The Monk’s Story

A monastery had fallen on hard times. It was once part of a great order which, as a result of religious persecution in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, lost all its branches. It was decimated to the extent that there were only five monks left in the mother house: the abbot and four others, all of whom were over seventy. Clearly it was a dying order.

Deep in the woods surrounding the monastery was a little hut that the rabbi from a nearby town occasionally used for a heritage. One day, it occurred to the abbot to visit the hermitage to see if the rabbi could offer any advice that might save the monastery. The rabbi welcomed the abbot and commiserated. “I know how hard it is,” he said, “the spirit has gone out of people. Almost no one comes to the synagogue anymore.” So the old rabbi and the abbot wept together and read parts of the Torah and spoke quietly of deep things.

The time came when the Abbot had to leave. They embraced. “it has been wonderful being with you,” said the Abbot, “but I have failed in my purpose for coming. Have you no piece of advice that might save the monastery?” “No. I am sorry,” the Rabbi responded. “I have no advice to give. The only thing I can tell you is that the Messiah is one of you.”

When the other monks heard the Rabbi’s words, they wondered what possible significance they might have. “The Messiah is one of us? One of us, here, at the monastery? Do you suppose he meant the Abbot? Of course, -- it must be the Abbot, who has been our leader for so long. On the other hand, he might have meant Brother Thomas, who is such a holy man. Or could he have meant Brother Elrod, who is so crotchety? But then Elrod is so very wise. Surely, he could not have meant Brother Phillip – he’s so passive. But then, magically, he’s always there when you need him. Of course he didn’t mean me – yet supposing he did? Oh, Lord, not me! I couldn’t mean that much to you, could I?”

As they contemplated in this matter, the old monks began to treat each other with extraordinary respect, on the off chance that one of them might be the Messiah. And on the off chance that each monk himself might be the Messiah, they began to treat themselves with extraordinary respect.

Because the forest where the monastery was situated was beautiful, people occasionally came to visit, perhaps picnic or to wander along the old paths, most of which lead to the dilapidated chapel. These visitors sensed the aura, permeating the atmosphere. The visitors began to come more frequently, bringing friends, and their friends brought friends. Some of the younger men who came to the forest began to engage in conversation with the monks. After a while, one asked of he could join then another and another. Within a few years, the monastery became once again a thriving order, and – thanks to the Rabbi’s gift – the vibrant, authentic community of light and love for each other and others had blossomed.

Adapted from The Art of Possibility, Benjamin Zander

There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal. Nations, cultures, arts, civilizations--these are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat. But it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub, and exploit--immortal horrors or everlasting splendors. This does not mean that we are to be perpetually solemn. We must play. But our merriment must be of the kind (and it is, in fact, the merriest kind) which exists between people who have, from the outset, taken each other seriously--no flippancy, no superiority, no presumption. And our charity must be real and costly love, with deep feeling for the sins in spite of which we love the sinners--no mere tolerance, or indulgence which parodies love as flippancy parodies merriment. Next to the Blessed Sacrament itself, your neighbor is the holiest object presented to your senses. If he is your Christian neighbor, he is holy in almost the same way, for in him also Christ were the glorifier and the glorified, Glory Himself, is truly hidden.

from The Weight of Glory, by C.S. Lewis...

Perhaps as we think about the birth of our savior Jesus and how he came to earth so ordinary we might also look upon everyone we meet as unique as the creator intended.

The way of Law or Grace

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood…

begins Robert Frost’s famous poem, a favorite of mine: two roads, a choice to make.

…Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

And so ends the poem and I want to believe that I have taken the more difficult of the two: the path of grace rather than the law. I’ve come to realize by experience that one can have the Spirit of God (grace) or legalism (the Law) but never both. As one can only be on one path at a time you can never be living by grace and the law.

The path of law is smooth, broad and well traveled. The path of grace is narrow and there are some places that are not comfortable to the step.

It is harder to forgive, than it is to judge. Judgments are the stones that pave the path of the law, giving a sure foundation to all heavy loads. The path of forgiveness is a tangled way not clearly marked, but the flowers along this path are fragrant to the smell.

The pathway of grace is illuminated by the soft light of love. The love offered to the hurting, broken and lowly of this earth, a light that comes from giving love to those who never repay but with the demand of more. Easier to travel is the neon lined route of the law. Harsh neon that falsely makes the dark appear to be day. Powered by hate the light burns away the soft layers of natural light.

All is not bleak on the trail of grace for those along the way are known for their inclusion and help offered to all the weary travelers met along the way. A merry rag-tagged band of brothers are we. The way of law is a interstate, of fast moving sedans with only seats for a chosen few. Diesel fuming buses filled with those who think alike, sitting up straight, looking at the countryside through dark tinted windows.

Road-weary pilgrims along the path of grace know that it is harder to engage, than it is to ignore, harder to share, than it is to hold, harder to accept, than it is to reject, harder to welcome, than it is to walk away. Many started out on the Highway of Law but it just didn’t seem right and we have returned retracing our steps humbled. But we are refreshed by streams of living water bubbling up along this path. Tall trees shade our way and a cool breeze of the Spirit’s wind is at our back.

It is harder to live in grace, than it is to live in the law.

…Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Dancing in the Dark

Dancing in the moonlight the young man turned bent low and then spun quickly gracefully athletic. His joyous laughter pierced the still and silence of the night.

Approaching him along the shoreline a tall muscular three pieced suited gentleman, walking briskly, his steps in measured strides, his arms keeping time like a mechanical metronome.


The very proper and correct man broke his pace at the sight of the dancing, prancing silhouette in the moonlight. With hands firmly on hips and his suit jacket bulging at his chest he glared at the dancer. Not until he allowed his sight to adjust to the shadowing twilight did he see that the ritual dance had a purpose.

The dancer was picking up stranded starfish left behind by the receding tide to soon be baked up the rising of the sun. The starfish of many colors littered the beach as far as the eye could see.

Without hiding his contempt the watcher chided condescendingly, “What are you doing? What difference can saving a few starfish possibly make?”

Smiling with the innocence of a child the dancer sang while whirling but one more stranded starfish back into the deep. “It certainly makes a difference to this one!”

How are we as followers of Jesus the Christ to measure success? Are we to calculate by the multitudes, business models, and the lenses of modernity. Can a life spent in only making a difference to one be counted as a success?

Absent from the story are the familiar qualifications of success and measurements of progress. All that mattered was the dance and the “one” of the moment.

My point and purpose is not to attack large successful ministries nor to hold them up for examination but simplt to propose that the importance of the one is close to the heart of God. And those dancing in the dark may not be so out of step.

I have met some wary dancers – perhaps am one myself – who feel abandoned and diminished only due to their dancing the steps that the Spirit of God has put into their hearts. Their crime: caring more for the “one” than the organizational goals.

