Goals for 2015

Every year for the past six years I have made it my annual tradition to prepare a list of goals and principles to live by in the upcoming year. It’s a little more thoughtful and deliberate than a new year’s resolution (or at least I like to think so.) It started innocently enough, one year in which I was feeling particularly ambitious. My goals run the gamut in terms of scope. One year my goals might be to finish a novel or run a half-marathon and another year they might be to buy a new pair of glasses. As I said, pretty wide spectrum. Every December (or January if I procrastinate) I set aside time to think through what I want to accomplish in the upcoming year. If I’m completely honest I’m not much of a long-term planner. I often have a hard time seeing the “big picture”. I’m also decidedly risk-averse (read: cowardly).

I had already given some thought and jotted down a few notes on what I want 2015’s goals to be when I went for a run a week ago. [Sidenote: running is one of the “principles” that I have been able maintain consistently. Yay me!] I was trying to find a way to articulate why I do this exercise year after year if I were asked. I circled around the answer: it is a way to get me closer toward where I want to be. But then I began to ask myself: where do I want to be? What is my life aiming for? I mean its one thing to say that I want to write 500 a day on the way to finishing a novel, but is that what I really want? It is indeed a very noble goal but is that truly where I really want to be going?

I pondered and pondered and pondered some more and this is what I rested upon:

In 2015 I want to respond immediately when the Lord calls. At the end of the day; at the end of my life, that is what I want to identify me: did I respond to Jesus.

I don’t know about anyone else, but I am very good at dismissing the Lord’s calling. I will be leaving church and feel that I should pray for someone, but I get into my truck and drive home. At work, I will know that I should ask a deeper, probing question, but I shrug it off. It’s not that I don’t know what the Lord is asking me to do, it is rather that I have become adept at ignoring it or rationalizing it away. For instance, the other day I was going to see a movie with my parents (The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies if you must know) and as we drove though my parent’s neighborhood, I saw a woman sitting on her porch sobbing. Immediately I felt the desire to pull over and ask if she was okay. But… we were already cutting it close on the movie start time AND we were almost to my parent’s house already AND I wasn’t the one driving. So we drove on.

Who knows what the outcome would have been. She probably would have thought me crazy and shooed me off her property, but that wasn’t the point. The point wasn’t the validity or rationality or probability of the request, it was the one asking, namely the Lord. Will I respond when He asks me to?

I don’t know where you want to go in life. I don’t know what kind of person you want to be. I don’t know what goals you hope to accomplish in 2015, but I encourage you to thoughtfully articulate them. Give them attention. Think about the man or woman you want to be and set yourself down that path. The only way you can control who you’ll be in 10, 15, or 20 years is to become that person today, this day, this moment.

As for me, my aim is to 1) actively listen and 2) respond immediately when the Lord calls.

Too Much Stuff, Too Little Gospel

It’s about ten thirty in the evening. My wife and I stumble into our darkened house setting down our bags with a thud. My daughter, who at this point is far beyond tired, acts as if she has no skeletal structure and collapses into the floor in a heap as we attempt to get off her hat and coat. We are just returning home from a youth group Christmas party. It was a slow-burn affair culminating in a (most unexpected) chaotic game of Red Light, Green Light. It was good seeing the students who turned out for the event but it got me thinking: how much time, energy, and resources I spend putting together game nights, retreats, and overnighters. We have established patterns and systems that keep our ministry going throughout the year. Now don’t get me wrong, these systems are useful and serve the purpose of gathering us together (a Biblical command) but as I contemplate where the greatest percentage of my time goes I, wonder if my resources are being best allocated. If I’m honest, the bulk of my time goes into maintaining systems.

Systems serve the purpose of establishing rituals, streamlining procedures, and maintaining order. In the Christian life we each have our own systems: quiet times keep us reading the Bible, prayer gatherings keep us praying, tithing establishes the discipline of giving, gathering keep us meeting together. All of these things serve organizational and devotional needs, but is Jesus in them? It is a heart question that we all must ask ourselves.

If I’m honest, I’ve grown tired of maintaining systems for the sake of it. As much as I love ritual and routine, I’m afraid that they are keeping me from the Lord rather than leading me to Him. I’ve grown tired of events where we don’t talk about Jesus. As I grow older I’m less tolerant of talking around the edges of faith; of churchy banter. I’m tired of church gatherings that are more focused on small talk than seeing Christ move, on being transformed by the Word, and on praising the glory of the Lord. Mostly, I’m tired of the fickle shallowness of my own heart that elevates ritual over experience and routine over relationship.

As one involved in the planning of a ministry I can tell you (confess, really) how easy it is to create events for the sake of creating events; to gather for the sake of ourselves. The reason, at least for me, that this is so tempting is that it scares me to plan events (and our lives) about Jesus. It’s scary to gather solely for the purpose of knowing Scripture. It is scary to get together and ask questions deeper than what’s trending or about the results of some football game. It’s scary to ask in prayer what the Lord asks of us and be ready to do it. It is scary. I am scared, but I’m also dissatisfied. I’m dissatisfied of seeing how poorly my life lines up with the life of Jesus as demonstrated in the gospels.

This isn’t an indictment of systems or practices unless they get in the way of us responding to Christ; unless they insulate us from the life that the Lord truly wants us to live, a life of radical dependence. A gated community is great until it isolates us from the things Jesus wants us to be concerned with.

So what does this all mean? I’m afraid it means a break from the safety of our rituals and long-established patterns. There is no easy remedy for distrust other than trust. Often the desire to live a life for Christ demands a drastic reordering of priorities and a reimagining of what “normal” life looks like. A Christ-oriented life requires a state of expectancy for God’s movement. We cannot pray without expecting the Lord to answer. We cannot read without anticipating change. We cannot serve and still cling to any notion of pride. If we are for Christ, we can be for nothing else, most importantly, ourselves.

Lord, break us of our complacency.

Give us faith in the face of fear.

Give us the courage to abandon the good for the sake of the great.

The Futility of Regret

Darkness has a way of filling the void around us and boxing us in. There is something about the darkness that isolates us in a way that is divorced from reality. In the dark our inner world becomes the only world, or at least that’s the way it feels.  Those of us who have dealt with insomnia or altered sleep schedules know that one of the most frustrating and trying thing is to sit patiently yearning for sleep when sleep will not come. Blaise Pascal once said that “all of humanity’s stem from man’s inability to sit in a quiet room alone.” Those of us who know the debilitating power of darkness know these words to be painfully true in a number of ways. Too often the isolation of darkness releases our assailing demons. Ideas and fears stifled by the daylight often prevail in the sequestration of the night. The lusts of the flesh and doubts long stifled burst suddenly to life in the quiet hours.

