Whene’re I take my pipe and stuff it And smoke to pass the time away, My thoughts as I sit there and puff it, Dwell on a picture sad and grey: It teaches me that very like Am I myself unto my pipe. Like me, this pipe so fragrant burning Is made of naught but earth and clay; To earth I too shall be returning. It falls and, ere I’d think to say, It breaks in two before my eyes; In store for me a like fate lies. No stain the pipe’s hue yet doth darken; It remains white. Thus do I know That when to death’s call I must harken My body too, all pale will grow To black beneath the sod ’twill turn. Or when the pipe is fairly glowing, Behold then, instantaniously, The smoke off into thin air going, Till naught but ash is left to see. Man’s frame likewise away will burn And unto dust his body turn. How oft it happens when one’s smoking: The stopper’s missing from the shelf, And one goes with one’s finger poking Into the bowl and burns oneself. If in the pipe such pain doth dwell, How hot must be the pains of Hell. Thus o’er my pipe, in contemplation Of such things, I can constantly Indulge in fruitful meditation And so, puffing contentedly, On land, on sea, at home, abroad, I smoke my pipe and worship God.
Last year as I traveled to and from my family in Arkansas, I devoured a little book called Patched Together by Brennen Manning. Manning, more than any author or speaker has inspired me and shaped my faith. I was privileged to hear him speak on the furious love of God for us in 2006 and his words of faith forever changed me. I have since read some of his work, mostly non-fiction that deals with aspects of God's love for us, but this book, a piece of fiction was the simplest yet most profound work of Manning's I have yet encountered.
The book was given to me at a conference by a representative from David C. Cook publishing out of Colorado Springs. I shared my testimony of renewed love that stemmed form Manning's work. The story seemed both routine and invigorating for him, I imagine that he meets people everyday touched by Manning's honesty and truth and yet each encounter gives him hope as well. He informed me that Manning was rather ill, almost fully blind and near death even. He promised to give the book if I promised to pray for Brennen. It was an easy promise to make.
The story is autobiographical while still being fiction. We see the life of a man in three stages from childhood to death and the struggles that present themselves but most importantly the impossible victories as well. Not once was I spell-bound by some fancy prose but always I was enthralled with the rawness of Willie Juan's life and his encounters with the Man of Sorrows. With grace, Manning weaves together a patchwork tapestry of life, love, pain, death, and mercy. Thankfully Manning is still with us and his actual autobiography is coming soon. But in the meantime, I encourage you to find yourself patched together and to join me in my promise to pray for this man.
Harold returned to Polk County that fall a new creation. That Banjo had changed him deeply, now he could travel to that special place, somewhere like heaven, whenever his heart desired. Harold loved that hollow-back banjo so much, he gave it name, Verne. The name didn't mean anything in particular, Harold just thought it fit. Harold would sprint the mile and half between the bus stop and their old home place every afternoon so that he could pick on Verne. Sure their were chores that need to to be done, but Harold couldn't help himself, he was born to pick.
Harold's chops got pretty fine, pretty quick with all that practice. Anytime their was a singing downtown, Harold and Verne were there ready. Harold even started playing at church, although he hadn't been in a while, the temptation of getting to play more was greater than his sense of religous guilt. And despite how cold that old Baptist church felt, Harold's spirit would soar when Verne and him took a turn at "I'll Fly Away."
Those two were inseparable. Some evenings they would play on the porch and all creation seemed to join in the tune. The lightening bugs would float on the breeze, the willow tress would sway in rhythm and the stars sometimes seemed to jump with delight as Harold and Verne explored "Uncle Pen," embodying the chorus proclimation, "You could hear it talk, you could hear it sing." It wasn't long before Harold's reputation began to spread, folks who wouldn't dare step into a church were washing there Sunday bests to hear Harold and Verne give new life to the Heavenly Highway Hymnal. The Saturday night singings got so big that they had to move them to the park so everyone could hear. While all this seemed like a dream come true, Harold became uneasy with his newfound fame and so did his family.
Its hard to nail down when things started to go wrong and especially why. Maybe from the moment the kids started listening to Harold over their Pa's stories, the root of jealousy struck. Harold's old man had struggled all his life to make a living for his family, he worked odd jobs around town, fixing fences, cutting wood, and of course he had been traveling to the delta every summer sense he was sixteen. But nobody ever come to see him do nothing. That boy put a piece of drift wood on a cigar box with leather laces and all of a sudden Pa didn't matter so much. Unintentionally Pa began to drive the family against Harold, blaming him for everything. Secretly, he justed wanted his boy back, he was scared where all this would take him. Fear and jealously birthed a rift between the two that seemed near impossible to fix.
