Pilgrim Notes

Reflections along the way.

Page 13 of 72

We Long for Justice

December 18, 2010 / / 1 Comment

Tonight the church will chant:

O Sacred Lord of ancient Israel, who showed yourself to Moses in the burning bush, who gave him the holy law on Sinai mountain: Come, stretch out your mighty hand to set us free.

The Lord delivered His people from the false lord Pharaoh. Not a true father, this Egyptian lord used laws to oppress and control the people. Instead of fathering the people like a true leader, he enslaved them like most leaders.

The true Lord, the true Father, the truly Just One came. He set His people free. He revealed His law to them and called them to walk in His way. The people did not walk in His way, but turned again and again to other ways that enslaved. Even Moses, the great prophet that spoke the Laws of the Lord failed to keep the whole law and could not enter the Promised Land.

Like the ancient Hebrews, we too walk in ways that enslave. We may rightly cry out and even act for justice in this world, but true justice, true freedom, true Shalom flows from the Just One.

Today, we are watching and waiting for the coming of the One who Just and Righteous and True.

And his delight shall be in the fear of the LORD.
He shall not judge by what his eyes see,
or decide disputes by what his ears hear,
but with righteousness he shall judge the poor,
and decide with equity for the meek of the earth;
and he shall strike the earth with the rod of his mouth,
and with the breath of his lips he shall kill the wicked.
Righteousness shall be the belt of his waist,
and faithfulness the belt of his loins.
(Isaiah 11:3-5 ESV)

As we watch and wait for the coming of the Just One, let us confess our frustrations, our own tendencies to question God’s goodness, God’s faithfulness, God’s justice. Denise Levertov’s poem, Psalm Fragments, may help us give voice to our own anguished longing:

Psalm Fragment

This clinging to a God
for whom one does
nothing.
A loyalty
without deeds.

*

Tyrant God.
Cruel God.
Heartless God.

God who permits
the endless outrage we call
History.

Deaf God.
Blind God.
Idiot God.

(Scapegoat god. Finally
running out of accusations
we deny Your existence.)

*
I don’t forget
that downhill street
of spilled garbage and beat up cars,
the gray faces
looking up, all color
gone with the sun–

disconsolate. prosaic twilight
at midday. And the fear
of blindness.

It’s harder to recall
the relief when plain
daylight returned

subtly, softly,
without the fuss
of trumpets.
Yet
our faces had been upturned
like those of gazers
into a sky of angels
at Birth or Ascension.

*
Lord, I curl in Thy grey
gossamer hammock
that swings by one
elastic threat to thin
twigs that could, that should
break but don’t.

*

I do nothing, I give You
nothing. Yet You hold me

minute by minute
from falling.

Lord You provide.

(From The Stream & the Sapphire, Denise Levertov, 21-23)

O Sapientia

December 17, 2010 / / 7 Comments

Today the church shifts from looking forward to remembering the coming of Christ into the world, into a family, into a manger. Over the next seven nights, the church across the ages joins in the “O Antiphons” prayers and chants, longing for and looking toward the birth of Christ. (For those unfamiliar with O Antiphons, the hymn “O Come, O Come Emmanuel” follows the seven chant rhythm in its seven verses. Read more about them at Wikipedia – http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/O_antiphon)

So we look and long toward Christmas Day. In one sense we hold in tension a longing for the coming of the Lord in three tenses, present, past and future. Bernard of Clairvaux spoke of three Advents: the coming of Christ in Bethlehem, the second coming of Christ at the end of this age, and the middle coming of Christ in this present moment.

We are waiting for His coming. We join with the Shepherds, waiting in the darkness of ignorance. We join with the Wise Men, waiting in the light of heavenly star. We join with the Church, waiting in the fog of a glass darkly.

Tonight the church sings out,

O Wisdom, O holy Word of God,
you govern all creation with your strong yet tender care:
Come and show your people the way to salvation.

We are waiting for the Creator of all things to come and dwell in the midst of His Creation. The Gospel of John opens declaring the coming of the Creator into His creation:

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things were made through him, and without him was not any thing made that was made. In him was life, and the life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.
(John 1:1-5 ESV)

We are waiting for the coming of the Word, for the coming of the One through whom all things were made, we are waiting for the Life and Light of men.

Yet, we wait in the dark.

We deny the darkness of the prisons we’ve built all around us. Surrounded by prisons of affluence, prisons of self-satisfaction, prisons of impatience. These prisons constructed by corrupt human hands are designed to keep out the light.

And this is the judgment: the light has come into the world, and people loved the darkness rather than the light because their works were evil.
(John 3:19 ESV)

We can plan Christmas celebrations in these prisons of darkness. We can sing Christmas songs in these prisons of darkness. We can attend Christmas services in these prisons of darkness. We can celebrate Christ while hiding our eyes from Christ.

Beneath the ring of Christmas bells and dancing elves, we may hear a tin sound, a hollow echo, an empty refrain. By His Grace, we may realize that our mansions of affluence are dilapidated shantytowns, built by the truly homeless who blind to their eyes to poverty, sickness and depravation in their own lives and in the world.

We are dying in the dark and only the Wisdom of God can recreate our discarded images into echoes of glory. During the music and mayhem of the next week, you may hear something that bursts a ray of light into your prison of darkness. Perhaps an offhand comment. Maybe a penetrating story. You might hear an unsettling song.

These gentle nudges are but a whisper on the wind, carrying “the distant sound of the angels’ song praising God and promising peace on earth.”* If you hear this sound, be careful.

In fact, be cautious. Whatever you do be cautious.

For He is coming with Light into your prison of darkness. And His coming is risky.

The babe in the manger died on a cross.

Only the desperate should turn toward Him in His coming. The self-satisfied must run.

For He is coming with Light into our prisons of darkness. And His coming is risky.

His coming unsettles everything. His Light exposes our impoverishment. His Life reveals our deathly paler. His Love manifests the hatred choking our soul.

He is coming with healing in His Wings, but His healing may feel like death.

Don’t ever think Advent is a safe little season of reflection. It stands on the very edge of the creation and destruction of all things.

As we wait and watch for the coming of Wisdom, for the coming of the One through whom all things, all people, all existence is created, let us be wary.

Our days are numbered. We stand at the edge of the end of all things. We stand at the edge of the beginning of all things. It is a thing of dread. It is a thing of glory.

If you are world-weary, battle worn, sick of the stench of your own selfishness, give up. Call off your war against God. Let’s bow before the Lord Creator of Heaven and Earth.

Even now He breathes into our clay forms. Nothing will ever be the same again.

* This phrase comes from Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s Advent sermon on December 2, 1928.

Advent-ure

December 13, 2010 / / 2 Comments

Snowy Backroads in NC

I told Kelly we were going on an “adventure.” We left Saturday morning for an overnight trip to celebrate our 22nd anniversary. We left for adventure. Sunday morning as we turned onto our road, we literally clapped and cried thanks to God for bringing us safely from this harrowing adventure.

What happened? I’ll tell you our story in a moment. First let me take a side route to discuss the word “adventure.” JRR Tolkien understood adventure as a side route off the main journey. An adventure is a “there and back again tale,” whereas a journey stretches toward a final, ultimate destination. In The Hobbit, Bilbo Baggins goes on adventure and returns wealthier, wiser, and more powerful. Frodo Baggins goes on journey in The Lord of the Rings. He never returns home.

Kelly and I departed Saturday morning on adventure. We had a vague idea of where we were headed. That’s my favorite kind of trip. Several years ago, we took a trip with Jeremy and Dorry. We had a vague idea of heading toward the coast. As we drove, we finalized plans to Edisto and even booked a room from the car.

I like to start moving, and find out later where I’m headed. So on Saturday, we set out on adventure. A couple days earlier, Kelly’s aunt mentioned that she was traveling to Christmas Town USA in North Carolina. Hmmmmm. My curiosity stirred. I started looking. As it turns out, Christmas Town is really called McAdenville.