Such has been my experience. Working overnight shifts have been difficult on my non-working hours. Often I find myself awake at unusual times battling the losing battle of imposing sleep that will not come. It seems so often that it is in times like these that the doubts and fears of our past take the opportunity of our weakness to show themselves like some shadowy slithering menace. We all have fears and regrets about our lives. Though we may successfully (and rightly) bring them into the light of Truth through Scripture it is in our times of strife that they reemerge, causing us to question our choices, our promise of hope, and indeed our very lives. I found myself battling regret in wee small hours of the morning yesterday. My intent had been to go hiking later in the morning but the darkness lingered on interminably and sleep seemed an insurmountable mountian. Assailed upon by hopelessness and regret, the very choices that I have made over the years became a bitter reminder of my own insufficiencies and failures. Lost in the tedium, of course, like the very light of day, were the blessings which the Lord has shown me; the ways in which He reveals Himself and His will to me in ways small and large. That is the power of darkness: isolation and fear. We all have things in our past that we wish we could have done differently. We all have areas of our pasts that we would prefer be secret even to those closest to us; expanses of our minds that we fight to crucify daily that would shock even those who know us best. Regret, as it so often does, fermented into bitterness and it was in this spirit that I set out to hike a nature area on the west side of Ann Arbor.

The park has an inclusive, almost claustrophobic feel, even in the leafless days of late autumn thanks in part to the numerous hills and ridges that bring the hiker in and out of gullies and small valleys. I traversed in the earliest daylight hours aimlessly only having the vague goal of reaching the farthest extremes of the park; anything to get away from the turmoil of my own thoughts. Hiking so often is just that for me, a chance to escape the troubles of life and the pressures of polite society. Most of the hike was a display of grey and brown as fallen leaves crunched underfoot with a crust of frost and leafless trees filled the horizon, however every once and a while the rising sun peaked over the buffeting hills and cast away the shadows. Hiking east I climbed a rise that was slightly more difficult that I had intended and was greeted with a view of the Huron River Valley, smoky in the morning air and glinting with the rays of the sun. Now I’m not stupid, I knew the geography of the area. I hadn’t misplaced the river but still it came as a contrast to the bland forest and its skeleton trees. There it was: something so beautiful and shimmering amid the brown monotony of the rest of the hike. I had thrown a Bible into my jacket pocket out of habit as I had left and now pulled it out and sat down. I have been (slowly) driving my way through Isaiah and turned to the day’s reading: “And yet, Lord, you are our Father. We are the clay, and you are the potter. We are all formed by your hand.”

It struck me in that moment the futility of regret. A thousand choices and sins might lay behind us like a vast wasteland, but if we know the Lord and set our sights on Him, nothing; not our past; not our doubts, can stop us. The Holy Spirit rescues us from the wreck of our lives. Decisions, good and bad, wise or unwise are meaningless unless done for the Lord. Conversely, even our limited, faltering steps move us closer if we have on our horizon the glory of the Lord. We are limited in our very nature: created things seeking to have the insight of their Creator. Of course we see only dimly the path before us, that is the point: to trust fully the one who draws us along, who leads us on. He has shaped us, molded us, and gifted us for His purposes. Even when those purposes seem elusive and shrouded in mystery our response should not be to lament our foolishly limited perspective but rather to trust in the Hand and Mind guiding us. Without Him, even our shrewdest decisions are nothing but a lesson in futility.

As I sat, the daylight exorcised the shadows from the wood. Unencumbered by the leafy canopy it immersed the forest in blazing light. The world seemed to swell as I viewed it but not in a way that isolated or frustrated. The expanse of blue sky, the shimmer of sunlight upon the river, the boughs of trees stretching out all spoke to me of the Lord’s providential will--- a plan free from shadows, darkness, and doubt. I would have sat there all day but the allure of the trail led me on. The promise of the unknown path before me led my steps. I think there’s a lesson in the walking.

My Heart is a Raging Fire (Once For All)

 My heart is a raging fire,

Ablaze by the spark of sin,

Covetous in every desire,

Devoid of hope within.

Even my best intentions

Find their root in sin.

What hope in my condition

But in complete abandon?

 Once for all you did died

 Once for all sin reconciled

Once for all my soul restored

 Once for all my life is yours

All these years I’ve wasted

In willful, wanton pride,

All for myself deluded.

Such a wasted life.

Once for all my flesh did die.

Once for all born again.

 In your grace I rise forgiven

With Thy Spirit favors win.

 Once for all you did die.

Once for all sin reconciled.

 Once for all my soul restored.

Once for all my life is yours.

In my brokenness and weakness

My life to you surrendered.

Take my days and hours in your service

My will to Thine is yielded.

In Thy eternal wisdom send me

 Out where’re Your Spirit make plain

In humility I’ll serve Thee

Your Kingdom glory be my aim.

More Like The Farmer

So I haven't written much lately, partly due to my new overnight shift and partly due to my own laziness. This morning's sermon by Pastor Glei reminded me of a poem I once wrote. So I shall share it with you.

Trust not as the hoarder

in cash nor pen

nor in the splendors of mortal men;

more like the farmer

who counts in bushels
the blessings sown
by winds and rains and hands unknown
to meet the needs of flesh and bone
grown by the grace of God alone.

Not by hands that toil or till
though in their place their purpose fill
no; but by the whim of One who sees
the purposes in bitter seeds
and the goodness in the roots of trees.
Of stones and clods that mar the earth
He sees but shadows of the coming mirth.
For all the streams flow from One source
though slow and winding be their course
and those in drought may pine away
for the blessing of some foregone day.
To those who fashion themselves kings:
Know the weight such appointment brings.
For He who raises in His time
will bring about His will through thine.
But to those who watch and pray
who take comfort in the coming day
the waters sweet which ebb and flow
will appear like springs from deep below
and quench the parched and green the land
bringing joy to the righteous man.

For sorrows in their time may yeild
a deeper faith and larders filled
by One whose stength eclipses thine
and knows the winding roads of time.
For luck and chance sculpt not the land
only the greatness of His plan.

Stars

Up until now I have contented myself to posting the non-fiction ramblings of my brain. They were interesting but also manageable. They were safe. Today I'm going to take a risk and post a short story called "Stars". It's a bit longer (but not so long as to curtail your plans for the evening). Be gentle.

The cracks are the hardest part. All the little bits of stuff get stuck in-between and then you have to go at it with jabbing motions to get them out. You can’t just sweep right over it even though that would be quicker. Sometimes-Nice Ron always wants things to be done quicker. He wants the trash taken out whenever it gets full but I like to do it at 12, 2, 4, and at 6 before I go home. I like sweeping because I can see what I’ve done. I can see the clean parts and where it’s still dirty. Sometimes it’s hard during the fall because the leaves blow all over the place. I like fall even though I have to wear my jacket with the hole on the left arm where the stuffing comes out a little. I like the way the cold air makes the tip of my nose cold. I like the way it smells—like leaves. It’s funny how leaves have a smell but you can’t really say what it smells like. They just smell like leaves.

There are lots of waves on the lake today. It’s Lake Michigan (M-I-C-H-I-G-A-N). I like to watch the boats out in the bay bob up and down, like when you go fishing. The wind causes that. It makes it seem like every wave has a little whipped cream on top. When I was little my dad used to spray the whipped cream in my mouth right out of the can until I couldn’t keep it in my mouth anymore. I would laugh and have to spit it out on the floor. Dad would smile. Sometimes I don’t like to think about my dad.

