7

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Seven deadly sins.

How’s that for a conversation starter? Equally robust topics for family night be Nazi surgical techniques or the best fecal matter for fertilizing roses. How perfect for those post-dinner gatherings on cold winter nights. “Hey kids, gather round. We’re gonna talk about the quickest way to eternal damnation. Oh, and bring me a beer.”

Good friend, colleague, and all-round good egg, Laurie Jackson, just published her first book, “Little White Lies and the Seven Deadly Sins.” It isn’t an ivory tower dive into the pool of hamartiology (look it up, I dare you.) It is something better.

40601913.jpgBy her own admission, she doesn’t cover any new territory here. Instead, it reads like a conversation with Erma Bombeck while eating overripe watermelon over the sink. It’s sweet, immediate, fun, and some good juice runs down your face while ingesting good stuff. It brings the rather heavy topic of sin into a more amicable place in ways both funny and insightful.

And, it’s got me rethinking the whole topic. Sin isn’t exactly my first choice of hospitable, or even accessible party chat. And, it sucks as a Scrabble word. But the Bible seems to have rather an obsession with the stuff. It pops up like the drunk uncle at a wedding, inserting itself into otherwise polite company with slurry, spitty banter and totally short circuits our drive to the buffet line. It is as ubiquitous as it is exasperating.

Frankly, these days, I’m stuck knowing how to deal with the ramifications of this word and what it represents. The conservative theological pundits have a hard-on for it and can’t stop bemoaning how genuinely rotten is everything and everyone. Sin rules the day they cry through horn-rimmed glasses, shame and potluck on their breath. We just need to “get back” to God’s word and repent, repent, repent, feeling like shit the whole time. The guiltier we feel the better. Their Gospel: I’m shit. God’s not. Jesus took a good beating from his Dad for me. If I’m okay with that, I’m not shit anymore.

The progressive idealogues are, by contrast, tacitly unconcerned with any notion whatsoever that shadows, scraped knees, or even bad smells could possibly exist in so sunny a universe. If we just skip together, prancing hand in hand, hearty choruses of “We Shall Overcome” on our lips, no boogey-man will assert itself. We do not sin. We are sinned against (although I could never figure out who was first to get the ball rolling). I need only speak positively, even about the most heinous cell-blocks, and all will magically heal, rendering us all Pollyanna-happy. Their Gospel: I’m good. God is in question. The conservatives created a mess. Together, we’ll get this shit cleaned up. God’ll get a passing nod by the religious among us.

And, for both camps, the currency of faithfulness is outrage. I’m either pissed off at the sinfulness of everything everywhere, or I’m pissed off at those who are pissed off at everything everywhere. I sin in my self-righteous indignation at sin, forcing others into my thinking on the subject, or I sin in my satisfaction of not believing I’m a sinner in the first place. How’s that for a rabbit-hole conundrum?

Both feel a little insipid frankly, and neither give a particularly satisfying understanding of either sin or, by extension, grace.

As Laurie and others have stated, sin  translates as missing the mark. It’s an archery term. People who shoot arrows are intentionally aiming at something. They’re scrutinizing outcomes. Their desires are set upon something good. But, in our efforts at bull’s eyes, we miss every time. 

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Picture found here

Here’s why I love this word. It actually indicates something wonderful about God, and also about us. It tells us that God cares enough to help us in our aim. But it also reveals a universal longing in the heart of humanity, one that takes aim at what it most desires. Augustine once said “our hearts are restless until they find their rest in God.” We naturally aim at what our hearts most desire: peace, fulfillment, happiness, union with the divine.

Unfortunately, something is askew. Something keeps tugging at our arms as we line up another shot into the great unknown. Sin is the annoying guy making all those rustling and taunting noises right before we take our swing down the fairway. We aim for something because we’re made for God and long to return to God. We miss that something because sin somehow gets in the way and we’re wide of the target every time. We could call sin “aiming for the right thing in all the wrong ways often enough that the wrong thing feels like the right thing.”

That is until God steps in. God intervenes and removes the shackles, weights, magnets, and distractions pulling our arrows asunder. In Christ, the arrow of our longing has finally reached its target.

The destination is Christ himself.

The 7 Deadly Sins are merely the church’s creative means of naming the primary stalls in that effort toward aiming at God’s heart. For those of you following along in Laurie’s book, here’s a quick review of those: Pride, Envy, Anger, Lust, Greed, Gluttony, Sloth.

So then, here goes an armchair theologian’s look at…7.

Learning to Sail Without Wind

Boats in Grays Harbor copy.jpgMaybe it all started with the insane idea of a week spent on the sea. Skipping work. Dressing up the old-school sailboat (sails only, no engine). Equally impulsive buddies, deck chairs, and beer enough to drown a fish. Nightly onboard BBQ of still-wriggling critters scooped from the drink. Singing Guns and Roses tunes with the pals and pissing overboard at whim. What could possibly go wrong?