I got up Saturday morning and dressed to go. As Kelly was getting ready, I looked up Christmas events in Nashville, Asheville, Chattanooga and even Georgia. She came downstairs, dressed and ready to go.

“Grab a change of clothes maybe we’ll spend the night.”

I like maybes. Maybe I’ll read. Maybe I won’t. Maybe you’ll like this essay. Maybe you won’t.

So we headed out with a few maybes in mind. As we pulled out of the driveway, I turned to Kelly and promised, “We’re going on adventure!” Then I thanked the good Lord for a safe drive and the adventure awaiting us.

When I was looking up Christmas Town USA, I read about Dillsboro, NC. This little town had a Christmas festival planned for Saturday, and it was only a few minutes from Asheville.

“Let’s head toward Dillsboro. But traveling there through Asheville seems boring this morning. Let’s cross over through Cherokee.” On this sunny beautiful Saturday, we drove through the mountains and were treated to creation’s seasonal exhibit of ice crystals hanging from rock ledges. As we drove, memories flooded my mind of hiking the Chimney Tops in winter, the death-defying hike to Mt Leconte in winter, and the magic of sledding at Newfound Gap.

The world around us sparkled in snow and ice, but the day was clear, so we could see far. Not forever, but far enough. We saw layers of mountain ranges, shades of blue and brown and white; trees silhouetted against a sky of blue and white and orange. Though I’ve seen these ranges and views again and again throughout my life, they always surprise. They always provoke wonder. They always compel worship to the good Lord who surrounds us in a world of glory.

As we drove toward adventure, the Lord came toward us and encountered us in the wonder of His creation. Lately, I’ve been thinking about adventure and advent. My gut distinction between the words has to do with motion. In adventure, we move toward an event. We move toward risk. We move toward an experience or activity that may threaten as well as delight.

Advent on the other hand speaks to me of movement toward me. Advent is an arrival or coming that will change everything. Someone moves toward me. When He comes, everything changes. In fact, His coming sends waves of movement through space and time that change everything even prior to His full unveiling or arrival.

During “Advent,” the church watches and waits for the coming of the Lord. We are waiting, watching, expecting, hopeful of His coming to us.

Both words have the same latin source, advenire, which simply means “to come.” It appears to derive from a Latin word that focuses on a jury coming to a trial. There are special customs, places, clothes and expectations associated with their coming.

Even as we wait for the coming of the Lord, we go forward into adventures. Kelly and I went on adventure. For this adventure, the risk was the lack of planning; the openness to surprise; the willingness to change and move based on what we encountered in the movement.

As we came down the mountain, we arrived in an almost vacant Cherokee. We perused a Cherokee gift shop, and oddly enough, I found a book on Cherokee myths and stories. Then we drove over to Dillsboro.

Turns out this quaint little town was only about a square block of stores that put up lights. Nice folks. In fact, I found a bottle of chocolate wine for some odd occasion. But on the whole, Dillsboro looked more exciting on the web than in person. After a quick tour of the stores, Kelly and I decided to keep driving.

“Let’s find Christmas Town!”

To get to McAdenville, we “must needs” travel through Asheville. As we approached Asheville, we faced two choices. “We can turn left and head back home, or we can turn right and head toward McAdenville.”

Or we could forgo the decision and stop in Asheville for dinner.

Door number 3 please.

Kelly and I decided to drive downtown and partake of Asheville delicacies. We took the wrong exit and instead of driving downtown, we were in a dark neighbor with no ramp back onto the highway. Makes me think of another story from another trip, but I’ll tell that story another time.

Most of the time, I love being lost in a city. I figure if I drive around enough, I’ll find something interesting. We took our cues from the movement of cars around us and eventually found downtown. Asheville was too cold and too dark for much exploration, but we did discover a double decker bus bar, and an art gallery that was having some big event featuring all their artists.

One artist painted pictures of clouds. At first, this sounds like a bunch of white on canvas, but his work astounded us. At the bottom edge of every picture, he painted a thin strip of earth: towns, fields, and mountains. The earth images were overwhelmed with clouds bursting with color and movement and white (of course). What was he trying to say? Not sure, but I was stunned by the heavens overtaking the earth.

After this surprising tour, we ate some pizza, bread and a little more bread. Then we decided, “Let’s head to Christmas Town USA!” A couple hours later, Kelly and I pulled into Christmas Town. Well, actually we pulled off the Interstate into the exit lane for Christmas Town.

We joined the line of cars at 9:55 pm. At 10:30 pm we were actually pulling off the Interstate and turning toward the town. At 10:45 pm police cars drove up and down the line, announcing, “Lights go out at 11:00 pm.”

What? We drove two hours and waited in line one hour to miss the whole show? Yikes.

Kelly and I decided then and there, no matter what, we’re driving through Christmas Town. Light or no lights. As it turns out, we drove through at about 11:20 with some lights. Some lights are better then none. And we were determined to enjoy that even if there was only one candle shining out from a darkened house, we’d cheer in delight.

Now at this point in the story “Google Map” let us down. Or least our inattention to the glaring problem in the “Google Map’s” suggested route home. The map suggested we go home via Johnson City. We drove back to the nearest exit off I-40 to the Johnson City route and found a hotel.

At 12:45 pm, Kelly and I ended our big day of adventure ready to sleep late and rest. Then I realized that in the “adventurous spirit” of deciding to sleep overnight, I’d left my medications at home. Since my kidney medications must be taken at regular intervals, skipping was not an option I wanted. Thus we chose to pop up at 6:00 am and resume the adventure home.

By 6:15 am, I was dressed and almost ready to walk out the door. Looking out the window, I beheld a site of glory, of wonder, of dread. A curtain of white snow fell from the sky. Several inches already covered the ground. Kelly scraped off the snowy blanket while I grabbed us some breakfast from the lobby, and we hit the road by 6:33.

After driving for about 15 minutes, we realized this route was not leading us to a main road. Like a couple of winsome children, we rushed headlong into the backroads of a snowy wonderland. We rushed headlong into mile after mile after mile of country mountain roads covered in snow and ice.

We drove into the beautiful, isolated and mountainous Pisgah National Forest–in the dark. At the base of the first hill, my tires started spinning. My car swerved. I held on tight. Kelly prayed.

Up, up, up, up and up. The car inched up the slick mountain. Then down, down, down and down. The car slid and veered down the mountain. Up, up, up and down, down, down continued for an hour. I held on tight. Kelly prayed.

The snow snowed and snowed and snowed.

As I drove, I kept thinking about living fully in the moment. “I’m in this moment.”

“It’s a glorious moment.”

“It’s a snowy, wondrous moment.”

“It’s a shared moment with my treasured wife.”

“It may be my last moment.”

“Lord, I want to enjoy this moment. Lord, I want to survive this moment. If possible.”

We eventually entered Tennessee through Roane mountain. We eventually made it to I-26. We eventually reached I-81, I-40, Alcoa Hwy and finally our neighborhood. “Hallelujah!” Lots of clapping all around.

The drive was so stressful, we both crashed into bed and slept off this adventure.

Life is filled with adventures, side routes. Unlike the great call and journey, these adventures are not specifically the journey that leads to our final destination, but they are “there and back again” tales. We choose some of these adventures, like our trip to North Carolina. Other adventures choose us.

Some adventures are exciting. Some adventures are wondrous. Some adventures are exhilarating. A new job. A new town. A long awaited vacation. Some adventures are terrifying. Some adventures are painful. Some adventures are confusing. A lost job. A disease. A lost relationship.

These adventures are risky, exciting, threatening and potentially rewarding. Whether we chose them or not, they may involve navigating new ground. Finding a new way home again. Discovering people, treasures and knowledge that can help us. As the origin of “adventure” indicates, we move out toward a new place, a new experience, a new relationship.

