"Through the Looking Glass........................"

“Evidently, a given object took no particular amount of time to draw; instead, the artist took the time, or didn’t take it, at pleasure. And, similarly, things themselves possessed no fixed and intrinsic amount of interest; instead, things were interesting as long as you had attention to give them.”…….Annie Dillard, “An American Childhood”

The above represents a lesson learned by the author at an early age when the thought of being able reproduce an image on paper caught her attention and she began to pursue it pretty much as she did all else: with a passion. Whether playing baseball or exploring nature, it was never just passing fancy; and I gather from her confessional writing that part of such determination was trying to show the world that a girl was every bit as good as a boy if she set her mind to it. This particular observation, though, struck me as applicable to our relationship with others, be it merely an encounter or an on-going experience. Human as we are, it’s part of our nature to “judge” an individual by nothing more than eye-contact or a singular meeting where the individual in question said something, did something that spoke to us in a certain manner. As I told a friend recently, I believe such to be a natural thing, a God-given part of who we are and not “sinful” in substance, but in how we apply it in our daily life. You look at a piece of fruit and decide whether it is ripe or not. You teach your children not to talk to strangers for their own safety. So, for me, it is a matter of putting all things into His hands, walking by His voice, not my own. It’s not easy, of course. He may indwell me; but I occupy the place, also. What is great is when we begin to realize that we need His eyes, His wisdom, His grace, in knowing ourselves every bit as much as the guy in front of us…..

UTO, another on-line favorite, recently wrote of a “gradual epiphany” that saved (his) soul. He was referring to a transition wherein he began to recognize that the people he serves at the shelter are just that: “people”. My own journey of more than three decades within the Church has been more of an educational walk discovering that believers fall into the same category. I was suspicious from the beginning. The brand of Pentecost into which I stepped back in 1972 preached a union with the Holy Ghost that sanctified the convert, bestowing him authority in the gifts, transforming him into “Super Saint”, righteous and without sin. While the merger, itself, proved to be a reality worthy of pursuit, it was quickly made clear to me, within my own existence, that human nature remains human nature. He may well abide, but the original occupant didn’t leave the house; and what we possess, in Christ, is not a “blanket” grace, but an inner oasis to which we can return again and again, a meeting where two become one and, for a moment in time, we are all that He is. There is a ministering, whether unto us or through us unto others, where the well may rise of its own accord, yet usually the waters of the Spirit await for us to remember our need of Him. Thus we all stumble forward. It matters not if you stand behind the pulpit, sit in the pew, or wrestle with life as it meets you in the street. Deep calls unto deep. The question is only: Are we willing to answer?…..

"Momentarily.................................."

While waiting for my copy of Richard Rohr’s “Everything Belongs” to arrive, I purchased another of Annie Dillard’s collection, “An American Childhood”, and am already several chapters into the story. Then, again, I’m not so sure yet that it is, in essence, a “story”. The author simply takes you inside the mind of a young girl who lived in Pittsburgh in the early nineteen-fifties and you see the world, life as it unfolds, through her perspective. A couple of reviews shared on Barnes and Noble warned others of the book being “dull and boring”; but, perhaps because that particular segment of history coincides with my earliest memories, I am, as usual, enjoying Annie’s way with words. She somehow “tweaks the brain” and long-lost images, smells, emotions, swim around in my head as if somewhere inside me they still exist, indeed tangible if I only knew how to “step through the veil”. Time, infinity in either direction, given identity by a cosmos we’re unable to explain in its fullness, and holding reality unto us only by such definition as we assign unto it, is, nonetheless, the breath we breathe, the substance of who and what we are…..

In such mood while driving yesterday, I asked the two oldest grandsons if they knew what the New Year really signified. Then, getting that look that suggests they’re pondering where Papaw’s mind goes on occasion, I complicated things even further by replying: “Tick-tock. That’s all. Tick-tock.” End of conversation, but not, of course, my persistent, continual musing. “What would it be like,” I wondered; “if we didn’t attach measurement to our existence?” Think of it. No calendar divisions to count off, throwing each page away and rushing forward as if there is no finality to it all waiting for us somewhere down the road. No clocks, digital, wall, wrist, or otherwise, to regulate us, hold us to a schedule, turn us into marionettes performing to the circular orbit of the big and little hands. I realize that Tom Hanks wasn’t all that happy, cast away on his own private little island; but, then, if I recall correctly, he scratched each sunset into the side of that rock cliff. Primal instinct, I guess. In fact, I’m betting it wasn’t an apple on that tree of life in Eden, but a Bulova, a Rolex, or an Omega. Putting it on, Adam, right there in the middle of Paradise with nothing to do but enjoy what God had given him, turned to Eve and said: “We need to clean this mess up. The Creator will be here any minute now!”…..

