What is the Church? Part 3: A Dream

"Jesus made his church out of human beings with more or less the same mixture in them of cowardice and guts, of intelligence and stupidity, of selfishness and generosity, of openess of heart and sheer cussedness as you would be apt to find in any of us...it is a point worth remembering." -Frederick Buechner

"I have a dream today. I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight, and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together." -Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. 

I have entertained a passion for daydreaming most of my life. They have been dreams of football glory, car chases, my last days. and kissing the most beautiful girl in the world (that one came true).  I could spends hours sitting in the grass, peering into the sky dreaming of flying.  In some way, these dreams came to life in me.  I'm keenly aware that I am far from alone in this endeavor of dreaming but I wonder, what drives us to fantasize so?

Our dreams can in fact have a very negative effect on us, causing us to become disenfranchised with reality.  In the recent blockbuster, Inception, the deep-dream escapades become a sort of drug, a way to escape and in extreme cases, characters were unable to tell the difference between the dream and reality.  I perceive that this is not far from the truth.  We can believe in something so much that although it is not real, our faith gives body to our illusions. On a smaller note, we often dream just beyond the grasps of our realities leaving us always hungry. But we dream on.

And I pray that this continued dreaming is good.  Dreaming allows us a chance to reshape our hopes, to believe that escape is not the answer but that victory can be grasped.  We must dream new dreams when the world declares that we are bound to our dismal lots.  Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. most exemplified the power of a dream, a dream that dared to hope for freedom, a rainbow colored hill filled with the songs of every nation hand in hand.  His was an unrealistic dream, but because he not only dared to dream it, but to share it as well, a new reality was unleashed.  So we dream on.

Each of us was meant to ponder the stars and the language of that pondering is that of the dream.  Yet as we gaze into the heavens, our feet hold firm to the dirt beneath it.  It is only then, with our heads in the sky and our feet on the ground that our dreams can gain traction.  We must deal with reality as it is, not as it should be but also dream for reality not as it should be but as it will be.  We are indeed complex human beings and within us is the power to kill and the power to give life.  So we must choose what our lives will say, what our hands will do.  And we dream on.

The day is soon approaching when with new eyes we shall at last see the beauty of ugly things, when our starving neighbor will hunger no more, when the man who lives down the road says goodbye to loneliness forevermore, when no child will have to suffer the fate of being fatherless.  There is a day coming, soon I pray, when unrelenting rain will fall on our parched hearts, when we no longer judge one another on any basis at all but by love. Do I dare dream on?

May we look at our hopes of restoration and repair and see them not as unrealistic, but share them till a new reality is unleashed and then, perhaps, we will dream a new dream.

 

What is the Church? Part 2: A Story

In December of 2005, I lost my life.  It was, in many ways, coming to an end.  I could almost feel the noose around my neck.  My life was defined by addictions to drugs, drink, and depression.  I was simply dark.  But as the Grateful Dead once sang, "you can see the light in the strangest places if you look at them right."  And sitting on a barstool in a frat bar that I bounced at, a friend came to me and asked what was wrong.  It was such a simple question, one that I often answered "nothing" to, but this night I was in a strange place and with whatever shred of hope I had left, I was straining see some semblance of light.  So I laid my troubles before this friend and in his confusing religious speak, something burst forth.  Grace, perhaps.  

Having little choice, I leapt at it.

Two days later I awoke in a Baptist church in Mammoth Spring, Arkansas; surreal, I know.  And whatever it was the burst forth in that bar, exploded that morning.  I fell in love with this person named Jesus and all the things I had done, that had defined me so, ceased causing me pain and finished their torment upon that man.  In my new freedom, all I could hope to utter was a tear-drenched "I'm sorry."  And in that most honest of prayers, I felt the arm of my cousin and the sweet forgiveness of my God.  I went home after the service and repeated the act of confession to my mom, who like our God prior, shushed me and simply said, "I forgive you, I love you, I am so glad you're home."   The invitation was before me in the outstretched arms of my crying mother.

Having little choice, I leapt at it.