The Hollywood trope follows that a raging storm leaves a sole survivor who fends off starvation, sharks, and sun long enough to be rescued by a passing trawler or Filipino fishermen. Except, the opposite occurs. A shockingly windless sky refuses breath enough to push or pull the boat anywhere. Not so bad for a week, maybe two. But once the food runs out (i.e. beer) it stops being an adventure and becomes a panic.

I do fairly well in storms. Like the wind, I’ll whine and moan and often drag others down with me. But, all things considered, I often do my best work under pressure. The gift of lazy hours to dream of creative stuff to do is replaced by a thousand creative things to do, all nicely truncated into impossibly tight life spaces. I hate it. I love it.

Doldrums are not the opposite of storms. They are storms in reverse. In place of exhaustive wave-fighting, they provide utter calm, not so much as a whisper of wind to fill hungry sails with nothing to do. To battle a storm is at least to cling to the hope of survival. Wit over wind, brains and brawn unite to combat the elements. Every nerve is taut with anxiety and humming with gallons of adrenaline provided for us by our unselfish bodies. We’re far too busy to think about much else.

Not so with doldrums. The gift of survival mechanism is swapped out for the gnawing ache of uncertainty. It is imminent death by slow. The world around us puts on a cheery face and smiles us to death with a wink and a nod. Sailors dreaded them. 

So do I.

I’d love to say with my typical drama and flare that I’m enduring a dark night of the soul. I’d even settle for “a period of contemplative reflection on the future.” Such sophisticated spiritual ennui would offer me a broad brush-strokes approach to what amounts to boredom. This is not acedia, that fancy-pants noonday demon that has been the demise of so many monks and creatives. Not depression. Frankly, I’m happy as f***. 

I arise each morning to the same wonderful routines which still offer joy and solidity and perspective. I still activate my work mechanism as required and make the trains run on time. I’m present for my coworkers and fellow congregants for whom I am called to serve. Prayer and spiritual disciplines continue apace and I enjoy the deep perfections of watching BBC with my babe of thirty-plus years. 

But, I’m so bloody bored.

In storm situations, we don’t even have time to ask what our course should be. We’re just trying to stay afloat and moving in whatever direction allows us to stay that way. A mariner’s direction is dependent upon two things, maps for direction and wind for movement. One determines the where. The other, the how. I assume (of course, since I’m no mariner) that one maintains current course unless or until it becomes apparent that a change in course is needed.

In such cases, the boat remains in motion. Maps are revisited, scoured for clues; reconsidered for evidence of misinterpretation, or to gain new insight and inspiration for what to expect.

Through it all, sails remain unfurled, gulping wind to fuel forward motion. Motion means life, or at least anticipation. It indicates direction, even if that direction demands recalculation. 

It’s a rare thing for a boat to stop entirely, sitting dead in the water. This ship remains faithfully at sea, chugging along in the same direction. But, maps seem blurry, even unfamiliar. Any wind at all seems counter to the lie of the sails. When there is wind, the boat wants to sail against it. Boats are made for more than just floating. They want – need – to move. 

So, doldrums it is I guess. The beer is long gone (tonic water in my case). The jokes have all been told. What once were laughs are now sneers and accusations of “who the hell’s idea was this anyway?”

Well, I don’t own a boat. I’m not even on them very often. But, mine feels a little water-logged. A little bit of wind might get this lug moving again.

Land ho! Oh wait, that’s my hand.

A Life in Four Chapters

What follows is a brief faith journey given at my denominational licensing interview. If you’re an avid reader of my work here, you’ll likely recognize some bits here and there from other bits elsewhere. Thanks for reading all the same!

In her coming to faith memoir, Traveling Mercies, writer Anne Lamott describes her coming to faith as a series of lily pads. A moving from one place to another in an inexorable path toward the light of Christ. My own spiritual evolution has been similarly episodic, but gradual. Like the beating of a heart. A spike of new oxygen, then space for it to make a difference before the next one. In the brief time we have, I offer my faith journey in 4 chapters.

Chapter I – The Mystic

“‘Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven…” (Matt. 5:3)

November, 1974. Calgary, Alberta. I was eleven years old….The deep, night sky boasted her cavalcade of winter stars in unabashed glory. I began my journey to St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church for my weekly Boys’ Brigade meeting. To fight my typical anxiety, I decided to sing. The words of some Sunday School song tasted like hot chocolate Jesus on my young palette.

I lost myself in the comforting words letting them buoy me up in the starlit dark. A short time later I stopped, the church directly in front of me. Then, something happened – something outside of me – that has forever shaped my embryonic understanding of an eternal God. I can only describe it as a…knowing.