Sometimes-Nice Ron tells me to come back inside the restaurant because it looks like it’s going to rain. He is one of those funny people who isn’t young but isn’t old either. He could be younger than me or he might be a thousand years old. Sometimes I like to pretend that he is a thousand years old and he is a vampire or something. Vampires can live for a long time without looking old. I saw that in a movie once. There were werewolves too. Sometimes-Nice Ron isn’t a werewolf though. I saw him when there was a full moon. He drove me home because it was raining and the buses had stopped. It doesn’t look like rain. It just looks like grey.

I come back inside and hang up my coat in the break room. Susan has to remind me to wash my hands. “Every employee must wash their hands when returning to work.” Sometimes I forget.

I remember that I brought lasagna for lunch today. I’m happy because lasagna is on my top ten list of favorite meals. Only two and a half more hours until lunch. I like to read books on my break. Sometimes I don’t get all the words but I just skip over those parts. I don’t think I’m missing much. I read a story once about King Arthur and his knights. I liked the parts about the good knights fighting and going on quests. Quests are like jobs but people think you’re awesome for doing them. Sometimes I pretend that I am on a quest. ‘Sir Taylor rides out on his noble steed.’ But the story doesn’t end happy like it should. Arthur is a good king and he shouldn’t have died. Sometimes I don’t like the end of stories. Sometimes real life is like that too.

Sometimes-Nice Ron hands me a red bucket and asks me to wipe down the tables in the lobby. The water isn’t very warm. It’s supposed to be warm. I don’t say anything because sometimes when I point out things like that het gets angry and has to walk away. I like my job. I want to keep my job, so I don’t say anything to him about the water. There aren’t many people eating today. It’s only ten in the morning and we just switched over to lunch. Sometimes they let us have the leftover breakfast sandwiches that haven’t sold. Otherwise they just throw them out. That doesn’t seem right. There is a man and a woman sitting by a window. They’re still eating breakfast (even though its lunchtime). The man is drinking his coffee and looks kind of like my grandpa. The water in my bucket is dirty. There’s little pieces of egg floating around but I don’t want to say anything. The grandpa and the woman get up to leave. When they throw out their stuff I move over and wipe off their table.

There are three men eating near the entrance to the play area. I know I should remember one of them. It’s right on the tip of my brain. It feels like when you’re just about to sneeze but it won’t come out. Sometimes I want to go climb the structure (okay, all of the time) but I know I’m too big. Not too old though. Some of my friends at church play a game called ‘groundies.’ You play tag on a play structure with your eyes closed. It’s really fun but sometimes people don’t want me to play though.

The three men are laughing. I pretend to know what they are laughing about. I smile too. They see me and smile back but not the way my friends at church smile. Maybe they don’t go to church. Every Sunday somebody takes me out to lunch. It’s great because we go to places I don’t normally eat at. One time we went to a place with a big fish tank and I got to look at all the fish swimming and the starfish (which don’t look really alive) and the snake-y fish with its mouth open. I didn’t tell my friends but I was pretending in my head what it would be like to live underwater. I wouldn’t be a fish though. I would just be me except I could breathe. I would get to go down into the nooks and crannies where the fish go. I’d make a little house there. I didn’t want to leave when the man said that our table was ready. I went back to look when I went to bathroom. The starfish was in a different place (but I didn’t see it move).

The three men get up to throw out their trash. I go over to wipe off the table. They weren’t very neat. There are bits of fries and salt and pepper on the table. I sweep it all into my bucket and start to clean. At first I don’t hear anything because I’m trying to make sure I clean the whole table but then I see the familiar man coming over and saying something. I know that I should remember him but I can’t. Does he ride the bus with me? Does he work at Fun 4 All toys? I can’t remember and it makes me angry. He’s talking to me. “Hey retard, we’re not done.” I don’t’ know what he’s talking about so I keep wiping the table. “Idiot, we’re still eating.” He points to the table. Then I remember where I know him from. He is Steve … Steve what? Steve Grunaldi from Grand Haven High School. He was a year behind me in school. His face got fat. In school he had a locker on the east wing by where my friend Mike had his locker sophomore year. It was by Mrs. Rosenberg’s classroom. She had pizza parties on Fridays.

I see Sometimes-Nice Ron coming out from behind the counter. He’s saying something to Steve. Now I realize what I did wrong. They were coming back to their table and I wiped it down too fast. Steve and his friends are yelling at Ron. Everybody in the restaurant is staring. I’m mad at myself because Sometimes-Nice Ron has told me before that I need to wait until the customers have really gone before I clean the table. I know that. I know that.

Susan is yelling at the man from behind the register. She looks like she’s going to come out and talk to the men. Susan gets angry sometimes. One time I saw her fighting with her boyfriend in his car on her break. I was supposed to be sweeping but I stopped to watch. Her boyfriend looked at me. He had mean eyes. I didn’t like him. He threw a cigarette on the ground. I hate that even when it looks cool on the freeway when it sparks red. Ron is telling her to stay where she is. I don’t know if the men are staying anymore. I don’t know what to do.

One time when my dad and Miss Jessica were yelling at each other, dad threw a glass against the wall. It broke and I got scared and I ran and ran until the houses were gone and the fields started. I ran and saw the corn was really tall. Running past the corn made me feel like I was running super-fast. I ran for a thousand miles with the corn. I ran until my lungs felt like fire. I sat down and my world was gone. I was nowhere. The sun got all red and started to go down. It started to get dark and the shadows were everywhere and I got scared even though I know there aren’t such things as ghosts or anything. But it looked ghost-y. I was sitting down in the dirt of the road and no cars had come by. Maybe nobody would ever come by. I prayed and started to cry. I didn’t know what to do then either. I wished dad had never thrown that glass and I wished I hadn’t run and I wished mom had never left. Mom had soft brown hair. I saw headlights coming and I stopped crying because I didn’t want them to see me crying. The car stopped by me but I didn’t get up because they were Strangers but it was Miss Jessica and she drove me home. When we got home dad wasn’t there.

Steve is very angry. Ron is telling him to leave. Steve is swearing. He starts to walk away but he has to pass where I am standing. He walks real close to me and says “move it retard.” I try to get out of his way but I kind of trip on my own feet (like the time with the milk). I don’t fall but I have to let go of the bucket and catch myself and it sloshes on my pants and falls to the floor. There is water everywhere. A Big Mess. My pants are wet. I look like I peed myself. Steve and his friends laugh and leave and give Susan the bad finger which makes her even madder and she swears. Ron tells me not to worry about the bucket (even though I want to clean it up) and ways that I can go home which is nice cause it’s not even really lunchtime yet and that’s when it gets busy. I ask him if I can take the trash out anyway. He says okay. I always take the trash out before I go home. At home, Tuesdays are trash day. I do the recycling too.

I put on my jacket and remember to bring my lasagna home. It’s still lasagna day even if I’m not at work. There aren’t many bags of trash but I throw them in the cart anyway and wheel it out to the trash corral. Cows live in corrals. The trash smells so I hold my breath. The sky is still grey but there is no rain. On the lake the ships shimmer like shiny, friendly stars. I feel like I’m floating there, holding my breath like a balloon or a bobber on the water. Floating, floating, floating, never sinking until I can’t take it anymore and breathe like it’s the first breath I’ve ever taken.