So, dancers in the dark, keep dancing even if only for the one. Keep dancing for if you slow down and lose the rhythm you may find your unique personality being trimmed to fit someone else’s mass-produced frame.

Post script:

Today I learned that one of the “ones” I hoped to throw to the deep was not thrown far enough and is trapped in the shallows with the heat of the full sun now bearing down.

J, may you find deep water and rest for your soul.

For when you feel powerless

We prayed earnestly that God would bless out land and would confound the machinations of the children of darkness. There had been so many moments in the past, during the dark days of apartheid’s vicious awfulness, when we had preached,” This is God’s world and God is in charge!”

Sometimes when evil seemed to be on the rampage and about to overwhelm goodness, one held onto this article of faith by the skin of one’s teeth. It was a kind of theological whistling in the dark and one was frequently tempted to whisper in God’s ear, “For goodness sake, why don’t you make it more obvious you are in charge!”

No Future Without Forgiveness
Desmond Tutu (page 4)

Tales From a Mis-Spent Youth

Today I leaned that it was Zappa tribute day.
Frank Vincent Zappa (December 21, 1940 – December 4, 1993 was an American composer, musician, and film director. In a career spanning more than 30 years, Zappa established himself as a prolific and highly distinctive composer, electric guitar player and band leader. He worked in almost every musical genre and wrote music for rock bands, jazz ensembles, synthesizers and symphony orchestra, as well as Musique concrète works constructed from pre-recorded, synthesized or sampled sources. In addition to his music recordings, he created feature-length and short films, music videos, and album covers.
Although he only occasionally achieved major commercial success, he maintained a highly productive career that encompassed composing, recording, touring, producing and merchandising his own and others' music. Zappa self-produced almost every one of the more than sixty albums he released with the Mothers of Invention or as a solo artist. He received multiple Grammy nominations and won for Best Rock Instrumental Performance in 1988 for the album Jazz from Hell
Politically, Zappa was a self-proclaimed "practical conservative", an avowed supporter of capitalism and independent business. He was also a strident critic of mainstream education and organized religion Zappa was a forthright and passionate advocate for freedom of speech and the abolition of censorship, and his work embodied his skeptical view of established political processes and structures. Although many assumed that he, like many musicians, used drugs, Zappa strongly opposed recreational drug use.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frank_zappa

And here is his classic “Don’t Eat the Yellow Snow” complete with a clever animation.

Giving an “A”

This is a start to a poor confession, as I am about to justify my actions, by inferring they came from Ken Blanchard. At a conference several years ago Ken Blanchard illustrated some point or another, and challenged, inspired, shocked me into action by affirming a deep-seated belief I held in just a few minutes of dialogue.

And what could he have possibly have said? Ken spoke of how he taught his business courses at Cornell University. You see on the first day of class Blanchard would hand out the final exam. Not to take, but for the purpose of informing the students what they would be required to know in advance.

The result was two-fold. Everyone gets an “A”; or at least they do if they use the exam in preparation and learn the answers. My understanding is that Blanchard is often in hot-water with other professors in his department. The other more important outcome…the students with the anxiety of “will this be tested” out of the way could actually learn something and begin to actively participate in the class discussions.

I took his practice to heart and during the last five years of my teaching middle-school geography and history basically gave the tests out ahead of time. I accomplished this by emailing a PowerPoint program consisting of 50 – 70 questions in an interactive format complete with background photos of the place, person, or event being quizzed.

Anyone who wanted to ace the exam simply needed to review the questions as many times as they needed. With that out of the way we were free to actually learn and enjoy our subject matter.

Oh, and if your wondering if I too got in hot water I nee to mention that I was also the headmaster of the school. So I was covered, if you know what I mean.

Actually, I think this was a very Christ-like thing to do. In Sunday school as I remember we were told to be like Jesus in everything we did. Or at least that is how I remember it. OK, I’m over reaching but stick with me.

Hasn’t God through Jesus given all of us an “A” already? It’s called grace. We have nothing to prove no test to pass; we are already given a passing grade. This does not mean we can live as we please any more than my students could.

But how about giving an A to everyone you meet. Face it, many if not all the people I’ve come into contact with make you prove your worth before you are accepted.

As I understand the culture several of Jesus followers, had been passed over by other rabbis, they were not deemed the best of the best. Jesus comes along and gives them an A to start with and they turned the world upside down. How about Matthew, Jesus gave him an A. The A was freeing and Matthew gave back to the people what he had extorted. Read through the encounters Jesus had in the gospels with the lens of giving an A. It’s sort of what he was about.

Who's the Illegal Immigrant, Pilgrim? (by Randy Woodley)

Rev. Randy Woodley is a Keetoowah Cherokee Indian teacher, lecturer, poet, activist, pastor he wrote the following at God’s Politics. Thought it was worth the read

There seems to be much concern lately over the people being referred to as "illegal immigrants." Let's define our terms: "Immigrant" - somebody who has come to a country and settled there. "Illegal" - forbidden by law. Concern about illegal immigrants has a familiar ring to us Native Americans. We have been empathizing with those concerns for over half a millennium.
Let's see ...Were the first immigrants to America illegal? By every definition - yes! But perhaps if they had a good reason it makes their trespass less offensive. What of their motives? The stated intent of some of the earliest European settlers in America was first to establish military superiority over the inhabitants and then "civilize" them by assimilating them into their form of government and converting them to a foreign religion. Such was the case in the earliest American colonies: From the First Charter of Virginia, April 10, 1606..."[we] may in time bring the Infidels and Savages, living in those parts, to human Civility, and to a settled and quiet Government."

And talk about attitude ... they even came expecting us to learn their language. For example, I always thought, if you come to Cherokee country, you should speak Cherokee.

Click here for the rest of the article

A Memory

I have watched this speech every year for as long as I can remember. Now that we do not have cable I picked it up on youtube.

Thanksgiving Prayer

Thanks to Thee, O God, that I have risen today,
to the rising of this life itself;
may it be to Thine own glory,
O God of every gift, and to the glory, aid Thou my soul.
With the aiding of Thine own mercy,
even as I clothe my body with wool,
cover Thou my soul with the shadow of Thy wing.
Help me to avoid every sin,
And the source of every sin to forsake,
and as the mist scatters on the crest of the hills,
may each ill haze clear from my soul, O God.
~Thanksgiving Prayer - Irish
n

Illumination

My work day usually starts at 7:00am. We do this to get a couple of hours in before the sun gets really hot. I work with some fellows building custom home in the Florida Keys. Also the workday ends at 3:00pm and there is still a lot of day left for other activities.