Some of these adventures may lead us far away. So far away we forget our way home. But in the midst of our chosen and unchosen adventures, someone is calling, coming, moving toward us. In His timing, He pierces our dark confusion with light. He comes with advent hope into the midst of our unsettling and dazzling adventures.

He comes calling. He comes welcoming us. He comes leading us forward on a journey that leads us away from one home and toward another true and enduring home. Even now, He is breaking in around us, around me, around these words.

Jesus is here calling, stirring, inviting. He is meeting us in the middle of our road and leading us on a journey that will end with love inconceivable.

So whether you’re at home waiting. You’re in the midst of high adventure. You’re reeling from an unwelcome intrusion. Look out. Listen. Watch. For He is coming. And He is calling out your name.

Lew Floyd Memorial

December 9, 2010 / / 8 Comments

My dad acting goofy with his sons: Jeremy Floyd, Lew Floyd, Andy Bickers, Doug Floyd

We gather to remember. Following the rhythm of God’s people from across the ages, we gather, we remember, and we rejoice in the goodness of our God.

Even as we remember the life of Lew Floyd, my father, we are giving glory to God in Christ. For all things are created in and through Christ, and in him we live and move and have our being.

Lew Floyd was a Athlete, Competitor, Adventurer, Artist, Socializer, Dreamer, Joker, Painter, Gardner, Friend, Father and a Storyteller.

Born in the middle of the Great Depression, his life reflected anything but that Great Depression. In fact, he recounted having little memory of struggle and hard times in those raw years. One of the earliest images I remember about my dad is watching a film clip of a two or three-year-old boy feeding chickens. He threw seed on the ground and then threw seed in his mouth.

In the early 1940s, America was busy fighting a war. My dad was busy fixing bicycles, raising rabbits and selling newspapers. He used to recount his experience selling papers on the day America dropped the bomb. He had never seen the word “atom” before, so he stood on the corner shouting, “Read all about it! America drops ate-om bomb.”

As a new optimism took hold in the country during the 1950s, my dad stepped into new possibilities when he graduated from high school. He spent his first quarter at University of Tennessee in Knoxville. After the first day of classes, my dad decided UT was too big and unfriendly, so he got on the bus and went back home.

His mom told him, “Get back on that bus and go back to school!” Of course, he promptly returned to classes. But he ended up winning a football scholarship to Carson Newman and was able to transfer the next quarter. While at UT, my dad served in the Navy ROTC program. Carson Newman did not have a Navy ROTC program at the time, so he wrote the Commander at UT and requested a discharge.

The Commander told him that he had to return his uniform before receiving the discharge. As college life took hold of my dad, he forgot the request and the uniform. Four years later, he graduated from Carson Newman and was promptly drafted into the Army.

Only there was a problem. My dad was still officially in the Navy. When he told the Army, they requested a discharge. The Navy complied. The Army gave my dad credit for serving four years of service, and he entered the service at a higher pay grade.

But before he left, he married my mom. She worked at Sears, and his sister introduced them. My dad always like to say that he got my mom from Sears and Roebuck. They spent their first two years of marriage in Europe courtesy of Uncle Sam.

The 1960s represent a period of dramatic change in America’s history. At the same time, my dad’s own life went through several dramatic changes. He finished his tour of duty and was prepared to settle down to the family business of selling insurance. A friend’s mom suggested he apply to the FBI.

For kicks, he applied and spent the next 25 years serving as a Special Agent in Springfield, IL, Buffalo, NY, New York City, and eventually Knoxville. Eight of those years were spent in the Big Apple, New York City.

This time proved to a pivotal time in my dad’s life. He followed Russian spies by day, and played with us kids in Oradell, New Jersey by night. He told us many stories of his time in the city and his adventures, but the stories I enjoyed the most were the mishaps and funny incidents involving other agents.

Once he told us about a new agent who recently arrived in the city. The other agents encouraged him to eat at a nearby deli because the owner would give agents bigger sandwiches. He stopped in one day and ordered a roast beef sandwich, but the owner was not in and he got a regular sized sandwich. The agent asked for more roast beef on his sandwich, and the lady replied, “That’s the way they come sir.” He promptly pulled out his badge and said, “FBI, more roast beef!”

New York City shaped my dad in some ways, but the greatest impact on his life during this season was at a local church in New Jersey. Him and my mom were looking in the yellow pages for a church when he spotted a church advertising “Air Conditioning” in their ad.

Those two words sounded perfect in the middle of a hot summer. Soon my parents joined this “cool” church. They both experienced a profound encounter with the Lord. Soon their life was defined by serving in various ministries from the church “bus ministry” to the children’s church to the youth group. Their time at First Baptist Hackensack shaped them in ways that impacted the rest of their lives.

In the 1970s, the United States brought our soldiers home from Vietnam. At the same time, my dad and mom returned home to Tennessee. He served at a SWAT team leader, a photographer and eventually a trainer in the local FBI office. My dad also found opportunities to share his faith with the very people he arrested and was known to bring bibles to them while they served in prison.

My dad retired in the 1980s, started a second career in banking and retired from it in the 90s. All the while, he remained active, engaged in life and ministry and full of good humor. He helped start a Sunday School class with a friend Jack Davis. The class became the center of my dad’s focus and energy over the last decade of his life.

In the late 90s, my dad, brother Jeremy, brother-in-law Andy, and me all decided to hike up to Mt LeConte right after Christmas. As the poorly trained hikers we were, we departed for the hike in late afternoon on a snowy December day. We finally reached the trail around four p.m.

Most people appeared to be coming back from the trail as we headed out and up. At first the path seemed fine, but soon we were walking (and slipping) on ice. Daylight was slipping away alongside us. Soon the dark shadow of night was fast approaching.

The trail shifted from a smooth passage over tree roots and rock to a steep climb along the side of the mountain. In my typical less than courageous mindset, I was ready to head back to Gatlinburg and enjoy a good meal! But we pressed on.

Soon a heavy set guy passed us heading down the trail. He stopped and said, “You really shouldn’t go any farther. It’s too steep, too icy and getting too dark.” After he passed out of sight, my dad replied, “Ain’t no fat boy gonna tell me I can’t climb the mountain!”

That one statement captures the energy and fire in my dad’s belly. If you tell him he can’t do it, can’t win, can’t make, he’s sure to give everything to prove you wrong. Thus we trudged upward and onward. I was convinced we’d die on the side of the mountain. But to my amazement, my dad’s drive pressed us all forward, and we made to the top and spent the night up there in a three sided-cabin.

Over the last several years, my dad’s quote became part of the family lore. Even now when facing a hard struggle, one of us will say, “Ain’t no fat boy gonna tell me I can’t climb the mountain!” That one moment (which was so exhausting and overwhelming at the time) has come to be one of the fond memories of time spent with my dad.

As I reflect on that moment, and the subsequent moments and the final moments of my dad’s life, I am reminded of how he lived fully in the moment. When he was serving in the FBI, he was fully engaged. But after he retired, he didn’t sit around and look back, he continued to embrace the moment before him.

We live moment by moment. In fact, every moment is gift. For in every moment we are sustained through the grace and goodness of God.

And in the moment, Christ says “Come”

“Come unto me all you who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”

In our weakness, pain, suffering and struggles, he calls us to come. In our strength, joy, victory and success, he calls us to come. In the moment, he bids us come.

In the moment, he calls us to love one another. Most of us are born into community. Most of us will die in community. We are created and called to live in community.

In the moment, Christ commands, “Love.”

“Love one another as I have loved you. ”

Yet we are loveless and we waste the moment. We corrupt the moment. We betray the moment through unforgiveness, bitterness, covetousness.

Athanasius said that sin causes a corrupting corruption that infects everything and everyone.