Oceans, Sacred and Wild

All sound is drowned out by the constant crash of the surf against the rocky shore. Looking out upon the waters one sees a vast canvas of the sea, set about with whitecaps. It is perpetual motion; an undulating expanse as wave after wave driven by wind and tide press ever onward. An island, lush with trees lit with the fires of autumn sits like a sentinel on the horizon, nameless, uninhabited, a touchstone against the backdrop of the ever-shifting waters. As I watch, the sun, unseen on the land, paints the water with an even more vibrant shade of aquamarine. There is a chill in the air but the rays upon the water gives the impression of a hot, shimmering summer’s day. This is Lake Huron.

I will admit that from my land-locked home, I often forget the grandeur and vastness of the four great seas that surround me (other states lay claim to Ontario). I see them rarely, most often catching a passing glance at southern Erie as we drive through downtown Cleveland. How little I regard these majestic giants. Looking out upon the face of any of the Great Lakes one would be hard-pressed to differentiate them from an ocean save the lack of the briny tang in the air. One can only imagine the thoughts of those courageous explorers as they stood on their yet undiscovered shores, or set sail on their unplumbed depths. I’m sure that many, upon hearing the great clash of waters from a distance, became convinced that they had reached the farthest extreme of this new world.

We struggle to appreciate our mighty neighbors these days. How can they compare to the length and breadth of the seven seas upon which the world’s commerce is borne and under which the lightless depths hold incalculable mysteries? We know so much these days (too much perhaps). We can see on a map or from a satellite the farthest extremes of the world. We can compare the lakes surrounding us with the great seas of Northern Europe or the gulfs of the southern hemisphere. We learn the mileage and volume and surface area. But do we comprehend? With our vast stores of information can we come to a place of understanding the size and scope? We lose sight of the enormity of life inhabiting a single cove in the grand scheme of an entire sea. This affects all areas of our lives but is particularly insulting to our unique borders that bear the stigma of familiarity.

Let us look again, with eyes anew, on our lakes and try to see them not as geographical objects but as vast communities of life; of beauty; crafted by Divine hand to reflect unseen glory.

Michigan: the Hollywood starlet, boasting a metropolis and the golden coast of the elite, whose northern extremes boast nationally recognized wonders. The crystal blue waters and sandy beaches lure millions to its shores every year. Michigan you may be our vacation home but we know you so little. What do we know of the plovers who nest on your shores? Have we witnessed the petulant winds sculpting your dunes? Forgive us if we have taken you as a trinket without truly seeking to grasp your grandeur; without seeking your soul.

Erie: maligned and forgotten. You became to us a commodity to be traded and in so doing we tarnished your gown. We no longer looked at you as a thing of beauty but as a means of transport, a battleground for our wars. You bore the ore that fed our pride. You bore the very means by which we forgot you. Let us see you again as you were; as you can be again, without our reckless stain upon you.

Huron: I confess ignorance of you. You existed in my mind as an emerald enigma and I sought you not. Teach me, if you would, even as I sit upon your rocky shores. Show me how to appreciate your power.

Oh mystery deep and foreboding are you Superior, most ruthless of your siblings. You are to us a foreign world, misty and cold. Your bones run deep and your ancient shores speak of secrets long withheld. We sought to tame you yet you would not be broken. It was we who broke upon your shores and sank beneath your waves. Bitter and alien you seem to us. Let us ponder but a little further if you will allow, that we might see the deep things of the world as you do, fully grasping the profound solemnity.

Ontario you seem to me a far-flung cousin rather than a sibling. Your shores belong to another land; another time. Speak, if you will. We will listen. We will hear your story.

As the sun sets upon the sunrise coast and I shiver in my sleep, let us together pledge to gaze with renewed vigor and openness upon our long forgotten inland seas.

The Worst Singer in the World

This morning during worship service at my church I sat in front of the absolute worst singer I’ve ever heard. Hardly a single note was on key. I’m not a particularly musical person myself but I feel like I can hold my own with my voice, such as it is, but this woman was rough. I had to fight back the urge to turn around and look her in the eyes. To be honest I didn’t want to match a face to the voice. I was already being pretty critical and I didn’t want to judge her every time I saw her. At one point I wasn’t even aware of the band or of the congregation singing. All that surrounded me was a sea of cringe-inducing vocal exercises. This woman was ruining my experience and disrupting my world

Lately I’ve been really troubled with the notion that Christians are brothers and sisters. See, I’m an only child without any cousins so I grew up in a very small circle of family. When I became a Christian and started getting acquainted with the rituals, routines, and eccentricities of church life I came to view gatherings as services. In an array of leadership capacities I learned to plan events and schedule the elements of worship: songs, prayers, sermons. Ingrained in me has been the desire to iron out the wrinkles and deficiencies. The wandering warbler sitting behind me was definitely a wrinkle.

It’s so easy to fall into an attitude of performance that takes us away from the truth of the matter: namely that believers in Christ are brothers and sisters in Christ. We are family. My lack of close family; of siblings, has always tripped me up in this regard. But the Bible repeatedly calls us to view each other in such terms. It is enmeshed in the language of the epistles. We have been adopted by the Lord into a family of aliens and strangers. We have been brought from a life of sin into a new life in Christ. Our old lives are dead and we live new lives in a new reality; a new family. We are not simply people who happen to be in the same place at the same time. How would we respond differently to our worship services if we could view them as family gatherings? How would we respond to our differences if we didn’t view our relationships as disposable but rather built upon the bonds of family? I have an inkling that we would be a little quicker to give each other grace; that we would be a bit more willing to gloss over arguments and controversies; that if we knew we had to live together at the end of the day we might be more inclined to talk to each other and really care about what our friends are saying--- because those are the things that you do for family--- or should. When the person in need is a brother or a sister or cousin, you go a little farther; you dig a little deeper; you sacrifice more to their benefit. If those are the things that are true of biological families how much more should that be true for those of us who follow Christ; who have chosen by our own wills to enter into a new family?

If I can see the person in the pew next to me as my brother; as one chosen and redeemed by Christ, then maybe I can bring myself to actually talk to him and actually care about what’s going on in his life instead of simply shaking his hand during ‘fellowship’ time. If I can see my pastor as a brother entrusted by God with particular skills and a particular calling, then maybe I won’t view him with cynicism and mistrust. If the teens in the back row aren’t just loud, annoying, and frustrating strangers but instead my sons and daughters, nieces and nephews then perhaps I can find it in myself to be a model for them, to give them the grace that Jesus gives them. If only I saw our worship services as family reunions rather than sterile exercise then maybe I’d feel less alone; maybe I’d be more willing to open myself up; maybe I could feel peace among friends. If only…

The song is ending. There is an acapella chorus. I am overwhelmed by the droning voice behind me. I turn to look my sister in the eye so I’ll never view her as a stranger again. If only I can see her as family then maybe I can sit through another song.

What Will You Remember of Me?

This evening I indulged in a pleasure that I wish were more a part of my regular existence: I finished my evening sitting in front of a crackling fire in my fireplace. With my feet warming on a stool, my eyes pass over the bookshelves lining the walls. My attention is drawn to a simple wood carving of a bald eagle. Having just seen this very animal earlier in the day I am aware of the many ways in which the carving differs from the real thing. The eye is too perfectly round. The beak too curved. One of its talons is twisted unnaturally. Its feet rest upon a of piece driftwood which has been broken and hastily reassembled.