So I am often sitting on the front porch tying up my boots. (Insert favorite Billy Madison quote: “I got my lunch packed up, my boots tied tight, I hope I don't get in a fight.” I actually think that on a regular basis.) Back to the front porch, sometimes I am a little early so I sit there and finish my second cup of coffee.

And lately the sun has slowly illuminated the world as I sit looking at the trees. Amazing thing about the morning sun, it is not like switching on the light in a house. The light comes softly, on tiptoes. One doesn’t really notice unless you are actually paying attention to it. Several times this past week, I realized that when I sat down it was dark and then as I got up it was light.

For several mornings now I have paid attention to the slow, steady illumination. Try as I might I can not perceive the light only notice the change by comparing it to the previous minute. Now this may be due to my lack of focus, but I really think it is the nature of morning light.

It has also struck me that this is how God has operated in my life. Time after time, I observe that I recognize more of his light but can not really elaborate upon the process of change it just happens. As the Sun’s morning light appears almost inconceivably thus has God revealed himself to me.

Today is my birthday. I am officially 54 years old.

Lord, let this feast of my birth be a reminder to me of all the gifts and blessings I have received from You this day and all the days of my life. On this my day of birth, I thank you for my life and all of my blessings and ask for another year filled with Your presence in my life that I may continue to grow in your love and grace.

Some thoughts:

Age is a high price to pay for maturity.
- Tom Stoppard

Growing old is like being increasingly penalized
for a crime you have not committed.
- Anthony Powell

The man who views the world at fifty the same as he did at twenty has wasted thirty years of his life.
- Muhammad Ali

With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come.
William Shakespeare

There are three hundred and sixty-four days when you might get un-birthday presents ... and only one for birthday presents, you know.
~Lewis Carroll

The best birthdays of all are those that haven't arrived yet.
~Robert Orben

No wise man ever wished to be younger.
~Jonathan Swift

Old age has always been 15 years older than I am.

Age doesn't matter, unless your cheese, wine, or something left in Tupperware at the back of the fridge

And in closing:

"So you see, old age is really not so bad. May you come to know the condition! "
-- Cicero

Church of the Open No Doors

At the end of his life, Van Gogh painted a church without a door. I believe this is a apt representation of the struggle and frustration many of my friends are experiencing. They cannot find a way into the faith in God they once had. They are no longer welcome with the faith God has given them.

(Van Gogh was a minister for a while, known for his compassion for Belgian miners.)

Church At Auvers

Remembrance

In Flanderes Field the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark our place, and in the sky
The lark, still bravely singing flies,
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow;
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders Field.

Take up the quarrel with the Foe.
To you, from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die,
We shall not sleep, tho' poppies grow
In Flanders Field.

How Could I have Been So Wrong

Peter Rollins author of How (Not) to Speak of God tells a joke to describe the predicament of the church caught in modernity.

“There is an old anecdote in which a mystic and evangelical pastor and a fundamentalist preacher die on the same day and awake to find themselves by the pearly gates. Upon reaching the gates they are promptly greeted by Peter, who informs them that before entering heaven they must be interviewed by Jesus concerning the state of their doctrine.
The first to be called forward is the mystic, who is quietly ushered into a room. Five hours later the mystic reappears with a smile, saying, ‘I thought I had got it all wrong.’
Then Peter signals to the evangelical pastor, who stands up and enters the room. After a full day had passed the pastor reappears with a frown and says to himself, ‘How could I have been so foolish!’
Finally Peter asks the fundamentalist to follow him. The fundamentalist picks up his well-worn Bible and walks into the room. A few days pass with no sign of the preacher, then finally the door swings open and Jesus himself appears, exclaiming, ‘How could I have got it all so wrong!’

Taking into consideration the presupposition that there are many followers of Jesus – more than we might realize, why insist that everyone be as we/you are, at the same place on the journey, having had the same experiences, responding in the same style. This insistence escorts one to become a Christian Pharisee.

Exclusiveness and excluding arise from a desire for purity; a false sense, I might add. Christian Phariseism, as I would characterize it, is a consequence of a distorted passion for theological purity. The corollary follows similar logic as using ethnic cleansing to achieve racial purity.

Does our journey of faith bring us to wholeness through Jesus and his atonement or by acknowledging theological formulas (or non- --formulas.

In cycles, it seems circles are drawn, boundaries established and edits are issued revealing who is and who isn’t a “true” follower/teacher/leader of Jesus. The circle drawers – whoever they are, remind me of Dostoevsky’s Grand Inquisitor.

Fyodor Dostoevsky in his chapter entitled "The Grand Inquisitor” envisions Jesus returning to sixteenth century Spain. Jesus is not only unwelcome by church authorities but arrested and imprisoned.

The Grand Inquisitor, representing the voice of this misguided church, interrogates Jesus in his prison cell. He speaks to Christ with superiority referring to theological creeds and moral codes concludes: “We have corrected Your work.”

Though no one might be so bold to speak these words; actions of excluding those who think, dress, associate with the wrong people, question, enjoy and generally disrupt the status quo are either programmed into this corrected work or pushed outside of the circle.

Counseling Tips 101

Alternative title: Things I wish I had Known.

Literaly Speaking

My summers in the late 70’s and early 80’s were spent with a small construction crew building concrete homes in the Florida Keys. One hot, sticky August afternoon, we were tying steel on a 1^st floor slab. Three of us: Nick, a college student, and Jim, a full-timer were all laboring together in the humidity of a tropical summer; we were fairly good friends. And as friends do, we kidded among ourselves.

Nick had a great sense of humor, if a wee bit naive. I had known him for several years; he had attended the school where I taught and had played on the basketball team I coached during his time in high school.

Jim and I often partnered together in pulling gags on Nick. It was “harmless” amusement to help pass the day. Harmless, unless we ribbed Nick too far, then we would pay for our indiscretions. Rarely, did Nick verbally pay us back; so he would resort to physical abuse. He was very strong, if we pushed him too far Nick would hold us above his head and spin around and around. It became a game for Jim and me. The game was to tease Nick until he threatened you with a spin but you lost if he actually did it.

Back to the afternoon in August, we were tying steel on a slab 12 – 15 feet above the ground when Jim asked Nick to “Hop on down and get me a (tool)” A very normal request for a carpenter to give to a laborer.

Nick responded with a crisp and loud, “Yes, sir!” Then he began to hop – and continued hopping – with a big silly grin, until he disappeared over the edge of the building.

Jim gasped and turned white, as we both ran to the edge of the overhang. There was Nick laughing, lying on a huge pile of sand that he knew would break his fall. Finally, Nick had pulled one over on Jim.

For a long time after that Jim would tell Nick not to take him so literally and was a little more cautious in what he said. But I’ve been thinking lately about literalism. Literalism has a bad rap among some writers I read, and people I consider friends, particularly in the online emerging conversation.

