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.