Whomever God was to me at eleven years of age “spoke” silently reassuring words to me that intimated, “I am with you tonight even as I have been so since before you were born.” I couldn’t move. I could hardly breathe. I was at once horrified and blissfully happy. I was, as if for the first time, fully awake. The only thing holding me to the ground was a tractor beam of grace, a preternatural awareness of something far beyond my ken.

That night I was confirmed as a “believer.” As a mystic. I cannot explain it. I simply, know.

Chapter II – The Believer

“‘Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled…” (Matt. 5:6)

October, 1981.

I’ve been hungry my whole life; curious about everything, but primarily the unseen world I knew existed, but which felt so ridiculously elusive. The warm familiarity I’d enjoyed with God gave way to the angst of youth and the attendant emotional conundrums that go with the territory. My spiritual hunger had found the fatty food aisle of music, alcohol, sexual promiscuity, isolationism, and about a thousand books: narrative, history, Celtic mythology, biography, theoretical physics, the occult…the list goes on. 

My hunger only grew, unsatisfied.

However, as a touring musician I met Terry. A lapsed Christian himself, his life still seemed more satiated than mine. On a very hungover drive home from a two-week gig in Edmonton, Alberta, he led me to heaven’s Trader Joe’s, the holy food and drink who is Christ Jesus. I ate and drank and was satisfied.

I’ve been feasting ever since.

Chapter III – The Contemplative

“Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom. And all of us, with unveiled faces, seeing the glory of the Lord as though reflected in a mirror, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another; for this comes from the Lord, the Spirit.” (2 Cor. 3:17-18)

Palettes change as we mature. We don’t typically feed a spicy curry to a toddler even as mushy peas is an unsatisfying meal to an adult, unless of course you’re British.

The propositional, paper-thin cultural expressions of Christian faith, began to taste of mold and dust and my hunger once again raged like a monster truck rally in my soul. The applicational, scientific, outside-in Christianity of which I’d grown accustomed just didn’t satisfy anymore. It still doesn’t.

I grew more curious about whether my faith could actually find transformational teeth. Can a person genuinely walk like Jesus as one walks with Jesus? Is personal change truly possible or just some cute theological abstraction? What if our justification and sanctification are not two separate things, but inextricably linked in a kaleidoscopic unity? What would life be like outside the confining walls of systematic theology where the uncontrollable Spirit lives unhindered? Life as poetry, not science? To become the Word, not just study it? Where’s the danger in certainty when the risk of mystery is so much bigger?

My journey toward a more unitive consciousness, a less dualistic view of the world, and a better meal overall was found at the table of silence, solitude, and saints. Having already discovered Jesus, I now discovered my soul in community with the fuller Christian community, and the very host of heaven by the agency of the Holy Spirit. I was rebaptized, metaphorically, as a contemplative.

Chapter IV – The Activist

“He has told you, O mortal, what is good;
   and what does the Lord require of you
but to do justice, and to love kindness,
   and to walk humbly with your God?” (Hosea 6:8)

One cannot sit long in the presence of the God who speaks without aching to share that with another living soul. Already a convinced mystic, baptized believer, deepening contemplative, now I seek to be an avenue of that same communion with others, inasmuch as I am able.

I am still very much a marketplace Christian, actively engaged in the vicissitudes of embodied truth. The field of dreams for me must be on the field, not in the dreams. It is hands and feet and kinetic energy I require to keep my inner kingdom alive and growing.

The agora is yet my home. My vocation is to pursue the heart of monasticism amid the mire and stress of busy, workaday folks. In the rat’s nest of holy chaos that is the avenue, the neighbourhood, the hospital bed, the early morning rush hour, all of it awash in the presence of the God who sees.

The larger call and vocation upon my life will emerge more clearly in the minutiae of the face to face reparté of those who need what I’ve discovered in the deep recesses of Silence. A purveyor of Jesus to other hungries like me, albeit as a mystic in the mess where mystery meets mammon.

Chapter V is God’s to pen. Amen.

I am not as old

Already posted on my LitBits site. I wanted to share with y’all here as well.

Rob's Lit-Bits

On the occasion of my fifty-fifth birthday.

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No, I am not as old as

the wilting membrane of earth –

the skin of her secrets, too tightly

breast-held and leaky.

No, I am not as old as last

winter’s back-porch bread crumbs,

now frozen in cracks of concrete

and flaking paint.

No, I am not as old as the clock,

heavy in memory and fingerprints –

evidenced in her calloused hands.

No, I am not as old as the long-

faded colour now framing the painting’s

place – a reminiscence tucked in

a reminiscence. The irony of old beauties.

No, I am not as old as the tales and

fables, born wild and then loosed

in the telling, fermenting into 

many-tongued song.