But I wonder, if we took some of what Jesus, Paul, Peter, James and the other NT writers said literally would there be a sand pile to catch us?

I’m sure you see where I’m going here. For some literalism is emphasizing that the Bible is literally inerrant, not only in matters of faith and practice, but also in terms of being a literal historical record. I grew up with such teachings and for most of my life never really considered any other possibility.

What I am concerned about is that literalism has since been expanded, by analogy, to refer to a variety of religious, political, and ideological positions. The limitations of such readings have alienated many people who would otherwise remain part of the church.

Recently there has been an interesting discussion regarding inerrancy over at the CRM blog. (Here is a LINK , also check out the three-part interview with Dan Wallace)

But I have been thinking that perhaps we are not taking scripture literally enough. We certainly look as crazy as Nick hopping off the edge of a building when we forgive. You know take literally the 70 x 7 thing. Or maybe something easier, perhaps performing our good works to glorify our Father rather than ourselves. Or stepping in faith out to pray for someone’s healing.

Taking scripture literally for some is about six-24 hour days of creation or a garden, tree, and a snake. That’s fine, but I wonder if we should be more literal about trusting in an unwavering non-logical love of a Father who is calling us home and has a robe, ring, and a great party planned no matter how we have squandered the family’s money, and telling all the other prodigals that Dad isn’t mad at us.

And when I hop off the ledge believing God wants me to bring peace or healing, or a just a meal to help point a brother or sister home, don’t be alarmed, I know where the sand piles are located.

Defense or “De-Bench”

Twenty-five seasons as a high school basketball coach at a small Christian school in the Florida Keys often colors my ponderings as I seek to understand my own journey of faith.

Hopefully you will stick around and endure this gristly old coach’s ramblings, even if Sports Center is not part of your daily ritual. And for those who do not recognize the name Dick Vitale, translations will be provided.

Basketball coaches seem fond of inspirational clichés. One of my favorite basketology phrases was “defense or DE-BENCH”. My players, of course, understood and quickly learned what I valued and knew that “P.T.” (translation: playing time ) depended upon both their desire and ability to play defense.

You see, after being pounded by schools in Miami, during my first two seasons, I decided that I no longer wished to be the “cupcake” on everyone’s schedule. (Cupcake: bet you figured that one out on your own.) Not only was most of our competition 2 - 3 times larger in enrollment; our kids’ hands were more comfortable with a fishing pole than a round ball.

We needed a edge. I decided we would play defense: hard-nose, in your face, full body contact, man-to-man defense. Our kids bought into the concept. They did not like being thought of as the “Little Sisters of the Poor” either. (translation: synonym for cupcake)

Not only did we play defense well; during the early 80’s no other team in our division played man, so they were not practicing how to overcome this particular brand of defense. Our edge and a source of pride was defense. Talented squads who averaged 70 plus points a night, struggled to break 50 against us. Sounds great, but we also struggled to score; even against the girl’s team, we couldn’t break 50. Consequently, we felt better about ourselves but still lost more than we won.

Modifying our philosophy resulted in a district championship and over 100 wins to only about 20 losses. We were still tough defensively, but we also learned to put the ball in the hoop. (Not to mention, that we had a few athletes who actually had skills, speed and the ability to dunk. Translation: good stuff)

Now what can all this possibly have to do with a post-charismatic emerging fellow? Let me introduce myself; I began going to church nine-months before I was born. I knew all the stories, memorized large portions of scripture, and understood basic theological terms and concepts; even delivered a few sermons – all before puberty. Scripture was paramount and only Jesus came in a close second. Miracles? Healings? Sure God could, I knew all the omni’s; but he didn’t any more; we had the complete canon. There was no need for anything more.

Holy Spirit, yea, had all the stats; fully God, part of the Trinity, part of what the Pastor said at Baptisms and our quarterly Communion service. Gifts, no, did not know about that, and tongues, oh, no, not that!

I was part of a “defensive” minded team, uh, I mean church. We defended the faith. We were the defenders of the faith. In fact, our defense was offensive. To use another basketball cliché: “Offense wins games, but DEFENSE wins championships.” And we were out to win the greatest championship of all time: souls. I recall that the theological cliché I was brought up on was “rightly dividing the word of truth”. There was none of that emotional, experiential “offense” for us, no sir.

My apologetics were tough and agile as a full court press. (translation: defense on steroids) During the many years of basketball defeats, I took comfort in “moral victories”. Very much like in the church and Bible College I attended. We were suffering for Jesus, as we and we alone, were defenders of the truth. My wide-margined Schofield Bible was thoroughly underlined and cross-referenced to handle any argument, cowering pagans and C&E Christians alike. (translation: C&E: Christmas and Easter only)

Offensive basketball is fun. It’s fun to shoot; even more if the ball goes in the hole. How many kids have you seen in a driveway practicing defensive slides, getting over picks, boxing out and practicing taking a charge? (Translation: Just some basketball stuff you won’t see unless a coach is there to require it.) On the contraire, kids are practicing the “J”, dunking or lowering the hoop so they can. Fancy dribbling and sleek passing is all the rage. It’s hip, cool and simply more fun.

Going down to the river and meeting the Holy Ghost bartender is also fun. But it’s not either/or; how about a little of both/and. During my coaching tenure, we usually met a team or two that was only offensively minded. Their defense was “matador” style. (Their defense consisted of waving at you as they stepped aside, for those who are not ESPN addicts.) They could care less if you scored; they just wanted the ball back. So what if we scored 90; they scored 110. All would go great for the offense-only-team until tournament time, when a balanced team who could score and play defense sent them home to await next season.

The bottom line is this. In basketball both offense and defense are necessary. Some players are better at scoring, ball handling, passing; and others excel at rebounding, shot blocking and cutting off the baseline. There are players who thrive on the defensive aspects, others on scoring, but all must play both ends of the court in sync and harmony with their teammates. Sounds a little like what Paul had to say about the body of Christ in I Corinthians 12.

With honor and respect to God-fearing and God-loving teachers, pastors, and fellow travelers who hold doctrine, scripture and faith alone central, please understand, I value your care, concern and your pouring into my life the love of God’s word. My faith in Jesus Christ came through your ministering. All the same, I’m reminded of a player who won’t shoot, doesn’t want to shoot, really does not even want the ball. As a coach, when I spotted you, we would leave you unguarded, sort of watch you with one eye, and double down on the star. We upset many better squads employing this technique. Perhaps that is part of the reason the new generation avoids your places of worship. You’re playing only on one end of the court. You seem content just to defend the faith. Would anyone play or much less watch if the teams never shot at all, even denying there was a basket?