Despite being home, I felt like a stranger.  I had never gone to Sunday school, I had never sung "I'll Fly Away," and I had sure never prayed believing that it made some sort of difference.  But this was my new home.  And something special burst forth in this strange place, I became part of a family.  These people had no reason to trust me, no reason to care about me.  I was a recovering addict from God-only-knows-where, but this community, Mammoth Spring First Baptist Church called me "son."  Less than a month in, I was already teaching.  They gave me a place helping out with the 4th-6th grade class.  Little did I know at the time, but those kids would teach me more than I ever taught them.  I could not help but lay awake at night back then and think about what was happening to me.  I once was alone, purposeless, blind, and drunk, but somehow God pulled me out of that mess and put me into a family, I was in every way a new man.  I soon began to to know the stories of this new family and I was invited to become a part of their next chapter, I was invited to dinner, to play music, but most of all, to simply be together.

Having little choice, I leapt at it.

People who were complete strangers a month ago, showed me the Grand Gulf, invited me to pick my mandolin back up and play in front of everyone, got on their backs and crawled underneath my car to see what was the matter, hugged me when I most needed it, and reminded me constantly that Jesus loved me whether they said it or not.  For someone who felt that love had slipped him by, this tasted the most sweet.  I thank God that He loved me so much, that he gave me to this thing called church.  I know these past few years have been both difficult and wonderful and everything in-between but I still made it, I survived by God.  Yet, I still wonder what tomorrow brings, whether or not I will continue this game of survival.  And in the midst of that doubt I sense something strange bursting through, whispering "trust me." And I also see something strange in the beautiful mess that is my church, extending its hand, asking me to come along to suffer and celebrate together.  It is a beautiful offer.

Having little choice, I leap at it.

What is the Church? Part 1: An Origin

I have recently been challenged to articulate what exactly the church is.  In many of the circles I have found myself in, the answers often included multi-syllable words ending in -ism and -ology.  While these words hold a depth of meaning, they lack a sense of heart.  To say that the church is a "heterogeneous, multi-ethnic, fellowship committed to orthodoxy and worship through a prescribed liturgy" leaves a bad taste in my mouth.  Do not get me wrong, I think the definition is accurate, just not palatable.  I need something to sink my teeth into, something that speaks to me as a person who gets up at 4:40 am to go to work to support my family.  While the -isms and -ologies translate in the classroom, they sound an awful lot like a clanging gong to those of us not so well-versed. Beyond this, these words lack a vitality that dresses the church in rather drab cloakings.  The church is a fierce, living, breathing entity, a story in the process and it deserves to be described as such.

The very first church was like this:

" They spent everyday eating together, laughing and crying, relishing honest conversation over good meals.  They strived to live together in a radical way, giving away everything if they had too, so that no one suffered.  They would cry out to God for help because they desperately needed it and would sing songs of "thank you" whether He answered or not.  They committed themselves to live out Jesus' love commands as taught by his closet friends.  They were one despite being so different, daring and hoping to change the world one act of intentional kindness at a time.  And by this, the world took notice and smiled and some even risked it all to join this group so devoted to one another that they could truly be called a family." (Acts 2: 42-47, My paraphrase)

This is a story I can give myself to.  This is the story I have given myself to.

This week I will explore this story of who the church is and I thirst for your thoughts and convictions as well.  

That High Lonesome Sound

One of my many passions is music.  Although I enjoy nearly every genre, one stands above the rest: bluegrass.  While there are many different definitions of what is or is not bluegrass, anything with a banjo and mandolin makes my heart sing.  One of the many reasons that I cherish Americana roots music is the sense of adventure found in the improvisation. There is something daring and beautiful that happens when a picker takes a turn and lets his fingers dance a bit.  This excites me because rarely can we witness the creation of something so beautiful and also unique, that moment of improvisation is both given and lost in a moment and only the reverberations linger.

There is a soul to this music rooted in the hills of Appalachia, nurtured in the hills of the Ozarks and refined the mountains of Colorado.  When I think on the geographic progression of the music, it mimics my move from the Carolinas to Colorado via Arkansas.  The words speak of hope found in pain seen through the lens of folk tied desperately to an unforgiving and rocky land.  Bluegrass pioneer Bill Monroe defines the music this way: "Scottish bagpipes and ole-time fiddlin'. It's Methodist and Holiness and Baptist. It's blues and jazz, and it has a high lonesome sound. It's plain music that tells a good story. It's played from my heart to your heart, and it will touch you. Bluegrass is music that matters." In many ways, Bluegrass music is the truest form of American music, a melting pot of European and African influences.  It is in our bones and it is in my blood.