Yet the eagle sits upon my shelf overlooking the expanse of my living room not for its perfection but for its creator. The figure was carved by my grandfather, now departed. It is for that reason that this figure is more than a sum of its parts. It remains a physical memory of his life and effort. As I ponder these things I am reminded of how few tokens of his life I possess. In fact, my memories of his life are far fewer that I would like. I can already feel my own memories of him slipping into the fog of history. What do I truly have that encapsulates this man’s life? What will be remembered of him?

My thoughts, as if bidden by an unseen oarsman are swiftly swept onto my own existence. What will be remembered of me? It is the question that plagues Man with a doggedness only equaled by the certainty of his own mortality. Our days are like a vapor. Our flesh is like grass. Here today and gone tomorrow. What will become of us? What will become of me?

Even in the limited sphere of my life I ponder what of me will remain. My daughter, now nearly two, what would she remember of me if I were to vanish from this earth? Would I be a mere carving on the mantelpiece to her? Would she remember the way I yelled at her when she poured a drink on the floor? Would she remember the times I was too occupied by some pointless news story to sit down and play with her? Would she remember my worries and anxieties; the way the weaknesses and sins of my past haunted me? What of my doubts and fear? My grumbling and complaining? What memories am I making for her? What kind of legacy am I leaving?

Paul sets a mighty example for us when he writes to “Rejoice in the Lord always; again I say rejoice! Let your gentle spirit be known to all men. The Lord is near. Be anxious for nothing; but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all comprehension, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”

Will this be my legacy? Will I be known by my trust in the Lord or by my doubting? How am I building my legacy? On the presupposition of my own efforts? Or am I building it upon the character of the Lord? My own efforts will fail. I should know that by now. My own projects, as successful as they might seem, are but a passing wind, lost very quickly to the swiftness of time. What will remain? The Lord only. My only legacy is in Him and in my trust in Him. Will my daughter see that in me? Will she in my life the majesty of my Creator? Could she discern from the memory of me the character of God? As I rest my eyes this night, the question resonates: what will she remember of me?

True Acceptance

This post is a bit of a departure as it is a talk I gave recently for a student ministry overnighter.

Do you remember your first day of school?

I’m not sure how much I remember, but this is what I’ve been told about my first day of first grade. I was going into a new school building. My mom came to drop me off at Mrs. Fellman’s class. She took me inside, got me situated, my little desk, those little chairs, and as must happen eventually, she turned to leave. As many kids do, I started bawling. I grabbed my mom’s leg and wouldn’t let go. Nothing that my mom or the teacher could do would comfort me. Other kids are playing with toys and running around. I am causing a scene. I was inconsolable. Then the door opens and in walks Robbie Swanson. Robbie had been my best friend since we were three. I saw Robbie and stopped crying and happily went off to say hello. I found someone who knew me.

Or perhaps you remember your first day of Jr. High or High School.

I remember going into each of my new classes and scanning the room to see if there was anybody I had gone to elementary school with.

What is it that makes us do those things?

What makes us look for people that we know; who know us?

I would argue that we are hardwired to have friends. We’re hardwired to seek out people that we feel comfortable around. We need each other. We want to be accepted by people. We want our friends to turn to us and say that we’re worthwhile; that our lives mean something.

Think about it, little kids are all about feeling accepted. If they make a piece of art out of macaroni noodles or something they’ll come running to mom or dad or grandma or grandpa and they’ll be waving their masterpiece. My daughter is almost two and she stays with my mom while I’m at work and she does this all the time. I’ll come home from work and my mom will say ‘show daddy your picture’. And she’ll run over and wave it in front of me and start shouting something like: “it it hop see it hop”. I look at it and it’s just a smear of red paint and I’m like “its good honey”. And my mom will say “she painted a bunny”. “bunny, bunny, hop” Gotcha.

That’s how we are as little kids. We want someone to tell us that what we did was good. That’s why it’s so dangerous when people twist and manipulate that desire to be accepted in children. Or for too many of us, sometimes our parents don’t give us that kind of acceptance. Adults can do incredible damage by insisting that their children have to succeed to ‘earn’ their love and acceptance.

Some people even go so far as to say that unless we feel accepted, we can’t love other people or achieve our potential.

I want to look at some common examples of how we show that we all seek acceptance in our daily lives.

We’re not kids. I mean I’m certainly not a kid.

We can see this desire to be accepted in our own lives too though can’t we?

Have you ever had one of your friends get into a relationship that is just toxic? First they isolate themselves and spend time only with their boyfriend or girlfriend. Then everything becomes about the other person. What would so-and-so think about this? I can’t go, so-and-so might not be able come. We stand there helplessly and look at their lives and see them making bad choices and we can’t say anything about it?

Why does this happen?

It happens when they get so wrapped up in being accepted by that one person that the rest of their life gets all out of whack. They stop seeing the warning signs and only see the need to be accepted by that person.

I’ll be honest, when I was in Jr. High and Sr. High, I was all about having a girlfriend. I mean it drove me. I had a really messed up viewpoint where I viewed every girl as a “potential” girlfriend. I’d get stuck on one particular girl and spend all my time obsessing about her. I perfected my lame way of flirting: the “I look at you and then look away just as you look at me.” It was really lame but I had the timing down to a science. The thing was, I really never even got a girlfriend until I graduated high school, but I spent so much of my time and thought into finding one girl who would look at me and go “I like you. I want to spend my time with you.”

Lets look at another example of ways we show that we’re longing for acceptance.

I graduated high school in the year 2000. A lot has changed since then. There’s this thing called [squint and look for the word] “the internet”. I think it’s on the computer.

Probably my favorite thing that’s changed since I was in high school is that being a nerd is cool. It’s cool to read comic books and like superheroes.

When I was in high school this wasn’t the case. There was a comic book store a few blocks from my school and on Saturdays I remember having my mom drive me down there. I always felt like I was on some undercover sting operation. We’d park out front and then I’d walk up the store and pretend like I was just walking down the street and look up at the sign like “oh hey, this is the first time I’ve ever seen this type of store, let me go in and see what it is that they sell”.

I was so embarrassed to be seen reading comics and playing card games. I never talked to anyone but my closest friend or my parents about them. I was hiding that part of myself from everybody else because I didn’t want them to reject me.

This is another sign that we’re all really seeking acceptance: we change parts of ourselves that we don’t think others are going to like or accept.

Have you ever found yourself talking to someone and thinking: “I can’t say X because this person won’t understand” or maybe you don’t think about it consciously like that but you kind of guard yourself to the point where you only talk about certain things with certain people. You’ve got a line and you can talk and talk and talk right up until you get to the line and then: stop. We all do this. I don’t care how popular you are or how much you enjoy talking with others. We hold parts of ourselves back because we don’t think that people will accept us.

Ok this is the point in the talk where you go: so what?

It’s one thing to see how we all are seeking someone to accept us; seeking someone to say “I like you just the way you are”. But how does that affect our lives?

Let me suggest two ways that we can take this knowledge and apply it to our lives:

The first way I think we can learn from this is by simply understanding that we all have this desire for acceptance.