And now with apology to my spirit-led, wading in the river, glory-cloud, gold tooth filled, oil dripping from their palms, friends. It’s time to “D-up” or in non-basketball lingo: scripture is profitable, all scripture, rightly divide it. Ok, so who are you in my basketball heaven analogy? Try “and1” (translation: street ball, high-flying and high-fiving with a DJ and a lot of bass; extremely experiential always looking for the new moves)

Consider this description of streetball from Wikipedia:

While the rules of Streetball are essentially/theoretically the same as normal basketball, Streetball places a higher emphasis on one-on-one matchups between the offense and defender. Often the attacker will perform numerous flashy moves while attempting to drive to the basket, including crossovers, jab steps, and other fake-out tricks. Streetball often features spectacular dunks and alley oops, impressive ball handling, and trash talking. Also featured in streetball are moves. A move is either used to trick the defender to look away, or just to confuse. There are many different moves in the streetball world. Rules vary widely from court to court. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Streetball)

Substitute a few words with pastor or worship leader and change the basketball terms to current church jargon and I see an apt description of the hype and charismania many are also rejecting.

Returning to basketolgy, let’s play both ends of the court. Our choice is not between “full-court press and run and gun” (translation: “run and gun” being only offensive minded, score as quickly as possible) You don’t choose whichever The Word or the Spirit; it is not either/or but both/and.

Currently my own journey and those with whom I am in community with are “practicing” how to play on both ends of the court. The game of basketball is enjoyed by many because it is fluid and equally mixes offense and defense and everyone gets to participate. My community is attempting to develop the same fluid motion and integration between the love and knowledge of God’s word mixed with the joy of the Spirit of God as a basketball coach stresses “transition” by his team. (last translation: “transition” the change between offense to defense or defense to offense; when it is seamless and apparently immediate there is great success on the court)

An "and1" video for those who are unfamiliar with the culture:

Message from Bob Dylan

Imagine walking into your local library, planning to read a theologian such as Reinhold Niebuhr or Karl Barth – or even a best-seller by Jim Wallis or James Dobson.

But instead of finding such important and popular titles, you discover that the religion section has been decimated – stripped of any book that did not appear on a government-approved list.
That's exactly what's happening right now to inmates in federal prisons under a Bush administration policy. As The New York Times put it, "chaplains have been quietly carrying out a systematic purge of religious books and materials that were once available to prisoners in chapel libraries."

The news reports seem implausible. The idea of government bureaucrats drafting a list of approved books on religion seems like something out of Soviet-era Russia, not the United States of America, where freedom of religion – even for those behind prison walls – is something we treasure.

But the reports are true. All of the books and authors named above have been removed from prison libraries. In some instances, according to the Times, chaplains have been forced to dismantle "libraries that had thousands of texts collected over decades, bought by the prisons, or donated by churches and religious groups."

To make matters worse, the contents of the "approved" list are extremely capricious. For example, "80 of the 120 titles on the list for Judaism are from the same Orthodox publishing house," and the list for Christianity "lack[s] materials from early church fathers, liberal theologians and major Protestant denominations."

The Bureau of Prisons says they merely want to ensure prisons are not recruiting grounds for terrorists and other militant groups. So why are they removing the vast majority of materials on faith and religion? And if prisoners are not free to pursue their own faith journeys, what cause for hope should they have?

Christians from across the political and theological spectrum are justifiably outraged. As Mark Earley, president and chief executive officer of Chuck Colson's Prison Fellowship, told the Times, "It's swatting a fly with a sledgehammer. There's no need to get rid of literally hundreds of thousands of books that are fine simply because you have a problem with an isolated book or piece of literature that presents extremism."

Stand up for inmates' religious freedom – demand an end to censorship in prison libraries!

Want to do something?

Click here to tell the Bureau of Prisons to stop censoring prison libraries.

The above report is from Sojourners

Sources:

"Prisons Purging Books on Faith From Libraries," New York Times, 9/10/07.

"2 New York prisoners sue to get their banned religious books back," Associated Press, 8/22/07.

Thoughts on Prayer

Three minutes left in the fourth quarter, a 12 point lead has shrunk to 6. Fatigue is setting in as confidence leaks out.

“Time-out!”

I haven’t watched ESPN in vain; I know when to stop the bleeding. Dickie V. would approve.

The players hustle to the sideline, frustration evident in their posture and countenance. They each take a seat while teammates get water and towels and form a shell separating us from the court and bedlam erupting in the gym applauding the home team’s comeback.

Now what should happen is that five sets of eyes focus on mine as I renew confidence, infuse courage, and give instruction.

Instead the players talk, accuse, blame, justify and in a word: blather.
At times like this I have learned to become silent – adding my voice to the din would only add to the disorder.

Sometimes my silence is realized – perhaps felt – and the players become silent. Though I feel a strong compulsion to speak rapidly both to scold and quickly instruct and save the day; I have learned from hard lessons to remain quiet. Even after they settle down. Five seconds become ten, an enormous sacrifice in a time-out period strictly limited to 60 seconds. Leaving me only time for a single sentence; perhaps only an encouragement, I might simply say, “We are all-right, play our game, Defense!”

Reminds me of my prayers, I am full of words, blame, excuses.
“Do something God, aren’t you in charge!” As I continue to blather on and on doing all the talking – accusing, blaming, justifying – at the end comes my “amen” like the officials whistle and command of “Get them out here, coach”. Maybe God like a seasoned coach is silent, awaiting my attentiveness. Perhaps I should seek his eye rather than the sound of my own voice. Is God’s silence simply his awaiting my listening, my attentiveness?

I have recently been considering the following description of prayer:

Prayer is to listen attentively
to the One
who addresses us
in the here and now.

Making the Invisible Visible

“A magician makes the visible invisible.
A mime makes the invisible visible.”

Marcel Marceau, the master of mime who transformed silence into poetry with lithe gestures and pliant facial expressions that spoke to generations of young and old, has died. He was 84.
Wearing white face paint, soft shoes and a battered hat topped with a red flower, Marceau breathed new life into an art that dates to ancient Greece. He played out the human comedy through his alter-ego Bip without ever uttering a word.
Offstage, he was famously chatty. "Never get a mime talking. He won't stop," he once said.
A French Jew, Marceau escaped deportation to a Nazi death camp during World War II, unlike his father who died in Auschwitz. Marceau worked with the French Resistance to protect Jewish children, and later used the memories of his own life to feed his art.

Talk Like a Pirate

News you can use: today is International Talk Like a Pirate Day. According to the Daily Telegraph, you must:

Growl - and scowl often. Pirates don't use a cultured, elegant, smooth vocalization - they mutter and growl.

Gesture with your hands frequently. Don't forget that pirates do most of their talking on the deck of a ship - out on the ocean, where wind, waves, and bird calls make it tough to hear. Gesturing often gives you a sense of "being there."