My deepest attraction to this music is found in the "high lonesome sound" of my Grandfather Madison Pierce's Dobro (pictured above).  Before he left us nearly 20 years ago, Madison would tune his Dobro and head downtown for a "singing."  there other musicians would congregate to play the standards, a few hymns, and maybe a country song or two.  Everyone was invited to sit-in, there was no set band but you better be ready cause if you got the nod, you better have something to offer.  I am sad that I've only heard stories and seen videos of these singings. Yet, just as talented of a musician as my Grandfather was, so also he could tell a story and that gift in particular has carried down to his family.  My Grandma can bring me to tears merely describing the tone of Madison's Dobro.  That steel whine provides the soundtrack to my dreams.  Oh, I can't wait to pick one out with him one day in glory.  But for now, I honor my heritage and my heart by playing and listening to the music I love dearest.  And this is good because this is true music.  It tells the story of our pain and finds the courage to celebrate in the midst of that pain.  The "high lonesome sound" knows trouble and yet hopes for a brighter day when our tears are made dry.

So I leave you with a sample of that "high lonesome sound."

Amazing Grace

Photo from Philip Yancey's What's So Amazing about Grace? Visual Edition

Dress Us Up

Today, I am all out of words.  So I offer you the lyrics to "Dress Us Up" by John Mark McMillan:


dress us up 
in your righteousness
bring us in with a 
ring and a kiss
when you walk into the room you 
know we can't resist
every bottle of perfume always ends 
up on the floor in a mess

You make us sparkle 
and you make us shine
like the stars who sing 
on your chorus lines
through space and time 
we'll harmonize
where deep meets deep 
like the ocean meets the sky

the sun and the moon
they come out 
of their grave just for you
the dead man 
and the cynical too
they're coming out 
of their grave
and it's just for you

cause the love of God
is stronger
than the power of death

dress us up 
in the blood of a son
who opened up his veins so that we 
would overcome
hell and the grave 
in the power of his love
after three dark days
he showed us how it's done
and he still does

you make us sparkle 
and you make us shine
like the stars who sing
on your chorus lines
through space and time 
we'll harmonize
where deep meets deep 
like the ocean meets the sky
yeah
cause the love of God 
is stronger
than the power of death


His love is stronger stronger

A Dream Deferred

This is a sermon I wrote and delivered almost two years ago to a class of other aspiring preachers.  Even though the application is specific to that group, I beleive the work can stand on its own.  I was blessed to come across this once again and I hope you too enjoy it. -Michael

What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?

            This poem, “Dream Deferred,” by Langston Hughes, is perhaps the accomplished poet’s most cherished work.  It can be found in nearly every American poetry anthology, it is taught on all levels of school, and it has continued to inspire people eighty years after it was born.  All of this accolade and endurance raises the simple question of “why?”  I believe that Hughes has captured the essence of what poetry is all about.  It pleads the hearer to simply enjoy its subtle beauty, to hear its cadence and meter, its rhythm and rhyme, to hear the words dance together, to see deep truths of one’s soul expressed in new colors and images, in heart wrenchingly new ways.  That first time you hear it, you may not even have the slightest clue what it means and yet it still teaches you, it still inspires you.  However, this poem is not enduring just because of mere surface-deep beauty, but rather it is layered like an onion, it holds a great depth underneath its initial attraction.  This is a poem that one is not easily bored with, not a puzzle that is easily solved.  It begs us to look a little closer, to hear it again and again. 

As we begin to mine it we begin to discover just how choice some of the poet’s word selections are, “sags,” “fester,” “raisin in the sun.”  These are just so imaginative; you can almost begin to taste the poem, to smell it, to hold it.  You also begin to notice subtle shifts in meter and rhyme.  The final line disrupts the rhyming pattern by pairing load with explode without an added line between them.  As you chew on this oddity, you see that it is intentional, that the ending is meant for abruptness, that it emphasizes the dramatic shift from dream to dynamite, “or does it explode?”  And at this discovery you cannot help but feel this poem, you know what its like to set ones dreams aside and to find them dead one day.  You step back and read the poem anew, and the beauty you once saw pails to the freshness that is now present. So you dig some more.  Perhaps you study Hughes’ life and the context that this poem was created in.  You find out he was an African-American during the Harlem Renaissance, you learn that he was a product of racism and segregation.  You start to see that Martin Luther King Jr. was not the first to dream of radical equality.  You understand that many of Hughes’ contemporaries abandoned their quest to accept their second-class citizenship and you can only imagine how this heart Hughes’ heart.  What does happen to a dream deferred?  And all of the sudden the poem is far heavier than you could have imagined.  The closer you look at the details, the clearer the whole picture becomes.  And the process continues because this is a poem with not only great breadth, but also great depth.  So, in turn, is the poetry of God.