"Christmas Behind Bars........................."

It was not a happy bunch Sunday morning. About forty kids, including seven girls, were seated before us on the green plastic pews, dressed in sweats and with just something in their manner different than on other occasions. Tony and I were there helping Chris; and, though it isn’t my normal position on the agenda, opening up the service fell to me. Less than a dozen raised their hand at my inquiry as to any who possessing any prior church experience and but six went on to confess a statement of having been “born-again”. In truth, however, why I ask, I don’t know. We live in a day and age when everything has been counterfeited in one way or another and, without more dialogue, there’s really no telling how deeply any of them have ever been in His well. It’s an individual journey, a personal definition, and each has to unlock their own heart. Still, in trying to lead them in a couple of carols, I discovered no one familiar with “Silent Night” or “Away in a Manger”, having to solo on those after a communal chorus of “Jingle Bells” that someone requested…..

Our message, woven together by the three of us, then, was one of hope, focused not so much on the Nativity, “God in Christ”, as on the Resurrection which brings “Christ in me”. I began with Nathaniel, who queried the other disciples if anything good could come out of Nazareth. Explaining the town to have been a one-horse, whistle-stop in the middle of nowhere, I posed the point that since Jesus had already proven Himself, the real question to be examined here was: “Can there anything good come out of me? Out of you?” All around my school there are posters proclaiming “If you believe it, you can achieve it!” Coaches everywhere tell athletes that they must believe in their own abilities if they are to win. Television evangelism has, for at least the last three decades, been preaching faith as if all one has to do is mentally grasp the concept of health, wealth, and the authority divinely appointed unto us, and poof! Instant fulfillment. Yet life happens. Somebody loses, falls short, and doesn’t make it. Wall Street goes belly-up. People catch cancer and die…..

The Incarnation, if not seen through the eyes of the Gift established at the other end of the spectrum, might just as well be deemed a fairytale. Chalk the whole holiday up to just family tradition, fill it up with a lot of “Ho! Ho! Ho!”s, and get lost in the nostalgia. Nothing wrong with any of it, but the event, for those who know Him, is part of an everyday celebration that we hold within our heart. The Indwelling doesn’t transform us, in the sense that suddenly we are “new creatures”, void of the potential to sin, to doubt, to be as we always were before His arrival; but it does come with a guarantee to never leave us nor forsake us, rising up to meet us when we least expect it, becoming one with us in the middle of our darkest hour, moving through us to give witness of His own reality. Indeed, He, alone, is the only goodness that we might possess. He turns lemons into lemonade, sour grapes into wine, and all of our bologna into manna from on high if we are but willing to invite Him into our life, from Bethlehem to Golgotha to the next step we take…..

"Heaven or Heresy?..........................."

One of the reasons the rescue mission and the Youth Detention Center have become such anticipated events on my calendar is that there is a freedom found in both places to simply relax and allow the Spirit to come forth. We have no denominational authority present who demands we observe any one doctrinal view of Scripture. All that a fellow has to possess is a heart for Christ and the congregation in front of him, a wish to worship, and knowledge of the fact that “standing in the pulpit” makes you no better than anybody else. Preaching is not about sharing how smart, how sanctified, how “called of God” you are, but about being a vessel through which He can flow…..

There’s a Canadian pastor I follow who consistently deals with such issues. Only once has he ever replied to anyone’s criticism with a hint of anger and, as is normally the case when expressing one’s religious perspectives, he has attracted his personal set of barracudas that regularly swim in to attack his thoughts. What caught my attention within the comments on a recent post, however, was an atheist who noted he saw more Christ-like character in my friend than in the sarcastic, cement-minded representatives of the Book. Truth is that I, too, often wonder if the world doesn’t view us, in general, as merely a bunch of egotistic zealots armed with no more than our own opinion and a demand for compliance…..

Surely there is nothing wrong with believers gathering under a unified manifesto, as long as it isn’t utilized as a totem before which all are obligated to fall down. Theology, for me, is a process, an on-going work-in-progress and I am in agreement with my pastor friend when he states: “Faith seeks understanding.” That, in no way, suggests a diminished trust in that One who IS our salvation. It merely speaks the truth that we, in following Christ, continue to look to Him for explanation. Sharing the Gospel is not so much about tickling the flock’s ears with a three-point, Biblically-based sermon, nor usurping the Spirit’s sword to take off some pagan’s ear. The “Good News” isn’t my version of the printed page, but a Reality who lives within me…..