Run words together. Saying, "The boys and I were out for a lovely day on the water today" sounds like something you'd overhear at a yacht club. Instead, try, "Me'n'these here scurvy scallywags drug our sorry keesters out t'th'ship'n'had us a grand great adventuaaarrr! We almost had t'keelhaul Mad Connie f'r gettin inter th' grog behind our backs!" Note that you should always endeavour to call the addressee by some insulting name, usually involving an animal. "Yer a scurvy bilge rat, ya pompous gasbag" or "Here's yer dinner, ya mangy cockroach."

Prayer

May there be peace within you today.
May you trust God that you are exactly
where you are meant to be.
May you not forget the infinite possibilities
that are born of faith.
May you use those gifts that you have received,
and pass on the love that has been given to you.
May you be content knowing
you are a child of God.
Let His presence settle into your bones,
and allow your soul the freedom to sing, dance,
and to bask in the sun.

I Was a Teenage Sadducee

Yes, the title is a little cheesy, ok, a lot cheesy, and presently I will get to the how and why but first some historical perspective.

The Sadducees, mentioned in the gospels, were regarded the smallest by some historians of five social groups in Palestine during the early first century. The Pharisees, Zealots, Essenes, and Gentiles/Pagans make up the other divisions. Though small in number, they were the real power in the region. (If one does not consider how they were under the thumb and discretion of the Roman occupation.) The Sadducees controlled the Temple – the place of worship. Additionally 60 plus seats of the 70 member Sanhedrin legislative court were controlled by the Sadducees. Thus, they had both the political and religious systems under their authority and control.

Today they would be considered conservative in their politics, religion, and manner of life. They took the Torah literally, “if it was good enough for Moses” might have been the response to those who brought in the Psalms or Prophets. They believed that God had not revealed himself in any writings after Moses. They certainly did not accept the oral traditions of their rival Pharisees.


The strictness of their faith did not necessarily carry over to daily life; for the Sadducees were Hellenistic. They had accepted the Greek way of life with its emphases on the physical and intellect. An extra-Biblical account relates that once the Temple could not be opened for evening prayers due to the priest and workers all being at the gymnasium watching the wrestling matches. There world-view was certainly more Greek than Hebrew. Finally they were more prosperous by rule and used their position in society to curry favor from the occupying Romans.

Growing up in a some what fundamentalist church, I became fluent in most Bible stories and dispensational doctrines, by Jr. High, due to a well-organized and structured Sunday school and Jr. Church program. The church was fairly large, I suppose, for the early 60’s as we had two classes for each grade level, divided boys and girls. The dozen or so fellows in my class had been together since diapers.

Occasionally we would have a substitute teacher, obliviously pulled at the last minute from an adult Bible class. By Jr. High we had several well-developed routines for these well-meaning but unprepared sacrificial lambs…er…I mean volunteers.

The Sunday school superintendent must have had a standard pitch on what to teach while walking the “fresh-meat” down the corridor to our classroom. “Just ask them who or what their favorite Bible story or character is and go from there.” Since they all began that way, we knew our parts perfectly. Though we would improvise with each new encounter, the pattern was the same.

After hearing the usual and expected: Moses, David and Goliath, Noah and the flood, the feeding of the Five Thousand, either I or my pal David would say our favorite was either the Philistines or the Sadducees depending whether we wanted to go New or Old Testament. Subtly we would hook the teacher and reel him in. Of course, they simply wanted to get through the hour and also be a nice guy and that added to the tangled mess we could create.


We actually knew a little about either group – definitely more than any adult who had been conned or guilt-tripped into having a go with us.
As mentioned above, the Sadducees, as the ruling elite of society, the Temple and Sanhedrin held both religious power and political control in their hands. They had deftly separated the religious duty from every day activities. The Sadducees in practice did not let their religion interfere with the important stuff – like making money, gaining popularity, and controlling others.

Yes, I need someday to repent from my pleasure of tying the tongues of our substitutes as we became excited to also exert power over the congregation, have wealth, and find favor with political leaders just like the leaders of our church. We knew enough and were smooth enough of speech to twist scripture and make the Sadducees ones to be followed.

But more importantly is the repentance for also separating my life into compartments isolating my walk of faith from my interactions with those I rubbed shoulders with every day. Little did I realize that I was doing that in High School (and through most of my adult life). What we had said in juvenile jest had become the reality of my life. At school I was just a good kid who never got into trouble but a little like Ferris Buller knew and for a price could arrange things for you..

Two days prior to graduation from High School our schools tradition was to have a catered dinner for all of the seniors. No underclassmen or alumni were allowed. Additionally, the custom was upheld for that one evening that couples did not relate in that exclusive manner typically of High School. On this one amazing night social walls came down and everyone and anyone talked and hung out. It was surreal, almost mystical. Later that evening, after the meal, I found myself at a home with 20 or so of my classmates, none whom I had ever really hung-out with before.

Sitting in an alcove, away from the party, five fellows engaged in conversation. Two I sot of knew since we had been school friends back in seventh grade, and the other two I had had classes with during the three high school years and had “helped” with various school matters. Joe, who was literally “the big-man on campus”, began to tell us how he had come to know Jesus Christ as his personal savior two weeks before at some youth revival.

He was excited to be sharing with us his new faith and wanted us to know Jesus also. And to my surprise the fellow next to me said he was also a Christian and regularly went to a particular Baptist Church. I still remember the look on Joe’s face, something between surprise and disappointment. Well to bring the story to a close, each of us in turn admitted we knew Jesus and were involved in various youth groups. Not only involved, but each of us was considered a leader. Our conversations lead us to apologize to Joe and later to each other as we realized that we had missed the opportunity to live in community with each other as Christian brothers.

A few days, Eric my personal trainer – or construction boss - asked me if I knew what a Haiku was. After giving a definition, and a few jokes, I suggested we only speak in haiku to each other. I basically accomplished that. As written before it helped me achieve a particular goal in life, presently.
But it also reminded me of this quote by Matsuo Bashō

Matsuo Bashō 1644 –1694 was the most famous poet of the Edo period in Japan. During his lifetime, Bashō was renowned for his works in the collaborative haikai no renga form; today, he is recognized as a master of brief and clear haiku.

Do not seek
to follow
in the footsteps
of the men of old;
seek
what they sought.