Christ enters the corruption. Bears the suffering. Leads the weary world into death in Himself and life in himself. In Christ, we rediscover love.

We are loved and loved and loved.

In Christ, we learn not simply to live in the moment, but to love in the moment.

Let us love in the moment.

Life is but a series of moments.

Many moments we want to rush through. Some moments we want to slow down. There are painful moments, joyous moments, lonely moments, exciting moments, funny moments, sad moments, mundane moments.

All these moments are gift from our Lord and Father. Just because we may feel pain in this moment, just because we may suffer in this moment, just because we may sit in darkness in this moment, let us not grow deaf to the call of Christ.

Come. Live. Love.

We respond in thanks to the loving Father and seek to obey his command to rest in Christ this moment. To live in Christ this moment. To love in Christ this moment.

We are gathered this moment. We offers thanks to God this moment.

All we have is the moment.

And just a moment ago, my dad was suffering in the hospital.

And a moment earlier, he was hiking Mt Le Conte.

And a moment earlier, he retired from a career in the FBI.

And a moment earlier, he was marrying my mom.

And a moment earlier, he sold newspapers announcing the atom bomb.

And a moment earlier, he was born into a loving community.

Life is a but a series of moments.

And in a moment, the last trumpet will sound,

And in a moment, the dead will be raised imperishable,
And in a moment, we shall be changed.

And in a moment, this perishable body will put on the imperishable,

And in a moment, this mortal body must put on immortality.

And in a moment, Death will be swallowed up in victory.

So let us rejoice in this moment.

Let us be steadfast in this moment.

Let us be immoveable in this moment.

Let us abound in the work of the Lord in this moment.

For our Lord is Faithful, and our obedience to Christ in this moment is not in vain.

In this moment, Christ invites us to come.
You who are weary, you who are heavy laden with burdens and grief, come to Christ.

In this moment, Christ calls us to love.
Beloved let us love one another as God has loved us in Christ.

In this moment, Christ calls us to go,
Let us go out proclaiming the good, good, good news of our Savior’s love for this broken and suffering world.

And in this moment let us say but a momentary goodbye to Lew Floyd.

The Cave of Adullam

November 22, 2010 / / 2 Comments

David runs for his life. Death follows fast on his heels. In mad jealously, King Saul wants to take the head of the warrior who took the head of Goliath. Doeg the Edomite slays 70 priests in pursuit of this forsaken son.

And so David runs.

He runs to the Cave of Adullam. He runs to safety, to a fortress, to a tomb. From this cave he waits and waits and waits to face death.

David is not alone in the cave.

And everyone who was in distress, and everyone who was in debt, and everyone who was bitter in soul, gathered to him. And he became captain over them. And there were with him about four hundred men.
(1 Samuel 22:2 ESV)

The cave is a fortress of the forsaken. In the cold dark place of death they gather.

They are in distress, pressed in from all sides, and crushed under the weight of problems, threats and struggles.

They are in debt, emptied with nothing left to give.

They are bitter in soul, waiting to die.

The cave is a tomb for those who’ve lost hope and can no longer see tomorrow.

David is not alone in the cave.

Job sits in the dark, struggling to understand. His world tremors under one disaster after another. A devastating fury lacerates his land. Raiders, whirlwinds, fires ravage his family, his flocks, his world. A disfiguring illness torments his body. A relentless grief plagues his soul.

Once a powerful lord, Job is reduced to a mere shadow, crying out day and night on a heap of ashes. Caught between the pangs of death and the emptiness of living, he exists day after lonely day. His comforters, condemn. God is silent. The cave swallows Job as he waits and waits and waits to face death.

David is not alone in the cave.

Ezekiel moans inwardly. The delight of his life, Ezekiel’s wife, dies. But God’s forbids him to mourn aloud. So he lives and speaks and acts day by day with the blinding loss hidden in his gut. His life is God’s very sign of Israel’s loss.

Born into the priesthood and raised to serve as priest in the Temple, Ezekiel never serves. Before his eyes, the Temple is destroyed and Jerusalem burns to the ground. Led away to the land of black clouds and false gods, he loses his homeland, his calling and his wife. Ezekiel prophecies judgment and waits and waits and waits to face death.

David is not alone in the cave.

Mary Magdalene has come to the end of all things. As the woman with seven spirits, she knows the desolation of complete forsakenness. With no hope, no family, nowhere to turn, she was falling and falling into darkness. Jesus took her hand and pulled her into light.

But now he is dead. Her hope lies in the tomb. She has nowhere to turn, no one to call. She sits at the cave, at the tomb, at the place of death. She cries with no tears. She screams with no noise.

She comes to cover Jesus’ body in spices, but he is gone. Instead of joy, she trembles in fear and confusion. Who has taken her hope? Who has stolen her joy? Mary sits by cave and waits and waits and waits to face death.

David is not alone in the cave.

I’ve known the cold, dark death of the tomb. I’ve felt the cool clutch of death seize my heart and drain my peace. I’ve known days that passed into night and back into days with no relief. As I write, I know some of you know this tomb all too well.

This is the place where God is silent. Darkness smothers. Words fall hollow. Hope seems lost.

This is the cold sabbath of Holy Saturday. We wait outside the tomb of Christ, wondering if we misunderstood. There are no words of hope. No reassuring feelings. No glimmers of light. Only a cold tomb where the body of our Savior lies. The thundering rule of death remains unchallenged and we grow weary, waiting and waiting and waiting to face death.

Jesus is not in the cave

In the twinkling of an eye, the Father speaks, the ground quakes, the Son arises. He who was dead is alive forevermore. He walks toward Mary, but she is blind to His love.

Jesus speaks and Mary arises with hope unshakeable. She goes forth as the first evangelist proclaiming the Good News of Him who has conquered.

In the land of darkness, Ezekiel beholds the light of glory. In his tomb of loss and death, the Lord calls his name. He arises and speaks to the four winds, he speaks to the valley of dry bones.

And behold a rattling…

Israel was dead but now is alive and from her bosom will flow healing for the nations.

Job runs out words. His complaint against God chokes in his throat as he sits, in silence. Then out of the whirlwind, the Lord answers Job. And the glory of the Lord shines all around. Job cannot answer. He can only behold, dumfounded by the wonder and majesty and beauty of the Lord on High. Job obediently prays for his friends.

David and his men do not die. But come forth as dread champions of the Lord. By God’s grace, those in distress, in debt and bitter in soul, come forth in the light of God’s glory. The Lord raises up David’s throne and from this very throne, Jesus rules and reigns the cosmos.

The cave does not, can not, will not have the final word. The voice of the Lord echoes through the place of the dead and the broken and weary and wounded come forth in his glory.

I have known the cave, and I have known the Father’s voice calling me forth to rest in the resurrection of Christ. In the cave, we are changed, transformed, and the tomb becomes a womb of new life in Christ.

So do not fear the cave. Eventually, we all go to the cave. But we are not forgotten. So rest. Wait. For the Risen One is Calling. By His word, we rise to new names, new vocations, new tomorrows. By His Word, we will rise and we will rise and we will rise to live in Christ forevermore.

Thoughts on My Trip to London

October 14, 2010 / / 3 Comments

Some of you have asked me about the recent trip to London. Here is a rough snapshot of my response to St. Paul’s Theological Centre.

Last week I enjoyed the opportunity to observe an emerging theological training program. Several ministers from the United States visited St Paul’s Theological Centre in London, England. Our little group consisted of pastors of large and small churches, counselors, church planters, a Bible college president, a missiologist, and a chaplain.

For five days we observed and participated in the life and culture of Holy Trinity Brompton and their college, St. Paul’s Theological Centre (SPTC). Along the way, we ate our share of fish-n-chips, toured a few museums, visited Churchill’s war room, talked in pubs and enjoyed several delightful meals.