 Line after line is filled with both awe and intrigue.  In many ways, each genre of the Bible holds a poetic quality, a beautifully simple message of love, of sin and redemption, yet it is dripping with a depth of richness unsearchable yet pleading to be searched.  This book is, perhaps over-simplisticly, an epic poem of a relationship between a God whose name is synonymous with love and His creation whose name is synonymous with dirt.  Yet beneath the surface there is a mine of immense wealth that many of us have sold all to explore.

  

In the midst of this epic poem we find the third chapter of Ephesians; A passage that speaks of the wealth of this story of relationship between Love and dirt.  Writing under the pen-name, Paul of Tarsus, God encourages and challenges His followers to search the unsearchable riches of His love.  Obedience to this paradoxal command is rewarded with being filled with the fullness of God.  If you are like me, at first you may not even now what that is, but it still teaches, it still inspires.  Our author who sees his mission as to bring news to the nations of the boundless riches of Christ prays this prayer in verse 14 through 21:

¹⁴For this reason I bow my knees before the Father, ¹⁵ from whom every family in heaven and on earth is named, ¹⁶that according to the riches of his glory he may grant you to be strengthened with power through his Spirit in your inner being, ¹⁷so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith—that you, being rooted and grounded in love, ¹⁸ may have strength to comprehend with all the saints what is the breadth and length and height and depth, ¹⁹and to know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge, that you may be filled with all the fullness of God. ²⁰Now to him who is able to do far more abundantly than all that we ask or think, according to the power at work within us, ²¹to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, forever and ever. Amen.

This prayer found in the midst of a Greco-roman letter is without a doubt poetry.  The initial hearing produces a sense of wonder and an invite to explore.  While there is much to explore with this passage, I want us to narrow our focus on two verses, 18 and 19 and even more narrowly two words, breadth and depth. 

Here Paul is asking us to do the impossible- to comprehend the incomprehendable, to search the unsearchable, and to know the love of Christ which surpasses all knowledge.  And in this we will be filled with fullness of God!  While many would look at such a plea as futile, some of us possess a flare for the unknown, a trace of an adventurer’s spirit left over from second grade that has a heart for the hopeless cause.  Paul appeals to that spirit and is compelled that his brothers and sisters throw logic to the wind and attempt the impossible.  Yet we must know that it is not impossible.  This is a prayer as it only could be.  Paul is not asking us to do the impossible but asking God to empower us to do the impossible, a word not found in his dictionary.  So in God’s hands, with the Spirit’s empowerment, how are we to start, where are we to begin this quest of lunacy?  Remember those two words, breadth and depth. 

Paul in a desperate plea, asks God for the power to enable each of us to explore the unknowable mystery of God.  Yet he asks us it to do it in a rather specific way.  While yes, you may argue that Paul is merely using poetic language to insinuate how we might know God’s love fully, the Spirit does not flippantly inspire.  We were given Breadth and Depth for a reason.  I believe that in each of these words we see aspects of how we can approach our understanding of God; we see our pilgrimage to knowing the unknowable.  Much like the enduring qualities of Hughes’ poem, the love God initially speaks to our hearts, effects us in ways we lack the vocabulary to express.  I believe that each and every one of us at some point has heard what they believe was the voice of God saying something along the lines of “I love you.”  And that message changed everything.  It became our dream.  Judging by your attendance here today, you like me have felt a call to explore the profoundness of that simple “I love you.”  We like Paul seek to tell the nations of the boundless riches of Christ’s love.  And through diligent (and sometimes not-so-diligent) study we have begun to learn how to express that initial moment of grace, that initial dream, words like atonement, election, propitiation, resurrection, and crucifixion.  Yet somewhere along the way, we have fallen so in love with the dig that you have forgotten why we ever began in the first place and then the infatuation with depth slowly fades, till the impossible again seems, well, impossible.  What does happen to a dream deferred?