In our own lives we can keep ourselves out of some really hurtful situations by knowing that we seek acceptance. We can keep ourselves from getting into some toxic relationships by recognizing when we might be leaning too heavily into a boyfriend or girlfriend. If we’re really aware of our need, we can catch ourselves before we get into situations that have the possibility to be hurtful.

We can also keep ourselves from becoming emotional leeches by recognizing that we’re really seeking acceptance and finding healthier outlets for that feeling.

We can also learn to be better friends. When we recognize that the people around us want to be accepted, it allows us to think about them first and try and be accepting for them. For example, if you find yourself in a situation where there is a new person in your group, if you know that they probably want to be accepted, you can do simple things like asking them questions and keeping them involved.

Going along with that, one of the ways that I’ve been learning to look out for the concerns of others is to simply be involved in every conversation that I’m part of. Instead of thinking of the next thing you’re going to say, be involved in what your friends are saying. When you pay attention to what they’re saying, you’re telling them that you care about them and that you accept them as valuble people.

So far we’ve looked at this idea of being accepted and seen how each of us longs to be known and love by others. We want someone to come along side us and say “I like you. I want to spend time with you”. We’ve seen how that desire will drive us to some pretty unhealthy places like staying in bad relationships or censoring ourselves instead of standing up for what we believe it.

I think that this longing to be accepted goes far deeper than simply having a big group of friends or having a loving boyfriend or girlfriend. Even if you could have all those things and feel loved and accepted at home, it still wouldn’t be enough. I mean no one knows 100% if what goes on inside our heads. No other person can truly know us and therefore no one can accept us 100%.  And if we’re honest with ourselves, there are parts of ourselves that we’re not proud of. There are things we’ve done that we don’t even like; things we don’t want anyone else to know about because they show just how messed up we are.

We long for acceptance because we’re actually longing for something far bigger than merely the acceptance of a friend. We’re longing to be accepted by God.

God is the only one who knows 100% of our thoughts; the only one who can see us for who we really are: the good, the bad, the ugly. We want someone to accept us 100% but God is the only one who is capable of doing this.

I don’t know what preconceptions you have about God. I don’t know if you view God as some supreme court justice in heaven who’s just looking to punish you for everything you do wrong. I don’t know if you even believe in God. But let me assure you of this. There IS a God and He WANTS to have a relationship with you that is loving and accepting. He knows everything you’ve done and still wants to know you. But we need to be honest about who we are and what we’ve done. We need to accept that we’re jerks a lot of the time and that we’ve done a lot of things that are wrong. We’ve done a lot of evil and horrible things. We’ve lied and cheated. We’ve lusted and tried to fill the holes in our lives with a lot of junk.  We deserve punishment.

 But God wanted to have a relationship with us so bad that He sent his only Son Jesus to take all the punishment that we deserved. That’s how bad he wants to have a relationship with us. In fact, the Bible says that BEFORE we get our lives together, BEFORE we even try to live a life that is pleasing to God. WHILE we were still helpless and pathetic and evil. That’s when Jesus died for us. He didn’t say “hey, get your life together, then come and talk to me”. No, he said, I want to have a relationship with you so badly that I’m willing to die for you even BEFORE you care about me. That’s sacrifice. That’s someone who loves you.

That’s what really drew me into a relationship with Jesus. I suffered from anxiety disorder and depression throughout my jr. high and high school and that kept me from forming any real friendships. All I wanted was to be accepted by someone. It was really that desire for acceptance that led me from a head knowledge about God to a place where I was willing to give up my life to accept what Jesus had done for me.

So I want to ask you today, are you seeking acceptance? Let me encourage you to go to Jesus with that desire. He’s the only one who knows us fully and loves us enough to die for us.

The Northern Lake

At dusk the deer venture down to drink and browse on the shrubbery that grows along the shore: a wary doe, a yearling fawn, and overlooking it all, a vigilant, spike buck. His eyes and ears ever watchful as the pair in his charge happily gorge themselves on young shoots. In the placid water, the trio is inverted reaching down rather than up. The doppelgänger buck’s nose twitches, testing the air, its ears turning this way and that.

Somewhere off in the gathering darkness of the forest an owl begins its evening reveries, a mournful cry echoing across the expanse. The spike turns his head in the direction of its origin then returns to browsing.

Though the gloom has already returned to the forest floor, the lake still shimmers with the sun’s fading rays, hovering just above the tree-line. The uttermost branches of the towering pines and golden aspens that ring the lake are aglow in brilliant autumn’s fury even as their roots descend into shadow. The wind bends their tops bringing the tannic aroma of pine.

Branches crack somewhere in the distance; some forest denizen abroad; perhaps a marten or a fisher surveying a night’s meal. A scuttle issues from a tree, a raccoon descends for a night of childlike revelry.

The deer are gone.

Such is the drama of the northern lake, a uniquely idyllic scene known by those who venture forth into the wilds of the north extremes. They retain some of the mystery lost by their southern cousins to development and the encroachment of man. Still here, if one is willing to heave brave the extremes both meteorological and entomological, one may find the remnants of our boreal past. Few pleasures of modern life can rival the pristine wonders here. The television cannot equal the dramas played out in the wilderness. Radio cannot match the pervasive shush of the wind confronting the leaves in perpetual assault. The internet does not hold mastery over the sense of all-encompassing awe when we are able to quiet ourselves for five minutes in the shadowy domain of the forest floor. Perhaps one day these mysteries too will be lost, a relic of some former unenlightened age. We would do well to weep at the possibility of a time when development or attention span will place there outside our grasp. Pity it will be if children grow up without wondering with baited breathe what creature was stirring outside their tent.

Today though, these mysteries are still possible and can be ours if we can quiet ourselves long enough to comprehend them. A balm and elixir they still can be to our harried, frantic souls. If only we were to set aside so-called comfort for solitude. We live our lives destitute of wonder; starving for the natural world, which has become all too detached from us. Too often have we sacrificed peace for convenience. It may yet be remedied, if this insidious disease has not too far advanced, by returning, if even for a day, an hour, a moment to the beauty of creation.

The sun has departed. Shadows fall upon the cool, silent water from whose depths springs bubble up from the aether. Mayflies dance above the surface, daring ever closer in their bold pursuit. Perhaps tomorrow a loon will glide in gentle repose over the water, confident in its solitude. Perhaps its haunting cry will echo through the wilderness. Let us stay awhile and see…

The Blessing of Delay

I have some pretty bad days. On the low days I often feel beaten down by the troubles of my life and the anxieties of my mind. There are many days that the victory is simply persevering; pushing through to another day. There are times when my own striving against sin seems to become a war of attrition, or worse --- a quagmire. There are nights I close my eyes pleading for the Lord’s power to get through another day.

In addition to the trials and temptations, I am particularly affected by the pains of the world and of those around me. I’ve always been this way, even before I came to know Christ I can remember attending a party where the guests were engaged in all sorts of licentiousness and promiscuity. Even in my pre-regenerate state I was overcome by the sin and evil present there. I knelt on the ground in pain for my friends. In fact it was this very sense of innate sinfulness of the world that led me later to seek Christ.