"Where you off to tonight son?" His Pa inquired.
"I'm gonna play with the Dickerson boys down in the next holler."
"Is that so?"
"Well, I reckon I ain't gotta."
"You dern right right you ain't gotta, there's plenty needs to be done round here fer you go off runnin round."
"Yes sir."
"Just cause you can pick the blasted thing bettern most don't mean you can do whatever you want."
"No sir, I didn't..."
"Don't talk back to me boy," his Pa interrupted, "I reckon it'd been far better had you never started on that old cigar-box."
These exchanges increased in frequency and intensity. What had once been the greatest blessing of his life had begun to drive a wedge between Harold and his family, especially his Pa. All he ever wanted was to escape, to find that place that made him forget his troubles but now instead he just found more trouble. If it weren't his Pa's nagging, then Brother Lee was telling not to stand out too much on Sunday's; they were for the Lord after all not bluegrass, or the ladies down at the auxiliary who thought he should play more jigs, or even Sally, his sister and a good singer in her own right, who thought she oughta to get a chance to shine like Harold. It seemed to him that he hadn't took anyone with him to that place but drove them all away. Of course that wasn't so, the town loved him to death but to Harold all he seemed to do was disappoint. He wondered where that place had gone to, that place like heaven, it had been far too long since he'd had a visit. Now, whenever he plucked on Verne, his heart twisted in pain. The thing that had once been so good, now seemed broken, maybe it was him, maybe it was luck, but it just didn't work no more.
Harold remembers that night just as clear as any in his life. The pressure of everything had finally gotten him. He lay sleepless in his bed, a bit deranged. His chest felt as if an ox were sitting on it, he found it hard to breathe. And all he could hear in his head was "Man of Constant Sorrow." The words reverberated in his mind, he felt bound, like he was caged in. The words became him, he wasn't born to pick but bound to ramble. He had no friends to help him now, so he sat up, packed a sack, grabbed Verne and left the town he was born and raised. He left home and with a purity of confusion determined never to return again. Heaven wasn't there no more and he doubted he would ever find it again.
The Canticle of the Creatures by St. Francis of Assisi
Most High, all-powerful, good Lord, Yours are the praises, the glory, and the honor, and all blessing, To you alone, Most High, do they belong, and no human is worthy to mention your name.
Praised be to you, my Lord, with all your creatures, especially Sir Brother Sun, Who is the day and through whom you give us light. And he is beautiful and radiant with great splendor; and bears a likeness of you, Most High One.
Praised be you, my Lord, through Sister Moon and the stars, in heaven you formed them clear and precious and beautiful.
Praised be you, my Lord, through Brother Wind, and through the air, cloudy and serene, and every kind of weather, through whom you give sustenance to your creatures.
Praised be you, my Lord, through Sister Water, who is very useful and humble and precious and chaste.
Praised be you, my Lord , through Brother Fire, through whom you light the night, and he is beautiful and playful and robust and strong.
Praised be you, my Lord, through our Sister Mother earth, who sustains and governs us, and produces various fruit with colored flowers and herbs.
Praised be you, my Lord, through those who give pardon for your love, and bear infirmity and tribulation.
Blessed are those who endure in peace for by you, Most High, they shall be crowned.
Praised be you, my Lord, through our Sister Bodily Death, from whom no one living can escape. Woe to those who die in mortal sin.
Blessed are those whom death will find in your most holy will,
for the second death shall do them no harm.
Praise and bless my Lord and give Him thanks
and serve Him with Great Humility
Every Sunday night I meet with a bunch of losers and rejects and it is beautiful. Each week I hear stories of alcoholic fathers, failed marriages, premature family deaths, depression, suicide, abandonment, and so on. Each of us has deep wounds and have grown tired of easy answers to our tough questions. But in our woundedness we have found a safe place to land, to crash together and in this safety a desire to let others find safety amongst us has taken seed. So we wonder together what it means to be a “safe” place.
This infograph is from GOOD Magazine. Interesting comparison but I have been both to jail and public school and the food in jail is NOT near as good as that from school.