I was personally enriched by walking the streets of London, conversing with old and new friends, and worshipping at Holy Trinity Brompton. The visit was marked by blue skies and warm, windy days. It was also marked by our desire to watch and learn ways that each of us might personally and collectively work toward renewing theological training here in the United States and in our local communities.

Our main focus was to visit with the staff of SPTC and to observe the sessions. As a quick summary, SPTC is a theological training school integrated within the local church. Students attending SPTC are typically persons training for ministry, church leaders seeking further studies, and professionals seeking to learn more about Christian faith while remaining in their chosen vocations.

Several things make SPTC unique: it’s focus on training while serving local ministry; it’s connection to the larger church; it’s commitment to intellectual and theological rigor; and it’s integrated missional model.

I’ve attempted to summarize what I observed for my own processing as well as the discussions I am continuing to have with other ministers in the region. I realize my own observations are colored by my own values and longings, but I hope this will be helpful as a summary of what stirred within me:

Hospitality
I felt welcomed into this mission-centered community but even more deeply I sensed a “generosity of spirit” that infused every aspect of the faith community.

This same church developed and exports the evangelistic Alpha Course to over 169 nations. The Alpha Course introduces the gospel to those who want to learn more about Christian faith in a friendly, relaxed setting. Hospitality seems to pulse within the Alpha Course and it makes sense that the community reflects embodied service and love through their acts and attitudes of hospitality.

Integration
When I was in college and considering a seminary education, my pastor warned me, “Be careful, you may lose your faith while training for ministry.” This disintegration between academic pursuit in the university and the devotional life of the church community created deep-rooted conflicts, dis-ease and dis-integration within the community of faith.

SPTC represents a large move throughout the Body of Christ to restore training within the context of the local body. Localized training (in contrast to university or seminary training) doesn’t have to compromise intellectual rigor, but rather needs to integrate that rigor within the context of the lived faithfulness of serving within local faith communities. In fact, SPTC represents a way that local faith communities can dialogue with seminaries and university divinity programs.

I appreciate that SPTC has developed it’s training within and through the support of church leaders while also drawing upon leading thinkers like Alistair McGrath, David Ford, Jane Williams, Richard Bauckham, and others.

At the same time, SPTC is training students in context. The context of relationships with other students, the context of local church communities and the context of serving in local congregations.

So I see multiple “integrations” at work in SPTC such as local/global, intellectual/devotional, and the possibility for cross-cultural integration as other churches establish training centers and share resources across cultures.

Relationships
My observation of integration is directly connected to the high value placed on relationship. By relationship I mean person-to-person relationships, church to church relationships, and even church to culture relationships. How do we learn in a way that enfleshes Jesus command to “love one another as I have loved you?”

Conversation
I observed a model of training that values dialogue. The student training happened within the context of worship and within the context of fellowship, so I saw the dual emphasis on speaking/listening to God and one another.

While I observed a conversation with tradition, I didn’t have an opportunity to observe the conversation with living members of the older generation. Eugen Rosenstock-Huessy once observed that history changes when three generations come into agreement. When the baby Jesus was presented in the Temple: three generations joined together. Mary and Joseph as parents offered their son to the aged generation of Simeon and Anna.

I’ve observed SPTC’s commitment to the youth and their commitment to ancient tradition, I hope that there is also a corresponding commitment to connect youth with the wisdom and engagement of living elders (parents/grandparents).

Translation
For students seeking ordination, SPTC seeks to place the students in church planting or ministry roles within local faith communities. As I observed the congregation associated with Holy Trinity Brompton, I saw services that offered “high church liturgical worship,” charismatic worship, youth worship and more.

The opportunity to learn and then apply that learning within distinctive settings seems to me to be the work of translation. How do we translate Gospel in differing cultures? On one level I think translating Gospel within these varied worshipping communities represents an important aspect of translation, but I also look to the commitment of SPTC to train professionals who come from business, art, healthcare and other fields. The opportunity for translating Gospel in these settings offers a great possibility for the church, and I believe there is potential within SPTC to see this work of translation enfleshed in students learning how to live/speak this proclamation in distinct settings.

Mission
This need for translation connects back to the Alpha Course. Our hosts Graham Tomlin and others helped us all to see how the vision of SPTC is directly connected to the vision of the Alpha Course. The church is on mission to proclaim Gospel. The Alpha Course provides a context for proclamation and invitation to new believers. SPTC provides the training for believers who want enter into the mission of church planting, church serving, and Gospel proclaiming throughout culture.

I appreciate the holistic vision that integrates evangelism, church community, and theology into one community.

Submission
Even as mission for the kingdom of God drives the heart of SPTC and Holy Trinity Brompton, I sensed an even great submission to the King of the kingdom.

I end with the observation that most inspired me during our stay. At one point, Nickey Gumbel told our group that the goal is not to see how big you can be but how small you can be. A moment later he said that if the ministry dies, it dies.

These two statements captured for me a “spirit of submission” to the true Authority, our Lord and King, Jesus Christ. We follow Christ into mission but there are times of danger when mission can trump personal relationship (to Christ and others). This attitude of submission toward God and one another shined in every team member we met.

This humility touched me profoundly. I have observed and known all to well the power of ambition in ministry. To see a spirit of humility pervade the work of a church that is touching millions of people around the world, stirred and continues to stir me.

As I process my time in England and with the kind people at SPTC, I am struck that what they showed us was not simply a technique or a model but a culture that has been cultivated in time and space. As we seek to learn how their work might fit into our communities, I think we can appreciate this culture of hospitality, mission and humility that seems to permeate much of their work.

It certainly stirs me to seek to learn and emulate. If there had been a model like this when I was in school, I might have stayed in the academic setting. I wanted to teach, but I wanted to teach people in a more holistic, relational setting that reflected the true content of the message.

It makes me think of story from the start of my ministry. In 1988, my new wife and I moved onto a drug and alcohol ranch. My primary function was to lead the men in a daily Bible study. At some point during the year, we began to explore the book of Romans together. I would usually introduce a passage, offers a few reflections and invite conversation. One day, a man who was deeply struggling with cocaine addiction offered a response to Paul’s message of grace. He looked up and said, “So Billy Graham needs the grace of God just as deeply as me?”

Through this broken man, I encountered a depth of God’s grace that provided redemption for us all: the righteous and the sinner. His comment changed my whole ministry. In him, I learned that ministry was about listening and speaking, about call and response between God and man as well as between man and man.

What I observed at SPTC gives me hope that churches can help people grow in faith, and ministry, becoming people who live in the rhythm of call and response, of listening and speaking.

Telling, Acting, Eating, Living the Story

October 6, 2010 / / 6 Comments

Last week I enjoyed the opportunity to speak to a group in the healthcare field about navigating through crisis and change. It’s a bit ironic. I was speaking because the original speaker had a crisis and was unable to attend. In the midst of change, I spoke about change.

Some changes in life are so dramatic, so catastrophic that we never go back. Or as Bob Dylan says, “You can always come back, but you can’t come back all the way.” We cannot return to the way things were. Life changes unalterably. A person goes blind. Another person receives the gift of sight. Both lives change in unexpected ways.

Dramatic changes can mark the beginning of grief and bitterness and despair, but they also mark the beginning of a new way of life filled with surprise and wonder. Our health may change, our job may change, our relationships may change, our world may change.

As we process change, we tell a story about that change. It might be good or bad or funny or tearful, but we begin to tell a story. As I spoke to the audience last week, I invited them to tell their story. In fact, I suggested they tell their life story in 30 seconds. The 30 second boundary forces some details to the top and others vanish. It may help us focus on what story we are hearing in our head.

They told their stories, then I told Israel’s story.

Israel’s story gave them courage, strength, identity, vision. By retelling their story, they learned how to trust God and one another. The stories we tell about our own lives can trap us into patterns of discouragement or can give us hope, energy and clarity to move forward. I showed the healthcare workers how the stories we tell about our lives, our jobs, our families, our marriages really do have power for good or ill.