Almost Cut My Hair

Almost cut my hair
It happened just the other day
It's gettin kinda long
I coulda said it wasn't in my way
But I didn't and I wonder why
I feel like letting my freak flag fly
Cause I feel like I owe it to someone

David Crosby Almost Cut My Hair

Humility

tiptoed, reaching
striving for the hidden
straining, jumping
for the higher shelf

found a stool
brought a ladder
hidden just out of reach
the object I desire

a slip, a tumble
quite a fall
down on my back
looking at the bottom sill

What I sought
What I seek
always accessible
On the bottom ledge


Humble yourselves therefore
under the mighty hand of God,
that he may exalt you in due time;
1 Peter 5:6 (ASV)

A Paper Compass

During the summer of 1980, I had a job with a small construction crew building custom concrete homes in the Florida Keys. Except for me, on summer break from my sixth grade teacher position, everyone else was a “boat-person”


Now a Florida Keys boat person was not a refugee from Southeast Asia, but someone who probably lived aboard a boat and worked some each year to acquire rations for a several month voyage among the Bahamian Islands. Several of the fellows I worked beside were captains, all were extremely talented craftsmen.

Due to this nautical background much of the Cave Man Construction culture and lingo involved terms more suited to a boat and sailing than a construction site. Or at least I thought so.

As the only “landlubber” I occasionally stumbled over terms used in connection with projects I was assigned. How was I to know which side of the building was leeward? And tell me, would you know how to shave an eight of an inch off the port side of a sheet of from plywood?

Randy the chief caveman often gave directions to locations within a building based on cardinal directions. For example, “Stack the plywood over on the northeast overhang.” My bewilderment and frustrated attempts to remember where true north was in reference to any of a half-dozen building sites prompted him to assist me with a visual aid one afternoon.

I suppose after tiring from hearing my “where”, Randy drew a large compass rose on the second-story concrete slab with a piece of keel. (This is also a nautical term used for a fat kindergarten crayon. Guess calling it a crayon is too wimpy for a caveman.)

As my good fortune would have it, I had a scrap of paper. Diligently I copied the compass, just as Randy had drawn it. Randy looked up and saw what I was doing. He looked puzzled, and with a frown said nothing.

It took about two weeks before my opportunity presented itself. Randy gave me another compass direction and he was in a fair mood and I was not with anyone else. This time I was prepared, better than a boy scout. I wiped out my paper compass, unfolded it with flair, and located south-east.

Randy, drop-jawed, did not know if he should laugh or scream. I had made my point – I just did not understand the directions when given in the language of a sailor.

Many people I know have written down paper compasses in order to help them spiritually, in order to have a relationship with God. The paper compass could be a list of rules, or obeying a particular teacher of tradition. More likely it is subtle unspoken but intuitively know by the members of the group. Some pick up a paper compass due to the language that is spoken, in an effort to fit in.

Sometimes I can tell when a person follows a paper compass. Many Christians do you know. You see they insist that they are correct and questioning is not allowed. Speaking the “truth in love,” to any who begin to veer off course of their true north.


I have been handed paper compasses many times during my passage through the Institutional Church globe. Modernism infused my schooling, both religious and secular. Having an answer for every one and situation was not only possible but required. My compass pointed to absolute truth. My dilemma came as I met others who had paper compasses that pointed to different absolute truths.

As a Bible college student in the early 70’s, my paper compass pointed to the true north of evangelism. “Are you going to Heaven when you die?” Which was replaced with Evangelism Explosion in the 80’s? We had the best paper compasses, or so we were told. Apologetics and winning the lost was all that mattered. I remember one of my college roommates challenging my other roommate, who usually spent his afternoon at the beach and me with the question: “How may did you win today, I got five.” But alas, this compass pointed only to the north of argument, could we convince, out reason, sell Jesus and heaven to any stranger we might meet.

Legalism in all its rigidness and pride became my next paper compass. Godliness could be obtained by keeping the rules, but whose rules and which ones?

So what is my compass now? I no longer hold one. I seek to follow instead a guide. I seek to hear my Father’s voice through the Holy Spirit.

But the helper, the Holy Spirit,
whom the Father will send in my name,
He will teach you all things,
and bring to your remembrance
all that I said to you.
John 14 26

Might As Well

Might As Well

I’ve been told that about the doorway from the Phoenix Suns locker room is a sign that says:

The Game is scheduled

We have to play.

We might as well win!

The phrase “might as well” is speaking to me.

I might as well live…

… covered by grace casting aside the cloak of shame…

because the grace of our Lord was poured out on me abundantly, along with the faith and love that are in Christ Jesus. (1)

… forgive, humbled by love, forgiven so I can forgive…

because as the Lord forgave me I can bear with others and forgive whatever grievances I may have against you (2)

… healed and becoming whole, physically, emotionally, socially, environmentally…

because I called to you O LORD my God, for help and you healed me. Jesus was pierced for my transgressions, he was crushed for my iniquities; the punishment that brought me peace was upon him, and by his wounds I am healed. (3) (4)

… as a conqueror, rather than as vanquished under the weight of daily toil.

because in all thee things I can overwhelmingly conquer through Jesus who loved me. (5)

… as a child of the king, instead of a ragamuffin in the alley of life

Because I am blessed by the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed me with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places in Christ. (6)

… embrace the mystery, giving up my necessity of figuring it all out…

because he has made known to us the mystery of his will according to his good pleasure, which he purposed in Christ. (7)

… know a father’s love, no longer cold and alone …

because great is the love the Father has lavished on me, that I should be called child of God! And that is what I am! (8)

… Might as well!

(1) 1 Timothy 1:14
(2) Colossians 3:13
(3) Psalm 103:3
(4) Isaiah 53:5
(5) Romans 8:37
(6) Ephesians 1:3
7) Ephesians 1:9
(8) 1 John 3:1

knees

my name spoken
to a oak-wood floor
before I was
and now that I am
their voice now silent
but heard still

knobs, my inheritance
once my seat
forever a strength
too soon
gone
a memory felt

Husband, Child, or Something In-between

As a thirteen year-old in 1966, I had the unique pleasure and opportunity to travel throughout Europe for nine weeks during the summer.

The first three weeks were spent in England, Germany and Switzerland with my parents. My mother was in her mid-forties and my father 56 when I was born. As a result, I was along for the travel they had saved for and following the middle class American dream then accomplished during retirement. This European trip had been a lifelong dream of my mothers. Everything was top drawer, first class.

The remaining six weeks were a complete reversal. I traveled with my 27 year old sister. We literally saw Europe on “five dollars a day”. We had a Eurarail pass and slept on trains, or in Youth Hostels, and walked if we could not get free transportation.

In some level of logic my mother believed that it would be safe or perhaps safer for my sister to travel with me. Looking back I realize what a burden a thirteen year old must have been. But what were my parents thinking!

During our travels my sister often passed me off as twelve in order to receive a child discount. You might imagine how this went over with me; I was thirteen! Then in the evenings I would need to pass as fourteen to stay in the youth hostels where we usually slept. No one ever checked identification back then. A green USA passport cover was all you needed to move effortlessly. If my ever changing age wasn’t confusing enough, in Italy people mistook me for her child. Often used to our advantage to acquire seats on the very crowded trains. However, in Scandinavia I was mistaken for her husband.