Harold had the bushiest eyebrows in all of Polk county. Folks when they would meet him would always remark about his eyebrows, no matter what else Harlod did. And that was indeed an impressive feat for Harold also played a mean banjo. Harold had been playing since he was just a boy, traveling with his family to the flatlands in the summers to pick cotton. Those kids swore that those summer evenings in the Arkansas delta were as close to hell as any place on this here earth. The humidity was so thick you could slather it on a piece a bread with a spoon. And so Harold began to pick a homemade cigar-box banjo he had made to keep their minds off the heat. At first, The kids couldn't decide which was worse: the pickin or the climate. But Harold, like his daddy, was as stubborn as an old dog and he picked that poor banjo every night after pickin that poor cotton. With callosed and even bloody hands, Harold would struggle to figure out how to roll his fingers in time to make that banjo sing like all the greats. When they were in the hills in the off-season, they could sometimes pick up the Opry on the AM radio if it were clear enough. They had heard Earl Scruggs and Ralph Stanley and in that hearing they were transported, not to Nashville, but to somewhere even better, somewhere like heaven were their troubles weren't gone but understood. When Stanley would moan Man of Constant Sorrow, they knew that pain instinctively. And it was only in that place, somewhere like heaven, that Harold truley felt home, felt alive. He knew he was destined to pick.
And so he picked and by the end of that first summer, he not only had the finger-roll down but he could play a recognizable Orange Blossom Special and for a moment the family forgot all about the Opry and found that place of understanding had found them there in that ghost of a house they filled. Each of the kids got to spend some of the cotton money on themselves, usually they would buy some prize like a coca-cola or if they had had a real good harvest a new pair of shoes. But this summer, they left the coke in the icebox and threw in to get Harold a real banjo, a used one that a friend at the gin got in Memphis, but a real one nonetheless. Years later, Harold would think back on that day, on that banjo and he would still cry. Never had he been so surprised, so happy, so whole. Harold took that hollow-back banjo in his hands and he smelled the wood, cedar. As he inhaled the distinct smell, he knew it was a good gift, the best even. And as he sat down to pick it, the Orange Blossom Special never sounded so good and perhaps never again. When we was done, he laid it down on the bed beside him and nearly prayed over that instrument, "Its so good, so very good." And so it was, for a time.
This is part one of a five part short-story I will be publishing the next five Thursday nights.
Here is my contribution to The Neighborhood Cafe, a blog written by my pastors (and now me.) This is a revised blog that I posted here originally two years ago. Let me know what you think.
There is only one pretty child in the world, and every mother has it. ~Chinese Proverb
I am thankful to be alive today. In no small way is my mother most responsible for this miricle. Yes she bore me for 9 months and delivered me, fed me, clothed me, spanked me, and believed in me. But what has held me together the most in the roughest parts of my life has been her unfailing love.
Some of you have heard my story of excess, doubt, and despair. As I wallowed away my life in stupidity, depression engulfed me and dragged me to the brink of death. In May of 2005 I decided to kill myself. Life had run its course and I felt no need to perpetuate my suffering any longer. But in the midst of the great darkness, a light broke in, an unexpected guest in my shame. I remembered a simple fact: my mom loved me. And it was this simple but earth-moving reality that saved me, gave me the strength to choose life and to choose love.
Ever since, that has been my song, that love conquers all, even death. The love of my mom saved me and I thank God not only for her but for the mothers that loved her enough to teach me that song. So I honor her today and in some small way everyday, because each is a gift from God given through her love, each is a precious reminder that there is something good out there even when everything else testifies against it. And the greatest gift to date is the chance to teach my own daughter to sing. God has given me a woman in my wife who exemplifies all the beauty of my mother, and has proven to be the greatest mother I could ever hope for my own child.
The ultimate weakness of violence is that it is a descending spiral, begetting the very thing it seeks to destroy. Instead of diminishing evil, it multiplies it. Through violence you may murder the liar, but you cannot murder the lie, nor establish the truth. Through violence you may murder the hater, but you do not murder hate. In fact, violence merely increases hate. So it goes. Returning violence for violence multiplies violence, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that. - Martin Luther King, Jr.