"The Wave, The Wind, and The Witness......."

There were maybe thirty-plus men in the small, rectangular room last night. A handful of that number were regulars, faces who have been through what the facility refers to as “the program”, who have since gotten their life together, but who still count the site as an oasis, the church of their choice. The dining area had been cleared of tables and then filled with folding chairs. I went, on this occasion, with no more than a couple of verses of Scripture that didn’t seem to connect, a song that gave no any inner witness with my heart, and the knowledge that, unless God provided mannah somewhere in the interim, I had nothing, really, to share with these fellows other than my gratitude for the privilege of being there with them. Life in general -health, responsibilities, and my own humanity- had found me sitting in the car, just prior to the journey there, admitting to both myself and the Holy Ghost just how void I felt of His involvement in my pre-determining of what to bring. Confession brought connection with His grace, stirring my faith. Now, however, with the gathering already in progress, once again I wasn’t so sure……

Bob opened with a song, definitely not his normal procedure, and then took up prayer requests. From the beginning, though, he stepped into a flow that not only carried him for about twenty minutes, but also spilled over in our midst. “Pulpit and pews” became as one; and our congregation began to tell short segments of testimony coming up out of their own well. While I normally “close up shop”, I was unable to contain that which was now bubbling inside of me; and, when Bob drew breath, I caught the wave and continued. Fifteen minutes later, the Spirit yet was as strong as ever when Tony arose to finish out the evening, tears streaming down his face as he spoke, his heart giving glory to the King of kings. There had been no manifestation other than “living water”. No one had spoken in tongues. No cloud in the sanctuary. No divine healing came forth that I know of. Nonetheless, He had “sealed the service”. There’s little doubt in my mind, of course, that some might wish to examine my evaluation. I wouldn’t argue the point. The question, it seems to me, is only if we were united in our spirits or His, and maybe you just had to be there……

"Cell Block Reunion........................."

It’s an eight week wait between visits to the Detention Center, an event that, for me, is measured with anticipation. Three days before reaching that point on the calendar this time around, however, my annual “bit of the bug” had me wondering if I wouldn’t have to cancel. Friday evening and just about all of Saturday, I sucked down enough NyQuil to kill a cow, ate a few bowls of vegetable soup, and slept non-stop otherwise, awaking Sunday morning to find my voice good enough to share a couple of songs with the kids. My message was short and felt as if coming out of a brain yet numbed by medication; but it went well and we had a good response as we closed in prayer. One never knows with what disposition this group of young men and women will receive you. The Holy Ghost, though, has always proven Himself well able to meet whatever we encounter…

This particular occasion was a special one for me. It held with it an invitation extended to a friend of mine, a co-worker for nearly fifteen years on the railroad. She held at least ten years seniority when the merger took place and our rosters were shuffled together; but, age-wise, that time span reverses itself. What I remember most is the one-sided telephone conversations, in the beginning, as she dealt with two young daughters who always argued about something or other in the morning. Time passed. The girls became teenagers, the oldest one graduating and earning a cheer-leader scholarship to a college in southern Kentucky. Then tragedy, sudden, over Easter break, a head-on collision with another car on her way back to classes. I wondered for a long time if mom would survive the darkness, her grief unbearable, life too cruel to meet on a daily basis…

It was her first experience inside such a facility. She sat with the other lady who comes with our group, in the rear of the room, positioned so as to “be there” should any of that gender request prayer. I had given her freedom to speak at any time during the service if she felt so led; but, for the hour we were there, mostly she just let it all soak in, rising at the end to participate in whatever took place back there. We were busy up front with a half-dozen or so boys. Outside, afterwards, I asked if she had enjoyed the venture and the smile on her face assured me of her reply in the affirmative. Could she join us again sometime? In assuring her that we could probably arrange that, I told her one just never knew what our time there would produce: Sometimes you talk to a wall; sometimes the Spirit catches their hearts and they bawl like babies. “Well”, she said; “I’d no doubt just stand there and cry with them”…

That “works for me”…

"A Few Days of Contemplation...................."