We must remember that our quest involves not just the digestion of the depth but must be balanced with an appreciation of the breadth.  That reality is intrinsic in Paul’s prayer, the two go hand-in-hand.  (read the text again)  This is not an either-or statement, you cannot have one without the other.  Yet what does that really mean- the breadth of God’s love? I believe that in a way it is the largeness of His mercy, it is an observation that leaves us speechless, that can only be described as awe and wonder.  Our God is an awesome God indeed, and in those moments of revelation where we stop learning merely about God but actually experience Him, those are the moments where we explore the breadth of His love.  I believe that these moments of God’s presence provide the fuel that keeps us digging in the libraries and the classrooms, that keeps us laboring in the pulpit and conversely the depth acquired there gives a greater sense of God’s grandeur.  In a sense the dream drives the mission and vice versa.

Travel with me, if you will, perhaps close your eyes and imagine or remember the most brilliant night sky you can picture.  It is filled with glory, countless stars more than your eyes can hope to take in.  Your breath is stifled, you neck is hurting as you crane it back in hopes to take in perhaps just a little more.  You are simply stunned at its sheer vastness.  Yet as you continue to stare you begin to notice something, your eyes are adjusting to the light and detail that was previously hidden begins to appear and it becomes all the more grand.  As you continue to gaze, you focus in on perhaps one particular star and you imagination takes over.  This star is a hundred times bigger than the sun surrounded by other stars each with there own planet system each with their own story, there own history, own wars, own rulers, their own dreams, and their own missions or maybe even a system of life unlike anything our imaginations could possibly construct; each one a syllable in the epic poem of the universe, each one a thread in the tapestry of the heavens.  After being lost in you fantasies you remember reading somewhere that there are approximately 70 sextillion stars.  You do not even know what that means, but it still teaches, it still inspires.  You know it is a lot and that this twinkling little star up above the world tonight which you have wondered what it is, is just one of those 70 sextillion stars each with their own name, their own epic story and you are swept back again to you initial reaction; this is indeed a vast universe.  The closer you look the more you see.  The deeper you search the wider the mine. As I stated early, we too have looked on the night sky of God’s love and feel in love, prompting our current mission.  We must remember our dream, that intial moment of Grace and realize that is still there more pungent than when we first began. C.S. Lewis’ sums up eternity in the Last Battle, as a constant journey further up and further in.  Oh how boundless are the riches of God in Christ!  May we know the unknowable love of Christ!

Paul points out in verse 19 that the result of a balanced approach is to be filled with the fullness of God.  This is the goal of our endeavors. I cannot escape the haunting reality that when we deny either the searching of breadth or of depth we deny the fullness of who we are in Christ. We deny our dream.  Yet that is precisely what so many of us have done in the effort to acquire knowledge.  Yet, knowledge without awe and without wonder and without mystery is really no knowledge at all. We have all the answers to all the questions except the most important one.  The depth that we experience often causes us to forget why we ever began.  What does happen to a dream deferred? We forget the cosmic tapestry that we are a part of because we focus so much on the individual thread that we can never know where it is going, where we are going, till we stop diving so deep for a moment and just look around and realize that God is the Grand Weaver, that this is all His, all of this is His masterpiece, His epic poem, His tapestry, His love.  Then and only then can we face the difficulties of following Christ.  How can we stand without the power of the Spirit reminding us of the broad statement of God’s character, which can be summed up in three words, “I love you.”  How are we to continue a mission that has no purpose? 

Perhaps you know what it is like to have all the answers and get completely stumped by something so simple, I know I have.  I have seen an eight year-old boy lose his dad to suicide and as I prepared to preach to funeral, I felt like giving up.  But I heard God say, “I love him, do not give up.”  I have seen my own father abuse alcohol and his very life, and yet I hear my God say, “I love him, do not give up.”  I have bared my heart and soul before congregations, proclaiming the very words of life, the great truths of all creation only to find them yawn, and snore, and ignore, and walk out and I wonder why I ever answered that call to preach and I hear my God say, “I love them, do not give up.”  And then I wonder why I ever doubted my call.  I have looked in the mirror and saw nothing but filth, fed up with myself, unable to believe that I had indeed done the very thing that I swore never to do again and you know what I hear, I hear my God say, “I love you, do not give up.”  And so I look to you and I wonder, what do you hear?