Never pay back evil for evil to anyone. Respect what is right in the sight of all men. If possible, so far as it depends on you, be at peace with all men. Never take your own revenge, beloved, but leave room for the wrath of God, for it is written, "Vengeance is Mine, I will repay," says the Lord. "But if your enemy is hungry, feed him, and if he is thirsty, give him a drink; for in so doing you will heap burning coals on his head." Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good. - Romans 12:17-21
I have intentionally remained silent on the news of Osama bin Laden's death. I think regardless of one's religion we each of us have a great sense of and desire for justice. This man's choices and influence led not only to the deaths of the victems of 9/11 but also to innumerable child suicde-bombers and various other muslims across the world, all in the name of God. So when I heard the news of his death, I could not help but be thankful. In a world with some many wounds, perhaps this man's demise might mean a few less. But in the midst of witnessing countless celebrations and online responses such as 'burn in hell Osama" I felt that same sense of justice flare up.
I cannot escape the teachings of Jesus in his sermon on the mount, that our love MUST extend to even our enemies, the very ones who wish us dead. Some may consider this as idealism, but in a sense all of Jesus' teachings are idealistic but also deeply rooted in life and in truth. These are not just provocative words but the essence of how Jesus lived his own life. In the face of occupying non-believers who unfairly taxed, enslaved, and even killed his people, Jesus came not as the liberating king the Jews desired him to be. Instead he laid down his power and took all the world's punishment to the point of death and beyond, all the while praying for the ones mocking him. And the funny thing is that it worked, he not only liberated his people but all of us. In his act of nonviolence, of submitting to death, he won us all life. This act which to all, even his closet friends, seemed ludicrous has endured two thousand years and changed the lives of all humanity. Throughout this history others have taken to heart what Jesus said and did, people like Martin Luther King Jr. and Gandhi. Both tasted the same martyr death and both also tasted the fruits of their love: reconciliation and freedom.
Some would say that we cannot be doormats or pushovers and this is true. All of these men, especially Jesus, were strong men who made strong stand and in the doing they overcame evil with good. Someone has to break the cycle of violence; the idea that killing bin Laden and making him a martyr for his radical followers is going to save lives is hard to prove at best and completelyerroneous at worst. The response will be vengeance and we will seek to retaliate and the cycle of violence will progress. We only have to look at the middle east to learn the lesson of this deadly cycle, there is only "peace" when one side is stronger than the other, able to keep uprisings at bay. Hatred permeates the religious and ethnic struggles. All sides feel their cause just and even of God and that certitude leads further and further from any form of reconciliation or peace. Someone has to say, "enough already" and begin to love their neighbor even if costs them their own life, only then can the cycle be broken, only in sacrifice can we buy our freedom.
Jesus was that someone and he has dared to ask us to join him in the loving and leave the judging and vengeance to the only one capable of doing so. And maybe just maybe, in the process we might just change the world.
I wonder what you think. Am I being naive? Does my faith blind me or enlighten my perspective on this? What about your faith? How has this incident effected your sense of compassion and/or justice?
Abba, on days like these when nothing particularly profound seems to stir within, I thank you that you are still near. The lack of insight is often the consequence of my sin: my ignorance, laziness, and often pure disobedience. Forgive me. Teach to to thirst for You and to hunger for Your words. I want to know the security of Your presence and fear Your absence. I want to run to You and not from You. You know my heart, my fears, and dreams; cleanse me and refine my passions. May I die so that You may live in me. Honor the words of this prayer, not just in me but in all those who read it. Thank You for Your immense grace and over-flowing mercy, O how I need it so. Amen
My friend, pastor, and mentor Eugene Scott recently wrote a blog about the power of intimacy and the danger of isolation (you can read it here). In his work Eugene describes the desperate need we have for each other. I feel this most acutely now that a women who I have cherished my entire life struggles to relearn how to eat a cookie. My aunt Betty suffered a stroke recently and the consequences of that stroke have been difficult to learn of. While I am hundreds of miles from Betty, the strength of her love for me kept her presence close in some mysterious way. But now, I do not doubt her love, but she seems oddly distant. Even though we pray for her to recover and believe she is just stubborn enough to do so, there is pain in the separation from the strong woman we all once knew. When I heard the news of her struggles my response was anger, not sadness. I believed deep within that it was simply not fair for this woman to suffer but also because deep down I feared I might never see her again. She is doing better and I hope to see her soon, and that hope of connection is stronger than all my fears and anger.