Elementary education, like the business community, begins promoting Christmas the first day we return from our five-day Thanksgiving break. The Bethlehem story, of course, is a “no-no”, but teachers have an abundance of books to read to the kids that depict how we, as a society, celebrate Kwanza, Hanukkah, and the arrival of Santa Claus. Likewise, the whole cafeteria is decorated with mock gift packages, snowmen, and yuletide agenda, but nothing to suggest the real reason for the season. Walk down any corridor and you’ll find, either on the walls or on the floor just outside classroom doors, various creations put together with a bit of crayon, Elmer’s glue, and a child’s imagination. All reflect the holiday. Nothing says: babe in a manger…..

Believe it or not, though, I understand the thinking behind it all. Public schooling, it seems to me, ought not be a pulpit for anyone’s version of the Bible. In fact, I’m of the opinion that “Go ye forth unto all the world” was never meant as a directive for us to make converts by forceful means, and that “forceful means” doesn’t necessarily translate to “jihad”. Jesus is yet well able to open and shut doors Himself, a living reality able to bring forth His own witness if we are by willing to be a vessel through which He might flow. So when I hear Al Sharpton defend Reverend Jeremiah Wright’s preaching as being but “black liberation theology”, again: I comprehend both the terminology and the history behind it. Just don’t tell me it’s Gospel…..

Men have always taken the Book and utilized it to assemble the troops. Their message may even embrace a truth; but that doesn’t make it the Word of God. When the scribes accused Christ of being demon-possessed, He answered that a kingdom divided against itself would fall, that a house could be spoiled by first binding up the strong man, and then ended with a proclamation of what constituted committing the unforgivable sin. I’ve come to the opinion that it’s not so much about who has the least amount of error in their doctrine as it is about who has the most hunger to know Him in the journey. “Faith” isn’t a matter of taking the next step on what I believe about chapter and verse, but taking the next step believing that He will meet me in it…..

I visited my old assembly Wednesday evening, wanting to hear a friend of mine address the youth. His message concerned “a secret place” within each of us, a “room”, if you will, that we hold back from all others, but an area wherein the Holy Ghost would meet with us on a regular basis if only invited. More than once, his points had me mentally wanting to add, or “correct”, not in reprimand, but in perception shared. I well knew, though, that there was no need for an old man to insert his two cents. The anointing was at work, not in some loud manifestation of “this is how it is”, but in a simply, heartfelt, humble ministering unto those who were there; and, somewhere in the flow, we found that same Spirit who once “moved upon the face of the waters”…..

Christmas: 365 days a year……

"Repiration and Restoration.................."

Saturday morning. A chance to sleep a little later than usual. At five a.m., however, my mind stirred, darkness and the warmth of the blankets offered no encouragement, so I arose, made a cup of coffee, turned on a small electric heater and leaned back in the recliner with a bit of Frederick Buechner. It’s old stuff. I’ve read it before; but with another visit to the Detention Center just a week away, I’m looking for “oranges to juggle”. This whisper, inside, of “life”, and what it means, has continued for the last few days; and it’s at such times as this that, for me, rest is not lost, but rather gained, in the stillness of a house not yet occupied with those affairs that consume it otherwise….

Christmas season is upon us and the author’s version of the Birth has somewhat slipped my memory. I take it once more into my thoughts, much like a snack to enjoy with my coffee. The inn-keeper, here portrayed as that one who absolves himself of all sin, things being what they are and a man having to provide for his family. The magi, wise only in their assessment of Herod, all else remaining a prophetic mystery wrapped in swaddling clothes, theology no match for He who sits on the other side of the veil. The shepherds, simple men who know not much more than their profession, their social status, and the truth that Jehovah has this night somehow graced them with an invitation…..

“The wind bloweth where it listeth,” Jesus said unto Nicodemus; “and thou hearest the sound thereof, but cannot tell whence it cometh, and whither it goest. So is everyone that is born of the Spirit.” That word “listeth” simply means that it blows as it is “inclined to blow”. I’m not sure I’ve ever examined the term before and also found it interesting to be reacquainted with the fact that, in Hebrew, while nephesh can equate to either breath or soul, ruach can likewise be translated as breath, air, wind, or spirit. Such thinking, though, takes me to where Paul, in the Book of Acts, proclaims that “in Him we live, and move, and have our being”. Surely he meant that as directional therapy and not definition of constant condition…..

I’m of the opinion that, through Christ, we have been given an “internal hook-up”, once more connecting us with all that He is. While it probably doesn’t resemble an ordinary kitchen tap, and it isn’t really living “water” that comes to us through the pipeline, it yet seems to me that we, ourselves, have a lot to do with receiving a flow from on high. Faith doesn’t require labor and perseverance. All we need do is keep the valve open, acknowledge our need of His hand in all that we do, in all that we are, face the vent and, like Ezekiel of old, humbly pray “Come from the four winds, O Breath, and breathe upon these (dead bones).” No matter the failure, the fatigue, His promise endures and holds true…..