Similarly, I am affected by the pain and ungodliness of the world. Many days after hearing of war and famine; of precious men and women pursuing ungodly paths, I am stricken and tempted to despair. When the righteous are persecuted, oppressed, and ridiculed I ask: “How long Lord must we endure?” This is the thought I often return to:  a yearning for the day of reconciliation when we will see our Lord Jesus face to face; when all pain will be wiped away.

Perhaps, however, I am approaching this world all wrong. In 2 Peter we read: “The Lord is not slow to fulfill his promise as some count slowness but is patient toward you, not wishing that any should perish, but that all should reach repentance” and later “count the patience of our Lord as salvation.” Could it be that in my weariness and dissatisfaction I am mistaking unhappiness for blessing? Perhaps in the fishbowl world of my own self-absorption I am missing the patience of God in light of my own trivial, temporary discomforts? In truth the fact that we are still in this world (and thus experiencing the pains that come with that) is evidence not of the Lord’s absence or forgetfulness but rather a testament to his patience and desire to see men and women saved. When I realize this, I am made aware of my own narrow selfishness and challenged to praise the Lord for his reticence rather than condemn Him for His perceived inaction. What would He be able to do through me if my eyes were open to my role in bringing about God’s purposes instead of clouded by my own pride?

First Impressions

I’ll be honest; I didn’t have the best reaction when I found out that my wife and I were going to have a baby. She broke the news to me while on vacation in a hotel outside of Cincinnati. When she told me, I spent an hour shut up alone in the hotel bathroom listening to a Reds-Nationals game through the flimsy door while dealing with my conflicted emotions. Not the greatest start to fatherhood. I’d like to think that I’ve grown a bit since then. I hope. Once I’d gathered myself and wrestled my emotions, there was one thing that came to my mind; a vision really: I imagined myself hiking with my child; pointing out the animals and natural features to their wild-eyed wonder. It was that image that helped me push past the fear and doubt that plagued our pregnancy.

My daughter, now nearly two, surprised me last Friday night. I had just persevered through another work week, and pushed past a disappointing set of circumstances. The summer had faded into autumn a day before as the temperature had dropped and the scent of fall was in the air. I needed to hike. I needed to get out; to get lost; to be surrounded by a world larger than myself. So I packed up my things and as I was walking out the door my daughter came up to me.

“Hiking,” she said in her sweet, musical voice, “I hiking.” I told her that she needed to stay and eat dinner and that daddy was going to be back real soon. She didn’t take well to that notion. She began whining, saying “I want go hiking.” My wife and I just gave each other bemused glances. My daughter went downstairs and began tugging at my backpacking equipment. In the end I managed to convince her that she needed to stay and eat. I promised that we would go hiking tomorrow and with that I was off.

True to my word, I waited anxiously for her to wake from her nap the next day. Once awake, I packed some goldfish, a sippy cup, and tossed her backpack into my truck.

I wish I could see things anew through my daughter’s eyes. I wish I could understand the wonder with which she experiences things that I have known for nearly thirty years. I listened as she mimicked the cry of the Blue Jay perched high atop the skeleton of an ancient oak. She laughed uproariously as I franticly tried to shake myself free of a spider that had climbed up my arm. I saw the joy in her eyes as she tried to count the ducks resting on the surface of the impounded stream. “One, two, five…” I heard her protests when I tried to walk away before she had finished counting (which is kind of funny since she can only count to ten). I wish desperately that I could find within myself the joy that seems to be brimming in her. So much of the anxiety and frustration I experience on a daily basis is born from a deficiency of joy. My daughter schools me. I need to hold my life with open hands; to view the world with the eyes of wisdom but also to view the world with the freshness of a child. Let me have the veil of cynicism removed to see the mystery of the world anew.

A Theology of Wilderness

Within a mile of my home is Ford Lake and I often find myself strolling along its southern shoreline in the afternoon hours. The lake was first created in the 1930’s when auto magnate Henry Ford dammed the Huron River to provide hydroelectric power for one of his plants. Today the lake is a beautiful, if somewhat polluted, reminder of how nature quickly reclaims spaces abandoned by mankind.

The shore upon which I walk runs the length of one of the city’s largest parks and is largely populated by oak and maple trees which, in the heart of autumn, rustle lyrically in the breezes off the lake. In the summer, blackbirds carouse in a nearby marsh preening and posturing in amorous display. Winter brings an ever-present carpet of snow upon which the tracks of rabbits crisscross in manic patterns that bespeak their erratic flights. All of this still seems foreign to me though I have experienced it for five such cycles now.

I was raised in a suburb of Detroit in a thoroughly developed neighborhood and though my family exposed me daily to the natural world around me: the squirrel busily content beneath the boughs of an oak tree or the life that scuttled along the bottom of a seasonal pond, my experiences with Nature largely came through vacations the family took into the great forest of northern Michigan. There exists in my heart a well of love for the northern Oak-Hickory forest of which my state is so blessed. The haunting call of a loon upon a placid lake seems to bring inexplicable peace to my heart. The scent of a pine forest urges me ever to explore the wilderness further; pressing onward into the unknown and the uncivilized.

All of these things however, were far from my normative experience. The closest opportunity to surround myself with the vastness and beauty was a forty five minute drive to Kensington Metropark, which, for a child without means of personal transportation and whose parents were both employed outside the home, meant that such trips were a rare treat.

When I married and bought a home, I had few expectations of the natural world. It was only after we had moved in that I even began to realize that I lived within walking distance of a lake ---a real lake! How far removed I was from the uniformity of suburbia. I have only to drive five minutes to reach country fields and dirt roads. As it turns out, there is even a nature preserve within a five minute drive.

All these blessings lead me to my walk beside the lake. Despite the relative proximity to a bustling highway and busy condominiums the depth of this glade affords me the luxury of illusion. For me, the natural world holds a power beyond compare. It is a refuge, rejuvenation, refreshment. Surrounded by water and trees I can see the handiwork of God. I understand (and affirm) that Man is God’s creation as well (his penultimate creation, in fact) yet the natural beauty of Man is lost amid the sin-stain. The works of Man: great art, architecture, medicine all bear the fingerprint of their Creator, but it is sub creation once removed. Too many times I the sins and disappointments of the world send me fleeing for the purity and solitude of God’s creation; a creation that exists and flourishes in the absence, and indeed often in spite of Man. Among the pines I am overcome with the closeness of the Creator and marvel at the works of His hands. Even in the most mundane details: the recesses of a stone, the ripples radiating out upon the waters, I sense the handiwork of the Divine.

As I walk along the fertile banks, my eyes are inexorably drawn to the noxious elements of Man. I see an empty potato chip bag half-submerged amid the weeds. I see bottle caps hammered into the rock-hard ground. Most ubiquitously the discarded beer can in various shades of decay at the base of a bush, its label fading from the years of solar abuse, evidence to the longevity of such refuse. I am always taken aback by the wantonness of such abuses. I see in them the very epitome of Man’s corruptive sinfulness. Once given the mandate to cultivate and manage the Earth, our rebellion now infects not only our moral and social spheres but even the land itself whose soil once fell from the fingertips of God. We need not look to prisons or far-off dictatorships to feel the indictment of our crimes. We should only look at the rotting remains of discarded insulation that sullies the canvas of creation. Depravity never stays confined to our hearts.

