day at the park. And then, I want to bring my Frisbee back to God for his glory; otherwise, my Frisbee won’t fly. I am a firm believer that God has a unique and special Frisbee for everyone. This is a Frisbee of passion, gifts, and plans. This Frisbee is what ignites our souls. This Frisbee is the way God has laid out each of us to worship him. I have discovered that a piece of my Frisbee is the call to ordained ministry. God has set a passion for teaching, leading, shepherding, and encouraging inside of me.
But my Frisbee is just one in a plethora of Frisbees designed for God’s people. It is my belief that we still serve a powerful God who does great things in this world today. I believe that the power of the Gospel is just as impacting as it was 2000 years ago. I want to be a part of God’s movement in this world. I want to help people find their Frisbees.
I want to own a Frisbee Dog.
That’s right. I want to own a Frisbee dog. I want a dog to which I can go outside and toss a Frisbee thirty yards out into the air, and the dog will run and catch it gracefully in mid-air. We would do that all Saturday afternoon and it would be terrific. There’s something amazing about these dogs to me. Maybe it was from watching ‘Flight of the Navigator’ too much as a kid.
The context of this motivation lies in an experience I had one day while going to a park. There is a park that I go to nearby from time to time to read, play guitar, think, and reflect. While enjoying a fantastic book one day, I began to notice a beautiful black Labrador off in the distance. The Lab was very excited about something, and I soon figured out why. The owner was nearby and he started to pull out a Frisbee. This dog became so incredibly excited. The owner proceeded to launch the Frisbee out into the air. I watched in amazement, as this dog would chase this Frisbee nearly thirty yards out. This dog would effortlessly jump into the air and catch the Frisbee. I could hear the chomp cut through the air like it was a few feet away. Once the dog caught the Frisbee, he would bring it back to the owner, stand very still, and anxiously wait with intense attention knowing that at any moment the Frisbee would fly again. The owner would proceed to throw the Frisbee into the air, and the same would happen.
But as I sat there watching this activity, I could not help but notice the sheer joy on the dog’s face. The dog was in utter joy at this simple disc. The dog was passionate about this activity, as if this was his single, most important purpose in the world. He looked like he was smiling as he sailed through the air and his stiff ears were forced to shake in the wind. It was as if this was what he was created for. As I stood there just watching, I came to this conclusion:
I want to be God’s Frisbee Dog.
I know it sounds weird. But I want to be God’s Frisbee dog. I want to chase after the plans and the will that God sends flying over my head for me. I want to chase after God’s Frisbee with the passion and joy of the Labrador I saw that day at the park. And then, I want to bring my Frisbee back to God for his glory; otherwise, my Frisbee won’t fly. I am a firm believer that God has a unique and special Frisbee for everyone. This is a Frisbee of passion, gifts, and plans. This Frisbee is what ignites our souls. This Frisbee is the way God has laid out each of us to worship him. I have discovered that a piece of my Frisbee is the call to ordained ministry. God has set a passion for teaching, leading, shepherding, and encouraging inside of me.
But my Frisbee is just one in a plethora of Frisbees designed for God’s people. It is my belief that we still serve a powerful God who does great things in this world today. I believe that the power of the Gospel is just as impacting as it was 2000 years ago. I want to be a part of God’s movement in this world. I want to help people find their Frisbees.
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