After finishing my talk, I continued to ruminate about stories, about Israel’s stories, about my stories and about the power of Gospel story.

After leaving Egypt, Israel recounted how YHWH dramatically rescued them from slavery and formed them at Mt Sinai. They told the story to their children. They acted the story in worship. They ate the story in Passover. Whether rising, walking, sitting or sleeping, they rehearsed the story of God’s faithful rescue over and over. This story was and is good news, also known as Gospel.

By rehearsing the story, they fixed their heart and minds and bodies upon the action of the Lord. By rehearsing the Gospel story, they learned to trust in the God they could not see and could not shape into forms.

But there came a day when they forgot to rehearse the story. They quit acting the story. They quit eating the story. They started listening to other stories of other gods. They forgot the faithfulness of the Lord. They forgot the commands of the Lord. They forgot the goodness of the Lord.

I know what it’s like to forget the story of God’s goodness. There have been times when I thought, dreamed and told the wrong story. In my story, I questioned God’s goodness, his faithfulness and his love for me. Once we tell the wrong story, we might get stuck in it.

In 2008, our church building burned and I lost my job. These two events impacted me in a deeper, harder way than over 20 years of battling with kidney disease. A dark cloud engulfed me. I started telling myself a story of failure and forsakenness. In the first story, I began recounting the past 20 years and questioned every decision I ever made. In the second story, I questioned God’s faithfulness.

Both stories battled in my imagination. Some days I’d think every decision I ever made was a bad one. Other days, I wonder why God chose to make me fail in everything I touched. I cried out to God, “Look at all I sacrificed for you! Why won’t you help me?”

The stories stole my joy. My gifted wife saw these false stories as a deathlike grip that was consuming me. In the midst of these discouraging tales, I had to hear again the Gospel story, or the good news God’s faithfulness.

Israel had to hear the Gospel story. Her existence depended on it. After generations of forgetting the stories of YHWH’s lovingkindness, Israel had become apostate. God in his goodness preserved them and honored the obedience of a few righteous kings, but eventually He gave them over to their false stories.

Babylon led the broken people into captivity. Babylon burned down the Temple. Babylon destroyed the land.

The people wept. Their songs and their stories failed them. So they hung up the harp and quit singing altogether. Now they lived in an alien land with alien gods. Abandoned by the God of their fathers. Lost in the darkness. They needed to hear the Gospel story.

Into this dark story of exile, appears a strange man who sees a strange light. Ezekiel encounters the glory of the Lord. The glory that once resided in the Holy of Holies appears to him on the shore of the Chebar canal while he stands among the exiles. To Ezekiel’s surprise, YHWH did not abandon his people as they stood by dark waters. He came in the midst of wind and storm and fire; in the midst of the four living creatures; in the midst of the sound of many water. YHWH came in glory.

And He gave Ezekiel a new story, a Gospel story. As Ezekiel talked, ate, sang and acted out the Word of the Lord, he exposed Israel’s sickly condition. He revealed the death that infected their worship, their imagination, their stories. He began to tell a story about a valley of dry bones.

7 I prophesied as I was commanded. And as I prophesied, there was a sound, and behold, a rattling, and the bones came together, bone to its bone. 8 And I looked, and behold, there were sinews on them, and flesh had come upon them, and skin had covered them. But there was no breath in them. 9 Then he said to me, “Prophesy to the breath; prophesy, son of man, and say to the breath, Thus says the Lord God: Come from the four winds, O breath, and breathe on these slain, that they may live.” 10 So I prophesied as he commanded me, and the breath came into them, and they lived and stood on their feet, an exceedingly great army.
11 Then he said to me, “Son of man, these bones are the whole house of Israel. Behold, they say, ‘Our bones are dried up, and our hope is lost; we are indeed cut off.’ 12 Therefore prophesy, and say to them, Thus says the Lord God: Behold, I will open your graves and raise you from your graves, O my people. And I will bring you into the land of Israel. 13 And you shall know that I am the Lord, when I open your graves, and raise you from your graves, O my people. 14 And I will put my Spirit within you, and you shall live, and I will place you in your own land. Then you shall know that I am the Lord; I have spoken, and I will do it, declares the Lord.” (Ez 37)

In the former story Israel had been enslaved in Egypt and YHWH rescued them from the power of Pharaoh. In this new story, Israel is dead. YHWH raises them from the dead and restores them to be His people “inspired” by His Spirit. As Ezekiel proclaimed this Gospel story, the people come back to life. There are times when a change will be so dramatic, so life changing that we must learn how to hear and tell a new story.

Like Israel, we need to hear again the Gospel that’s too good to be true: Jesus Christ living, dying, rising again and interceding for us at the right hand of the Father. In this story, we hear our story. We’re not forsaken. Death doesn’t have the final word. Our ministries may die. Our friendships may die. Our dreams may die. Our bodies may die. But death is not the final word.

We may face changes in life that feel like death in our bones. We may lose our strength. We may lose things we thought we could never lose. In these times of crisis and dramatic change, we may question the goodness of God. We may question the faithfulness of God. We may damn ourselves in a hell of failure and regret.

The good news of Gospel bursts into this darkness with the light of hope. In Jesus Christ, we encounter the goodness of God who loves us even when we are enemies. In Jesus Christ, we encounter the faithfulness of God that cannot be stopped even by death. Nothing can separate us from the love of God in Christ.

We must hear Gospel. We must sing Gospel. We must act out Gospel. We must eat Gospel. When we rise, sit, sleep or walk, we rehearse the goodness of God. By His grace, our imaginations come back to life. Even in the midst of the suffering and uncertainty, we learn to sing the new songs of Zion. We rediscover our story in the story of Jesus Christ. Our lives matter. We are created for glory. And He will complete the work He has begun in us.

I encourage you to listen to the Gospel story. Listen again to your story of death and life in Christ.

Dictums of Dr. Drake

August 11, 2010 / / 6 Comments

Robert Young Drake Jr.

I stumbled into Dr. Drake’s class kinda like the way I stumbled into college. While my friends were applying for grants and scholarships, I was busy dreaming of some great venture, some great project, some great something…or some great something else.

Then suddenly I was there. Sitting at freshman orientation for the University of Tennessee in Knoxville. I didn’t worry too much about what to study. As my dad would tell me, “What’s important is that you finish what you start. Study anything you want just finish the degree.”

My dad had just returned from the 1980 Winter Olympics in Lake Placid. At one point, he shared a helicopter ride with Scott Hamilton’s dad. Dr. Hamilton, a college professor, told my dad that “if a young man is not sure what to study in school, he should learn how to communicate. If you can write and speak well, you can do about anything.”

My dad passed on that advice. That sounded good enough for me, so I ended up studying Creative Writing and Speech Communication at UT. Almost thirty years later I can thank Dr. Hamilton for helping launch me on the adventure of learning to speak.

Now where was I? Oh yes, stumbling into Dr. Drake’s Advanced Creative Writing class wearing one black shoe and one red shoe. For some reason, two different colored shoes made perfect sense in the 80s. As I sank down into my seat, I noticed that the man standing at the front of the class was wearing a linen suit. He looked and sounded like he stepped right out of nineteenth century Southern aristocracy.

Robert Young Drake Jr. stood before us as a living testimony of another time, another world. An old Southern sophistication that was and is vanishing under concrete Interstates, concrete shopping malls and concrete lives. Listening to him talk was like sitting on a big porch during the late afternoon, sipping on lemonade and swapping stories.

His slow drawl, devilish wit, and penchant for telling stories captivated us half-dazed students who stumbled toward degrees and possible oblivion. On the first day of class, he handed out no syllabi, no reading lists, and he gave no expectations for what was ahead.