As fallen men and women we bring our brokenness into every place we reside. In our selfishness and pride we damage both each other and the landscape. It is only through the redeeming work of Christ that restoration can come to the land and our lives.

My heart will always reside where the air is cool; where the branches sway gently; where fish drift slowly beneath the surface of the water. Though the affairs and troubles of the world often encroach upon the fringes of the Wild, those who value still such things must continue to find solace there. Those who can still discern the fingerprints of the Lord must persevere in seeking them while they may yet be found.

Lenses

Lenses are really big right now. I tend to be a photographic purist who tries to capture the essence of the true object in the photo. Filters and lenses use mechanical or technological means to alter the image. What you see with your eyes is not what appears on film or screen. With the advent of Instagram and other social media sites that streamline the photographic process. Simple filter apps allow the user to alter any (and seemingly every) image until it resembles their artistic vision. These filters and lenses change the way we view the artwork; they change the way we perceive reality.

We, too, have lenses through which we view the world. These are our worldviews and philosophies. Sometimes we can identify and expound upon them. Often though, the roots of our worldviews are deeper and less accessible. They shape how we live on a very practical level. Our habits and behaviors are shaped not by our intellectual assents but by the lens through which we view the world. Very often, though our words may speak of truth, our thoughts and actions remain firmly rooted in faulty lenses; faulty perspectives. We may protest by creedal assent but our behaviors speak something closer to truth.

For the follower of Christ, we claim our identity in Jesus. We speak the creeds. We teach truth. Yet so often our own habits and sins betray our words. Too often we operate through a lens which is not compatible with the gospel. We live lives in private that are defined by doubt, sin, feelings of helplessness and insecurity. Though we would firmly rebuke such attitudes if confronted in the pulpit, we live lives of spiritual poverty. Peter wrote that “His divine power has granted to us everything pertaining to life and godliness.” We go throughout our lives under faulty pretenses. For the Christian, our identity HAS been changed, past tense. We HAVE (past tense, again) been given power to live godly lives. We must endeavor with all our being to rebuke the false lenses that cause us innumerable pains and powerlessness. Peter goes on to write that: “He who lacks these qualities [the power pertaining to life and godliness] is blind or short-sighted, having forgotten his purification from his former sins.” Ouch. Peter’s words wound us because they illuminate the depth of the deception in which we so often live; the lies we so often believe. Let us live, with enduring focus on diffusing the false heart-beliefs that shape our experience and deprive us of the power to live joyfully as Christ’s ambassadors

The Finch

The finch lands daintily on the feeder giving a few wary glances to the left and to the right, its rosy breast made more prominent by the warm glow of the late afternoon sun. My yard is a flurry of activity as dozens of birds scramble for one last meal before the day’s end. Pugnacious house sparrows clamber for seating at my tube feeder each evicting the other with scarcely a morsel consumed. My ever –present companions, the mourning doves stroll absent-mindedly beneath, pausing to peck casually at the seeds dislodged by the tumultuous sparrows. Throughout the seasons these doves remain denizens of my yard and can often be found perched picturesquely atop my shed or on the gable of my neighbor’s house. My daughter lovingly mimics their contented coo. On the fringes of the yard, alert and aloof, a female cardinal in her muted (but still regal) attire discerns her moment to dart in for a bite. At the first hint of trouble though she is gone in a flash of rouge, off to the safety of one of the bushes that grow along the fence line.

My friend the finch, though, is my favorite perhaps because in his nervous energy I can see an echo of my own. Or perhaps because despite his keen distrust of the din and clatter he still returns each night to the nyjer seeds I provide. I admire his resolve. Less gaudy than his golden cousins, the simple house finch seems satisfied and humble.

What does his innocent brain comprehend? Does he know that in a few short months the days will grow lean and every moment will be singularly focused on survival? Does he feel the air beginning to chill his bones? Does he watch in envy at the columns of geese embarking on their long migration south? Do his wings ache for the freedom of discovery?

No. The finch is content with the day, not living in fear of the unknown; the perilous future; not hording to provide for some unforeseen disaster. Little does he concern himself with the scandalous affairs of his neighbors: their pompous adornments; their hurried endeavors.

I marvel at the simplicity of the life outside my window for the life within is so often the opposite: complexity born from circumstance and, more disturbingly, complexity born from my own inner turmoil and sin; my own brokenness and fear. In truth, I envy my friend the finch, which, in his innocence, is summarily exempt from the sin-stained consequences of his actions. Of course the price of this innocence is his very soul. Yet I look out at the finch at the feeder and the trust he has in the ability of the feeder to remain full in perpetuity. So much dependence on the whims of an unseen hand. Still he finds the contentment in his day to sing for the joy of singing as the last rays of light disappear behind the trees. So sing, feathered teacher, I still have much to learn.

The Campfire

What is it about the campfire that transfixes the eyes and hearts of men? What power lies locked in those smoldering embers that draws and opens the soul? We sit in the day’s waning hours bound to it by a force more powerful than a desire for heat. We are bound to a sort of community of flame. In a world of illumination what power does this conflagration still hold on us?

The only comparison is the pull that television and other visual media have on us. How many of us have watched with perverse interest at the way the eyes of a child are drawn to the flashing images on the screen? How many of us, if we were honest, would confess to feeling that same pull ourselves? How many conversations have been derailed; how many conflicts begun because our attention leaned into its siren song? Visual media often draws us into isolation because our minds cannot forebear to alight on anything else. The flames however speak to us in a different language. Like the tongues of fire in the book of Acts they speak in a way that we can understand and comprehend translating themselves into the deepest questions of our heart. In the light of the campfire deep recesses are unlocked and the secret murmurs of the heart are heard. Far from the frame-a-second barrage from television and movies, the fire works not to suspend but to engage the mind.

So what of the campfire? Why does this chemical reaction of spark and wood and oxygen have such a similar pull; a similar allure? Perhaps we hearken back to an earlier age when the fire brought forth certainty; the assurance of food and safety and warmth. We hear the stirrings of the forest around us. We hear the creatures prowling about on the fringes, yet within the circle there is peace. Within the circle there is comfort. Perhaps the circle of light into which we are drawn echoes the security we desire for our souls. Perhaps we long for the divine intervention as on Sinai. In those flickering flames we draw near to hear, as Moses did, the voice of God.

Far from isolation, however, the fire draws us instead together into a community bound by flame. How many conversations have begun between the crackle and snap of combustion? As the permutation of wood into ash, the tongue itself is loosed. Even the staunchest isolationist has found himself saying things and feeling less alone. The awkwardness that plagues many of us is consumed in that circle; perhaps consumed as the very trees we burn, transformed into a climate of tolerance. Even the walls we have erected within our hearts and minds seem melted by the heat of that fire; dissolved by the slow, unpredictable dance of the flames in the night.

I cannot help but wonder whether we would not be better served by setting more sparks to flame; by sitting down beside the fire at dusk. The answer rings clear in my heart. The answer contains less screen time and more time spent within the circle. There are lessons to be learned, it would seem, as we are drawn closer to the simmering embers. Irrational as these musing seem, there is a mysterious truth to the mingling of tongues of flame and branches; life from death; form to formless; ashes to ashes. We have much to learn if we only would clear the space; to light the fire.