"Oxygen.................................."

For the last few weeks my left arm has experienced pain at times, an inner “burn” near my shoulder that simply tingles and numbs the rest of the extremity if I don’t shift position. An x-ray taken by the chiropractor confirmed my belief that it’s caused by nothing more than a disc in my neck pressing against a nerve. Age. It happens. My one-on-one assignment with the Fourth Grade autistic boy whom nobody could control last year is being changed. Little by little we are weaning him from a singularity of my tutoring since he is doing so well this time around and there’s another fellow in our room who could use my attention. The move doesn’t bother me as long as the work I’ve accomplished with him thus far continues. It’s a job. I’ve been here before. Tuesday evening, an agent from Humana visited us here at the house and, in learning that I was a veteran, informed me that my supplemental insurance to Medicare would be free of charge. Some sort of agreement they have with the government. It sounds good. I’ll believe it after it’s stood the test of time…..

“Life is like a box of chocolates.” So said Forrest Gump’s mother, explaining her analogy with: “You never know what you’re gonna get.” Any purchase I ever made of such sweets, though, contained a schematic revealing the content of every piece therein. Tom Lehrer, an American humorist, singer, and songwriter, wrote that “Life is like a sewer. What you get out of it depends on what you put into it.” That one might have some merit; but then, again, I once did an illustration for Kids’ Camp wherein other people continually dumped a bunch of their filthy trash into my well and, as far as I’m concerned, your vessel becomes a septic tank only if you refuse to clean house as divinely directed. To each their own, however, as, indeed, a quick Google search of the subject will reveal; and, that being the case, hopefully you won’t mind if I share what came to me this morning while driving to school. It was one of those rare moments where, having turned onto the interstate not that far from my home, I suddenly realized myself to already be at my destination and the six miles or so in-between were a blank…..

What was retained was the above paragraph and the thought that life is….a second breath, and then a third, a fourth, a fifth…again and again, when you least expect it, when faith in yourself yet possessing any tangible connection with Him is at its lowest. Not a filling of one's lungs, but a "two becoming one" in a knowledge of His reality, much as it happened one evening long ago for the disciples when a risen Christ appeared unto them in an upper room and uttered “Receive ye the Holy Ghost”…..

"Incoming.............................."

He stands perhaps a little taller than he is round. Four and a half feet? I’d guess him to be twenty years old, old enough that I’ve never seen him with his parents; and usually he’s there when we arrive, sitting near the front of the church, on the aisle so as to better enjoy all the music. Dressed casually. Maybe a pair of Bermuda shorts along with a Cincinnati Reds tee shirt during summer heat. Always looking sharp, but never, that I can remember, a tie. Down syndrome. A fellow who puts enthusiasm into his worship. Stepping out from the hindrance of being caught between pews, he catches the beat of the drums, the rhythm of the keyboard and guitars, the flow of the Spirit, and, in something that closely resembles a Chubby Checker twist, he celebrates his salvation. This morning, though, he arrived late for some reason, skipping forward as we all sang, excited just to be there, anxious to join the crowd; and I looked back to those early days when I, myself, was just as obvious in my own display of gratitude. Then, again, it’s not that my own exuberance has waned. It’s just that I can recall when a congregation stirred itself and didn’t necessarily depend upon those “chosen few” for emotional revival…..

Wasting present time with whining about what “used to be” isn’t a pre-occupation with me. It’s just as true that when my pastor served us Communion today and pointed to that day when Jesus, Himself, will sit down with the Body to partake of it with rejoicing, within me the Holy Ghost connected to such future event. It’s what I call a “tug” on my heart, a flow springing up out of an inner well that unexpectedly reassures me of His presence in my affairs. It can point in either direction of infinity, but most often finds me in the “now”. At Red Lobster after church service, I found myself in conversation with the waitress, a young woman with seven children, two sets of twins in the mixture and, of those, a three-year old son who was born with a brain that fails him with an ability to form intelligible speech. We spoke with her of faith and Beth told her the story of our youngest daughter’s near death in a hay-wagon mishap at the age of nine, noting her belief in miracles. I looked at her, a lump in my throat and a tear in my eye brought forth from His well, and told her, without taking anything away from my wife’s testimony, that I believed this: God could both meet her and supply her with enough wisdom, patience, and love to aid that boy in his journey…..

For a brief moment, the two of us both swam in His stream…..