Death Come No More

"Where is it I've read that someone condemned to death says or thinks, an hour before his death, that if he had to live on some high rock, on such a narrow ledge that he'd only room to stand, and the ocean, everlasting darkness, everlasting solitude, everlasting tempest around him, if he had to remain standing on a square yard of space all his life, a thousand years, eternity, it were better to live so than to die at once! Only to live, to live and live! Life, whatever it may be!... How true it is! Good God, how true! Man is a vile creature!"  Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Crime and Punishment

"Everybody wants to go to Heaven, but nobody wants to die." -Loretta Lynn 

From an early age I have had a severe fear of death.  I would lay in my bed at night and imagine my dying day, lain in a coffin and then utter darkness, forever.  A great panic would grip me; I would run to my mom and have her comfort me until the panic seeped away. As I grew older, I learned not to peer into that dark day, but to live in a way that boasted of immortality.  Yet despite this chasing of the wind, death has not failed to whisper in my ear its reign over me and everyone I love. There finally came a time in my life that I suspect many of us will experience, where I had to face my fate, to stop running from it and accept the reality that death will have its day.  In some ways this was both freeing and utterly depressing.  Freeing because fear was no longer my master, and depressing because deep within me, within us all, is a furious resistance that wants to live and will never accept death.

Often we try to sugarcoat this thing called death, especially when loved ones pass away.  We say things like, "I'm so glad so and so died, they are in a better place now."  And while there is some truth in this, it is very different from how Jesus responded to the death of a loved one; He had no words only tears, bitter weeping.  I find this odd because a few moments later Jesus would call his friend back to life.  How could our King, knowing what was coming next, cry so terribly at such a moment?  I have come to believe that Jesus was making a declaration of sorts in those tears, that death is not okay. We were never meant to die; life, full-on living is our destiny.  The early church father St. Irenaeus said that "the glory of God is man fully alive."  And for Jesus, for whom the glory of the Father was his deepest longing, death's lingering reign brought mourning and tears.  But that was not all it brought.

Jesus, defying death with his tears exerts his power over death and reclaims Lazarus from the grave.  While we mourn death's stain, we also rejoice in its defeat.  Jesus would soon face our greatest enemy head on and like us all, He embraced its reality and drank from that bitter cup and with his last breath he cried out. Death, once again, brought tears.  But it would never again have the last laugh for after the mourning came a new morning and a new King.  Death's dynasty was laid to rest and the once dead man, Jesus, bust forth a new day and a new hope, a new life.

O death where is your sting? It is buried in the grave!

Let's Play

So long removed from that sandbox,

I find myself wearing dress socks.

Sometimes my eye still wanders back

upon a day so void of black.

My soul aches hard, yes for those days;

Where trees and clouds held long my gaze.

But shake it off and back to task;

Those memories dissolve so fast.

I have too much upon my plate,

too much to spend upon this date.

I can’t forget to cross my T’s,

No time to yield to inner pleas.

A voice so strong and yet so sweet,

Maybe there is some time to meet.

I am so beat from chasing wind;

A squeezed out orange, no juice to lend.

So, what do I have left to lose?

I might as well just hear his views.

I wonder what he just might say…

His voice is clear, “Come on, let’s play.”

Good Gravy

I was listening to NPR on the way home from work yesterday.  They were sharing a piece about soul-food.  In one of the interviews, a young man told of how he asked his granddaddy for his gumbo recipe, to which his granddaddy responded, "boy, there ain't no recipe, now get in this kitchen and watch me make it."  I could not help but smile, what a beautiful picture of what soul-food is all about.  Food for the soul must be born in the soul, not on an index card.  We've all seen this phenomenon first hand, that even when we follow aunt Betty's recipe exactly, the results just aren't quite the same.  We come up with excuses, blaming the altitude or the insufficient seasoning on our cast-iron skillet, but the only real excuse, and really do believe this, is that it is missing the love.

When I go see my aunt Betty, she always makes me gravy and biscuits.  These are things of legends.  Every time either my brother or I are in Arkansas without the other, we will call each other up and rub it in that we had aunt Betty's biscuits and gravy.  I have been eating this meal my whole life and yet I struggle to make gravy at all, let alone such wonderful grub as aunt Betty's.  I've been watching her, trying to learn her secrets, but she always "eyeballs" the ingredients and evidently my eyeballs don't work as well as hers.  Aunt Betty usually fusses over the thickness or saltiness, but no matter what, that is always some good gravy.  It is made with love, as she stirs her wooden spoon, she gives herself to this act of creating because she loves me and you can literally taste it.