Needless to say, I had identity problems. My identity was shaped primarily by the strong influence of my authority – my sister, and the environment where I found myself: the hostel, a museum, Scandinavia…

It is simple now to see how my adapting benefited myself, during this adventure. First in order to please my sister I went along with what she said. This also relived me of any responsibility. At least to my 13 year old mind it did. She was the authority figure, later in hostel I just wanted to get along, fit in.

In the hostels, my sister and I were separated into male/female sections, often dormitory style. I would find myself among the drifters, twenty-something or so years old who had dropped out of Western cultural expectations and were already the unnamed hippie culture. Alone in this totally foreign culture this white-bread American boy adopted my identity be accepted. Again, I ask what my parents were thinking. Several times my new friends would bring me along on there evening adventures. I am sure that after 40 years the statute of limitations is up.

However, I am realizing that in my career with the institutions of Western American Christianity, I have equally been molded by authority figures to “be” what they needed me to be. Additionally I have given my consented all too freely, for the benefits which it produced.

I believe I have always bristled inside and somewhat passively resisted, even as I did when my sister passed me off as twelve to save a few Lira. My rebellion was bought off then with the rationalization and promise of a little meat with our daily meal of bread, cheese and water. It is not quite so simple to see what price has been my price from the Institutional Church.

Rather than walking in the assurance of my acceptance in Christ before God. Equipped with the Holy Spirit as my comforter and guide, I have juggled balls, spun plates on sticks all the while professing the accepted speech like a child’s doll with a pull-string.

Have It Your Way - Or Not

Farm workers who pick tomatoes for Burger King's sandwiches earn 40 to 50 cents for every 32-pound bucket of tomatoes they pick, a rate that has not risen significantly in nearly 30 years. Workers who toil from dawn to dusk must pick two tons of tomatoes to earn $50 in one day.
Worse yet, modern-day slavery has reemerged in Florida's fields; since 1997, the U.S. Department of Justice has prosecuted five slavery rings, freeing more than 1,000 workers. As a major buyer of Florida tomatoes, Burger King's purchasing practices place downward pressure on farm worker wages and put corporate profits before human dignity.

Click here to send a message to Burger King: "Farm workers deserve fair wages!"

Source: Sojourners Action Alerts June 24, 2007

Divine Intention: How God's Work in the Early Church Empowers Us Today

Recently I read Larry Shallenberger’s book Divine Intention. I am pleased to say that this book has wonderfully challenged me in my personal journey. I believe that God works in a way similar to the proverb:”when the student is ready the teacher will appear.”

I was the student and I was so ready for this book. In his introduction Larry says, “Christian character seems little more than a veneer of politeness used to lubricate the social exchanges that occur before and after services.” He had caught my attention and interest, though I wondered if this would be another of “what’s wrong with” books about the church. As Larry continued in his introduction relating his background, my heart was pricked. I too related as one who grew up in the church and still retained good memories and the hope that what I have experienced as an adult “full-time ministry” person was not all God had intended.

Further on I read, “This book you are holding is for those who love the church but have been deeply disappointed by it.” I have not been disappointed by the practical insights presented in the historical context of the first century Larry brings from the Book of Acts. Each chapter, able to stand alone, built a renewed desire to hear from God anew and continue my journey.

The conversation tone allowed me to imagine that I was in a dialogue with Larry. Often the very question that arose in my mind was addressed in the following paragraphs. I appreciated the non-formulaic approach and the pointing out a path to progress on rather than pushing a particular agenda.

At the end of the introduction Larry wrote, “My prayer is that this book will be evaluated not on the number of interesting facts unearthed regarding the first century church, but on its ability to spark small personal reformation in the quality of our love for God and our love for others.” Larry in my heart your prayer has been answered.

A Year and a Day

new born out of old
familiar yields, becomes adventure
take flight

change occurs slowly
then avalanche
take shelter

darkness succumbs to light
squint into the glare
take notice

forgotten, only a mist
recall as a dream
take memories

time is hasty
day-night flicker on a screen
take a breath

My Name is Michael

Growing up I lived in three distinct worlds: school, church, and the neighborhood. There was no crossover between them. I had separate friends in each location and a different social standing and reputation in each.

During my years of Jr. High – grades 7 through 9 – this was before middle school, I had three school friends, Pat a red-headed Irish kid, Steve who I don’t really remember too well, and Hammie. Hammie was the brightest of the group or at least he had the best grades. He and I had a similar sense of humor and I became closer to him than the others.

None of us really fit in with any of the other groups at school. We weren’t “cool” enough for the in-crowd and not “odd” enough for any of the out-crowd groups.

Each of us was in a different section – the way our school was arranged. You took all of your classes with the same group of 30 – 35 kids. There were 17 sections. However, we were all in the same level so we had the same teachers, lessons, assignments….This had been a bit overwhelming for me coming from an elementary where there was one class of each grade and all of my friends from there were in lower expectation sections. In other words they went to shop class I was prepared for college.

We ate lunch at the same time, which is probably where we met. Lost and lonely, we found refuge at a lunch table. And after several hundred lunches and running the halls between classes we became “school” friends. Occasionally I hung out with Pat on the weekend, since we lived near each other but other than school the four of us had little interaction.

Our jr. high and high school were basically on the same property but separated by acres of athletic fields. The move to the high school buildings for 10th grade was even more traumatic then the move from elementary to jr. high. Another jr. high about the same size joined at 10th grade and the size of the high school doubled. As I stumbled through the unfamiliar halls and classes where I did not know anyone, I was on the look-out for my jr. high buddies.

On the second or perhaps the third day, I spotted my old pal Hammie leaning against some lockers among several upper classmen.
“Hey, Hammie, How ya doin!”
He looked straight ahead, above me, beyond me. “My name is Michael”, he said without emotion or expression.
At 14 I was not the always aware of social situations. “Huh, ya, ok. Hey, Michael” …: as I cheerfully began to ask about his classes….
Sternly, but now with sadness in his eyes he spoke again.
“My name is Michael!” with a strong emphasis on the first syllable, “and you don’t know me.”

I then noticed his military fatigue jacket and the upper classmen who were dressed the same, and no one was smiling.

I stammered awkwardly and backed away, very confused. I thought a lot about our encounter over that day and for several days after. I realized that there were no longer any black kids in my classes anymore. My elementary school was 60 % black, but the high school was less than 10%.

I was confronted that year by the stream of racism, a cultural barrier that I was both unaware and unprepared. I discovered the ugly hand of prejudice that year. And I learned that not all divisions are desired but the pressures to maintain those divisions are unmovable. From time to time I saw my friend Michael. We learned the subtle acknowledgement of a head nod but never had another conversation.

I would say that I came to accept and function “where I belonged” but still never really understood. Here’s to you, Hammie.