Someone raised his hand. “What’s your policy on cutting class?”

“I don’t have a policy. Don’t cut class.”

Another hand. Another question. “How do you figure our grades?”

“Do what I say and you’ll come through with flying colors.”

One day he asked if anyone in the class had ever read Charles Dickens. I nodded yes.

“What did you read Mr. Floyd?”

“Well, I started ‘Tale of Two Cities,’ but I didn’t finish it.”

“What? You didn’t finish. Oh Mr. Floyd that is a grievous sin. You must go home and pray without ceasing.”

Another day he read a story aloud, and asked us what was the main theme of the story. Someone shouted out, “Compassion.”

“Oh my. I simply hate that word. The word compassion is so over used. I think people say it when they don’t really know what a story is about.”

This was the first class I had ever attended where the professor diced our answers to pieces and never hesitated to humiliate. Of course, he said everything with that slow drawl and that slight grin.

One student made the unfortunate mistake of cutting class. Next class he reappeared.

“Well, Mr. Jones I see you’ve decided to stay at the University after all. I assumed that when you failed to come to class you had left for some pressing reason. But here you are in our midst once again.”

Looking around to all the rest us he continued, “It amazes me that people will pay good money for a University education and then fail to attend the classes. That makes no sense whatsoever.” After about five minutes of a public tongue lashing, he finally released Mr. Jones from shaming and started the class.

Some people would drop Dr. Drake’s class but no one was bold enough to cut his class.

For the next three months us stumbling students sat up wide awake with holy fear: never sure if we might be subject to a public trial on the spur of the moment. At the same time, most of us loved this class and this professor. He spoke and taught and challenged us in ways we’d never been challenged.

He mocked our simplistic assumptions and forced us to think and speak and write better. Sometimes he’d say, “People ask me if I ever see talented writers in these classes. I reply that it’s not a matter of talent. It’s a matter of work, of discipline. A good writer writes and writes and writes.”

Then he might add, “Show me a great writer and I’ll show you a great reader. If you want to write, you must learn to read.”

“The most important thing a parent can teach their child is how to read. I don’t care if the child reads comic books or Mad magazine. If the love of reading captures their soul, they’ll read and read and read. And the reading will teach them to speak.”

Religion showed in one person’s story and Dr. Drake began discussing his own faith. “Of course, I believe in purgatory. I experience it every Sunday morning sitting on a hard wooden pew during the church service. After of lifetime of such suffering, God must surely allow me into heaven.”

Another day, he decided to introduce grammar into our conversation. “There are no rules.”

“Write what’s in your heart. Discover your voice. Grammar is your servant not your master. It may help you say what you need to say more clearly, but never let it confine you from saying what you must say.”

He taught me that writing is not about fame, not about fortune. Most writers are poor. Writing is about finding and speaking my voice. It is the discipline of listening and speaking and learning to articulate. He taught me to read.

On the last day of class, he gave each of us a blessing. As he turned toward me he said, “Mr. Floyd, my hope and prayer for you is that one day by God’s grace you’ll actually finish a Charles Dickens novel.” The class burst out laughing. I laughed.

And in a strange twist of irony. One day I did read Dickens and fell in love with his words, his characters, his world. And I am always haunted by the cry for justice that echoes all through Dickens.

Dr. Drake died almost ten years ago. And sadly, I never expressed my deep appreciation for his influence on my life. It took years for me to even realize the deep and resounding impact of this thoughtful provocateur. Yet, I still find myself quoting him and listening to him and responding to him.

I continue to write. I continue to read. I continue to learn.

Dr. Drake freed me from the oppressive weight of wanting to be recognized. He freed me to a life of learning how to speak…how give voice to one moment in time..how to discover that articulate word. As Czeslaw Milosz once wrote,

“To find my home in one sentence, concise, as if hammered in metal. Not to enchant anybody. Not to earn a lasting name in posterity. An unnamed need for order, for rhythm, for form, which three words are opposed to chaos and nothingness.”

Dr. Drake spent his life teaching students to pound that one sentence into this fleeting world of glory. And for that I am forever grateful.

Rhythms of Love

August 6, 2010 / / 5 Comments

Photo by Filhi bahthi photography via Creative Commons

I’m sitting in a coffee shop, reading, thinking…sitting. Music is n the background. “Celebrate Good Times” begins to play. And suddenly the celebration breaks into my world, my reading, thinking, sitting. My head starts nodding. Soon my shoulders join in. The sounds that were outside me seem to be reverberating from inside me, and my body is moving to the rhythm. Looking around I notice other people responding, moving, smiling. We exchange glances. In a room of strangers, the rhythm visibly connects us for few brief moments.

I’ve had experiences like this in stores, parks, churches and living rooms. The rhythm breaks in upon us and suddenly the room, the people are connected and moving to an unseen current. Music fascinates me, moves me, breaks in upon me. It comes from outside me through a speaker, a guitar, a drum, a singer. But soon it is inside me at the same time. My body, my mind, my emotions all respond, all echo back the rhythm. Somehow I’m connected, caught up in the rhythm.

And oddly, it lingers inside long after the music has stopped playing. The sounds, the words, the feel continues to resound within me. Though I speak about myself, I believe I’m describing an experience that is real for most of us. One moment we’re sitting alone and the next moment we’re caught up in an ocean of sounds that moves us, fills us, connects us.

Not all songs move us in the same ways. Hearing different songs can stir different feelings and different thoughts. For some strange reason, I used to force myself to listen to all sorts of music as some kind of imagined training. In college, I’d sit in the music lounge for hours soaking in all sorts of sounds. I’d join Columbia House Music Club again and again and again. I also joined the “Classical Heritage Society” and the “Jazz Heritage Society.” I’d listen to music I loved and oddly enough music I hated.

I remember picking up John Coltrane’s “Sun Ship” as yet another attempt at my musical education. I never figured it out. There were a few shining moments, but most of the time, I was immersed in chaos. I couldn’t hear one dominant rhythm. Instead, I felt caught up in a swirl of chaos. The music was disorienting.

It made me think of being caught up in the currents of a raucous ocean. Once my dad and I decided to “catch some big waves” by swimming at Myrtle Beach in the middle of an electrical storm. My mom was screaming and pacing up and down the shore while my dad and I were laughing and waving. It was fun but also disorienting. The currents above and below the surface pulled, pushed and turned us all around. When we finally decided to get out of the water, we had a hard time. The undercurrent resisted our every step.

I can only imagine the stress, confusion and disorientation of being caught in a storm at sea. With no land in sight, with no instruments of orientation, it’s easy to see how one could be truly lost of sea. I understand that pilots can experience a similar disorientation in the air. Without reference to his instruments, a pilot may literally not know which way is up. It is now believed that John F. Kennedy Jr.’s lethal crash into the sea in 1999 was a result of spatial disorientation. He thought he was flying up and flew straight into the water.

The currents of air and water and sound waves can propel us forward but also disorient us. We could be going forward; we could be going backward. We may lose our sense of direction.

We are immersed in a world of currents and rhythms. From the beating of our own heart to the fury of storm winds to the pounding of rain, we live in all kinds of rhythms and forces that impact us both inwardly and outwardly. There are also rhythms or currents of ideas, emotions, memories, and symbols that move through culture. The force of these rhythms are just as powerful as the physical force of ocean currents that move above and below the surface.

We cannot step outside of the rhythms of our world. We are all born at a time and place. We are born immersed in families and towns and eras with specific rhythms and struggles and currents. If I am born into a world where slavery is the norm, it will be very difficult for me to resist or act or think outside this force. If I am born into a land at war, I may have no memory of peace and find it difficult to even understand peace. If I am born into a family where divorce is the norm, I may repeat the pattern in my own life or never even marry.