Perhaps it is this way with all our creative acts.  That if we try to recreate what another has done, no matter how good the original, the end result is simply left lacking.  This doesn't mean we don't learn from those before. No, we get in that kitchen and watch them work.  And we learn, if we are lucky, that the secret ingredient is not some exotic spice but a charitable heart, a passion to to make the world a better place, even if only one biscuit at a time.  I am a witness that a single act of creating soul-food can change a person.  Although my aunt Betty never misses an opportunity to tell me she loves me, I hear her the loudest at the dinner table.  I taste the truth of these words in her gravy and it oh so sweet.  I only pray that I will be so brave when I put my hands to work, that I will not seek to imitate, but to love; and that is how I would best honor Aunt Betty.  Not by trying to recreate her food, but by giving myself to something in such a way, that perhaps it just might change the world, that it just might be real soul-food.

A Tree Called Home

I’m not sure why everytime I think of home, I feel compelled to describe the Spanish Moss-draped oak trees.  I feel the need to become rather verbose and compare the moss to trapped spirits of the men and women damned to never leave the lowcountry (I could think of worse fates).  But simply put, nothing speaks of the area like the oaks.  These ancient giants with their gnarly knotted elbows meandering to and fro are the epitome of the grandour and history that so defines the lowcountry of South Carolina.  They belong to a rare group of items like the mountains of Colorado and the sea, that no matter how many times you see them they still inspire awe.  As a kid they held a certain mystery for me, that if they could talk, God himself would pull up a seat to listen. Yet they also had a laziness about them.  The oaks have the appearance of the rivers they surround, a fluidty that can be rather mesmerizing.  When they have reached the grandfather stage of life, their limbs will rest on the ground much like a cane.  But most of all, I must speak of them because they are home, as much as mom is even. 

Yet, I have been cut off from that land, somewhat by choice and somewhat by force. And this saddens me because my blood has a brown tint to it thanks to those muddy rivers that these oaks line.  I know worthless tidbits of history about the plantations that inhabited the land before me, but it is not my home anymore and I wonder if it ever truly was.  Even though I was born on the banks of the black river in Georgetown much like my father before me, I always felt a stranger.  My great-granddad wasn’t a rebel and I’d lie straight through my teeth about the fact the my Grandfather was from Pennslyvania.  If anyone ever discovered that fact, I’d quickly remind them my mom was from Arkansas.  Yet I lived in a place where my friends last names matched those of the plantations and even though this heritage wasn’t always flaunted, I was always on the outside looking in.  

Home is a funny place.  The cliché is that it is where the heart is, but that is too vague for my sensibilities.  I need a place to call home and I think that I am not alone in this quest, that one way to describe our exisitence is that it is a search for place, for home.  The religious thing to say is that God or heaven is our homes and that is not far from the truth as I can see it.  When I think of home, I think of mom and our gardens and a tree.  Is it fair to guess that those things stick out because deep in all of us is a longing for a Father, a garden and a tree, a longing for a place that though we may stare into it for eternity it will never cease to inspire awe?  

Story Time

I was recently challenged to tell the whole story of the Bible in a few words.  Condensing a thousand page book, thick with theology, history, and all kinds of literary genres is no small feat.  Below is what poured out in a fury during this creative session.  I have not edited this from its original content.

Everything was created by God.  Of it all, man was God’s most prized work. God shared His image with man and loved him.  However, man disobeyed God through sin bringing death into creation.  This act cursed everything. But God began to reclaim His prize.  He made Abraham His son and made a covenant with Him, that through him, God would restore the nations to Himself.  This promise was carried out in the people of Israel whom God brought out of slavery and into the promised land.

This people had a great King, David, in whom God reaffirmed His promise to Abraham, adding that David’s son would build a temple and in this temple God would live with His people.  (This son would be Jesus Christ and His followers would be that Temple through which God would again dwell amongst His people.)  Israel turned away from God and was sent again into exile (slavery) away from the promised land.  The people longed for a Messiah and King to free them from exile, for even when they returned to the land they were still in exile because the land was not theirs.

God, at the perfect time, steps into history as a man, Jesus, and becomes the fulfillment of all God’s promises.  In Jesus, God brings His people out of exile to fulfill their purpose, to be the light of the world and to usher in His kingdom, bringing all nations to the Temple and thus the presence of God.  Jesus secures the redemption of Israel through His death and resurrection, vindicating God and ushering in a new era of resurrection.  Jesus commissions His Church to carry out His plan of blessing the nations by being the light of the world.  He promises to dwell among them in the Holy Spirit and to one day return and finally fulfill His ultimate desire and our destiny, the making new of all things, perfect communion restored with the Father and life everlasting.