As I said before we each of us have not just a desire for connection but a hunger and a thirst. Intimacy with our fellow man is not just pleasant, it is vital. Without each other, though our hearts may still beat, our souls no longer live. Jesus knew this well. Before his death he prays a long prayer in John 17 that repeats the same petition over and over: that we may be one. This oneness is core to his hope in us, to his death with us, and to his resurrection for us. While we often focus on the aspects of forgiveness and new life in Jesus' gospel, we must see that we are forgiven so we may be reconciled to God and each other and that reconciled life is indeed our new life. Jesus also showed that pure unity was central to his gospel message when he summed the entire law of holiness up into two relational commands, that righteousness is found in right relationship with God and with each other, nothing more and certainly nothing less.
Our relationships suffer most severely the consequences of death that our sin produces. In the first instance of disobedience, man runs and hides from the God he walked with everyday and covers himself up from his wife in shame. Our relationships were what defined us in the creation account, God in all his triune glory decides to make us in "our image," the shared image of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit in perfect unity with each other. And it is that perfect unity that Jesus uses in his prayer as the model for our oneness, "may they be one as we are one." The day is coming when the groom Jesus will be united with his bridegroom the church and what a celebration of union that day will be. But in the mean time, we struggle to hold on to the beautiful relationships we currently inhabit and fight to repair the broken ones. This is hard work. Never will we open ourselves to more hurt than when we make ourselves vulnerable in relationships, than when we lay aside our fig leaves of shame and dare to live life together, in pure oneness.
All this points to why it hurts so much to hear that a loved one is in pain, because if we truly love that person then their pain becomes our own,that is both the blessing and perhaps the curse of our oneness. The reality is that we are all meant to be each other's loved ones and every instance of isolation, death, and disconnect hurts us to our core even if we do not realize it. But gloriously Jesus became our loved one and on that fateful day he felt our suffering in its fullest and it killed him. But in that act he showed love was stronger than death, that relationships would always win over separation in the end and he burst forth from the divide of death to reconnect all of creation to itself and to himself. Just as he felt our suffering on the cross, we feel his joy in the resurrection. May we find our stories at the intersection of the cross, at the place of Jesus prayer for our oneness, and the birth of our reconciled lives walking anew without shame in the presence of the one we have only dreamed of until now. And that hope of connection is stronger than all our fears and anger.
Here's a promo video for The Jesus Creed by Scot McKnight. I read this book for my Jesus and the Gospels class at Denver Seminary and really liked McKnight's placement of Jesus' teachings within 1st century Judaism. I recommend this book highly.
Here's a blog I contributed to The Neighborhood Cafe. I will be authoring the Monday blog for this site and linking them here. Thanks for reading and I look forward to further conversations. Creation Carries a Cost, Beauty a High Price
One of the joys of being a parent is teaching your children about animals. With Mary Grace, this has been a lot of fun. She sometimes gets lions and tigers mixed up, but she has her farm animals down. She will sit in my lap as we flip through a book of animals, pointing out all the ducks, geese, horses, cows, and bunnies. Her new favorite game is for me to ask her if her animal friend, Jack-Jack, who is a cat, is some other kind of animal. She'll sheepishly grin and moan a long "no" that implies that her daddy is silly. It is so funny to her to hear us give the wrong name to Jack-Jack. She like most little kids loves animal names.But how did all these animals get their names?
A long time ago the very first person, Adam, had the huge honor of naming the animals. One can imagine the line of creatures miles long waiting with anticipation to hear Adam pronounce, "woodpecker" or "duck-billed platypus." Adam sure was creative, I would never of thought to call a black-and-white striped horse a Zebra, I would just call him "confused." But I also imagine that this was a lot of fun for Adam and that it meant a lot to him to name the animals. I have had the honor to name some things in my life and those too have been fun and meaningful.
My dog's name is Brandy, I gave her this name because her parents names were Belle and Buddy. I wanted her to have a "B" name too so that she was connected to her parents. Michala and I name our cars too. My old, beat-up white truck was called possum. We named him that because he was white, fast, and ratty. But best of all, I was privileged to name my daughter. She is named after her great-great grandmother, her great grandmother, her grandmother, and her mom. In her name is line of women who loved Jesus and we wanted to her to be connected to these beautiful women before her. Our names mean a lot, they give us our identity.
Long before I named possum and brandy, long before we were named, even before Adam named the animals, God named everything. He gave everything, the sky, the stars, the oceans and the mountains, and especially us our first name. He looked at all he made and he named us "Good." Before we are Michael or Sally, or any other name, our first name, our most important name is the one God gives us: Good.
"God looked over everything he had made; it was so good, so very good!" Genesis 1:31