Like the watery chaos of Psalm 46, all of us know the chaos of a world of conflicting ideas and emotions, of undercurrents that impact our dreams and our actions. The music of Scripture breaks into this world of competing currents with a strange alien rhythm. Sometimes when people first read the Bible, it might seem a bit disorienting. It should be. In fact, if it’s never disorienting we may not be paying close enough attention. The Word of the Lord breaks into our world as a challenge to the false rhythms of idolatry and oppression that reverberate on our planet.

In ancient Egypt, we discover the Hebrews trapped in a world of enslavement, oppression, and manipulation. The Word of the Lord breaks into this world as an alien rhythm, challenging the power structures and the whole conception of reality. After leading these nameless, powerless slaves into freedom, the LORD calls these people, His people and He gives them His rhythms that are rooted in love to God and love to man.

In Psalm 1, we hear a song inviting us to meditate or groan aloud these rhythms of love and worship and respect and honor. These rhythms directly challenge the constant rhythms in the counsel of the wicked, the way of sinners, the seat of scoffers. The world of the wicked, sinners and scoffers is built in resistance to the love of God and is rooted in self-preservation. It always leads to oppression and devastation. As the Psalmist sings, he reminds us that currents of the wicked produce a crop of chaff, of nothingness.

Like the disappearing world in “The Neverending Story,” the Psalmist realizes the end result of wickedness. Not some kind of naughty pleasure, but rather to destruction of all relationships, of all meaning, of all hope, of all beauty. The end result is absurd nothingness that blows away in the wind. There is only one sound powerful enough to withstand the gale force of oppression and emptiness: it is Torah, the Law of the Lord. The Psalmist proclaims that those who dwell, live, abide in this Law of Love will bear fruit in all seasons.

Yet even as I’m caught up the wondrous promise of the Psalmist, I am aware of my own duplicity. There are times when I speak words of love and life and encouragement. There are times when the rhythms of love seem to resonate in my every fibre. And yet, I know the fruit of selfishness. I hear James speaking directly to me when he cries out, “From the same mouth come blessing and cursing.” I am not the man who lives in Torah day and night. I am the man who aspires to live in Torah but knows the way of hatred and anger and mockery all too well.

Isaiah says that the Lord looks for one true man, but found no one.

The Lord saw it, and it displeased him that there was no justice. He saw that there
was no man, and wondered that there was no one to intercede;
then his own arm brought him salvation,
and his righteousness upheld him. (Is 59:15-16)

He enters into our watery grave of idolatry. He entered into the alien rhythms of all world in complete resistance to love, a world that cannot build without breaking, cannot speak without cursing, cannot embrace with killing. Jesus, the Son of God, comes as the one true man. He steps into this world of complete disorientation where no one knows how to step forward and everyone stumbles in the dark. He comes as the true light. In His light, in His path, in His words, we behold the true and genuine rhythms of love. He is the God-Man from Psalms 1 who dwells and lives and acts in Holy Love. He enfleshes Torah, he embodies truth, He reveals the Father. He reveals Love between the Son and the Father. In His Life, His Death and His Resurrection He sets in motion reverberations of life that continue resounding and will eventually stop every false rhythm–even death.

So we turn to Him. We behold Him. We cry out to Him, “Lord have mercy.” It is then that we realize, He has embraced us and His song is beating in our heart. Yes, we are still learning His song, but we are no longer adrift in a sea of chaos. The music of the heavens is pulsing through us. Ours heads, our hands and our feet are beginning to dance.

Jeremy Begbie suggests that music itself is not hope but it is a dynamic of hope because it is sweeping us forward. In Christ, we are caught up in a true dynamic of hope. We are joined together in a song of love the will not fail but will overcome every false rhythm and conquer every lying word.

Autumn Report on a Summer Morning

August 2, 2010 / / 0 Comments

Photo - Autumn Sun and Leaves by Adam Hillliker (via Creative Commons)

Today I as I reflected life through poem by Michael O’Siadhail, I saw a snapshot of my own life–both the joy and the ache. In “Autumn Report” O’Siadhail describes the haze of autumn’s tilted sun casting light across his path and life. A superscript above the poem quotes from Dante’s Comedy, “Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita” (in the middle of the road in my life).

This superscript casts its own light across the glory of this “summer’s afterthought.” As I read, I realize O’Siadhail is catching a glimpse of his own momentary existence. As I as read on, I realize he is catching a glimpse of all our momentary existences.
He is writing from a place that sounds insignificant at first,

…- so propped in this sidestreet
doorway, a gap on the pavement between two vans
affords a patio where sunlight swabs our regrets,

In this sun-captured moment, he “snatch(es) the tenor of the whole.” From one tiny spot, in one fleeting moment, he beholds the whole of life and glory of being alive. And from this one place, he offers a brief account of his life. He writes,
I tender friends and shareholders an interim report:

In this place of seeming insignificance, O’Siadhail begins with praise, with rejoicing, with proclamation of good news. For even in the fading summer of his life, he has been blessed to live. Makes me think of something GK Chesterton once wrote, “Merely to exist for a moment, and see a white patch of daylight on a gray wall, ought to be an answer to all the pessimism of the world.” From his tiny, unnoticed spot in the universe, O’Siadhail rejoices in the glory that surrounds him.

Even in this fall, wholehearted life reverberates
some almighty gaiety, invites me to adore
the immense integrity; wines my veins until
I’m sure my frame will warp under such
exuberance. I’ve never felt so near the centre
of all that is.

O’Siadhail’s proclaims that the glory of this being aliveness “wines my veins.” He is drunk with the joy of life bursting forth within and around him. Once again I turn to Chesterton for commentary. He writes, “At the back of our brains, so to speak, there is a forgotten blaze or burst of astonishment at our own existence. The object of the artistic and spiritual life is to dig for this submerged sunrise of wonder; so that a man sitting in a chair may suddenly understand that he is actually alive, and be happy.”

In this moment of joyous realization, O’Siadhail wants to write, to speak, to sing in the primal wonder of Eden.

…history has
accumulated this moment, now funnels through me
the urge to utter. In this instant, I’m Adam
the first to mouth, to feel the garden overflow
in word and rhythm.

Yet even in this moment of wonder, he is fully aware of his many weaknesses, his failures, his shame. As he remembers, “idly watch(ing) the digital clock matchstick away my time…,” he also remembers the power of love that unjailed him.

…Some all-embracing love
forgives my shortfall and I am glad to present
this reconciled account.

Before he moves on from this brief autumn reflection and re-immerses into the “entrepreneurial everyday rush(ing) forward” O’Siadhail offers an assessment and challenge to himself as well as his hearers.

…Why hedge our bets
or play too cool; detached we might miss
the passion to broaden the bore, deepen the joy?

As I pause on this humid summer morning to reflect on O’Siadhail’s “Autumn Report.” I find myself quickened to the heart. In the midst of a life the is rushing past us, we might do well to pause remember the glory of being alive, the opportunity to step forward into the risk of loving and living deeply.

Thomas Merton once wrote, “To hope is to risk frustration. Therefore, make up your mind to risk frustration.” In the midst of disappointments, in the midst of failures, in the midst of loss, we are tempted to retreat into the safety, into passionless pragmatism. But everyday each of us are invited to “broaden the bore, deepen the joy.”

Whether we work as accountants or actors, cashiers or clowns, all of us are alive. All of us have the privilege of being immersed into the vital stream of existence. All of us are invited to take the risk of loving deeply, living fully, bringing our whole selves into the splendor of the moment. Let us not lose this glorious moment in the ashes of regret or the disappointment of dreams not realized.

Instead, let us lift up our voices in thanksgiving the Creator of all and breathe deep the glory of this life He has given us. Let us follow O’Siadhail as he spends his life in rejoicing, blessing and praising.

…Please give me
a few moments more, just to exult in this
last reflux of summer, luxuriate its praise.
Then gambling on, I’ll bless the breeze and go.

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