No, I am not as old as the coughing

farm truck, grizzled metal and clogged

arteries, belching orders under

a hollow back, still unbroken.

No, I am…

View original post 29 more words

Begin with Prayer

What follows is excerpted and morphed from a sermon I delivered recently on Prayer as the foundation for Evangelism.

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The time has never been greater for Christians to live as Christ Ones. Our world, our neighbourhoods, our families all need a freshly invigorated, Spirit-filled kiss from God through lives made whole and real in the Gospel.

As with everything else, Jesus is our example, our inspiration, and our guide. Because the topic of prayer is so vast, I’m paring it down to three episodes in the life of Jesus in order to see how he goes about this business of prayer.

Episode I – Jesus Prays for Enlightenment

Luke 6:12-13

12 Now during those days he went out to the mountain to pray; and he spent the night in prayer to God. 13And when day came, he called his disciples and chose twelve of them, whom he also named apostles:

Jesus prays for Enlightenment, for help in decision-making. At a key moment early in his ministry, Jesus prays all night to hone his spiritual spidey-senses to hear clearly from his Father. The time had come for him to choose his team. His apprentices. Those who would represent the Kingdom of God. We know them of course as the Apostles.

He didn’t consult his notes, or do background checks, or call references. He didn’t consult his Purpose Driven Life book or call up Joel Osteen. He didn’t check his horoscope.

He prayed.

He stopped everything he was doing, turned off his cell phone, and talked to God all night. And, upon his return, chooses twelve of the most influential people in human history.

As we live the Christian Way among our neighbours, we will need a spiritual sensitivity, honed and heightened by prayer. “Lord, where are those most hungry for a touch from you today? Lord, how do I know to whom you may be calling me to offer a word of hope? To help share a burden? To be a willing listener?”

The same way Jesus did. By prayer. In prayer we learn to trust the “holy hunch.”

Rae and I learned this lesson again a few weeks ago while on our way back from Seattle. We’d stopped to eat at Salty’s Restaurant on Alki Beach, a favourite haunt of ours. Our waitress was a young, intelligent, and gregarious young woman. She was quite chatty really. A Psychology student who is trying to make it in real estate. 

Before long we found ourselves buried in conversation with her. Then, the conversation moved very naturally into discussing matters of soul. She is feeling distanced from the faith of her parents who worshipped in a fundamentalist fashion. Her relationship with her parents was a bit strained to say the least.

In fact, she asked if she could stay after her shift was over. She longed to speak with us longer about her distant faith and of her disillusionment with the present state of Christianity in this country. She stayed for two hours! We enjoyed a very intense and moving conversation that was wonderfully beneficial to all of us.

We’re now good friends with her and her fiancée, a young man from Yakima, actually. And last weekend we were in Seattle again and ended up with an extra ticket to see Ed Sheeran in concert. We took him with us.

Why do we Begin with Prayer? Because we cannot see the way forward to just the right conversations with just the right people at just the right time in any other way.

Episode II – Jesus Prays for Empowerment

Mark 1:35-39 In the morning, while it was still very dark, he got up and went out to a deserted place, and there he prayed. 36And Simon and his companions hunted for him. 37When they found him, they said to him, ‘Everyone is searching for you.’ 38He answered, ‘Let us go on to the neighbouring towns, so that I may proclaim the message there also; for that is what I came out to do.’ 39And he went throughout Galilee, proclaiming the message in their synagogues and casting out demons.

Prior to this Jesus had been engaging in a flurry of teaching engagements, healing and helping and listening and dealing with the religious leaders. Apparently, healing people, casting out demons, raising people from the dead, losing friends, gaining enemies, and engaging in constant conflict with the religious brass was exhausting. Who knew?

The life to which we are called is a demanding one. Not just because of our own survival. But, because there will always be those around us who need God’s love. There will always be one more child to adopt. One more disease to cure. One more demon to cast out. One more lonely person to befriend. One more lost soul who needs the companionship of Jesus.

Kingdom work tired Jesus. It will tire us, too.  Prayer is to the soul what sleep is to the body; what sex is to a relationship. It nourishes and restores and sustains. Jesus needed prayer. So will we.

Why do we Begin with Prayer? Because relationships are beautiful but tiring.

Episode III – Jesus Prays for Encouragement

Matthew 26:36-44 Then Jesus went with them to a place called Gethsemane; and he said to his disciples, ‘Sit here while I go over there and pray.’ 37He took with him Peter and the two sons of Zebedee and began to be grieved and agitated. 38Then he said to them, ‘I am deeply grieved, even to death; remain here, and stay awake with me.’ 39And going a little farther, he threw himself on the ground and prayed, ‘My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me; yet not what I want but what you want.’ 40Then he came to the disciples and found them sleeping; and he said to Peter, ‘So, could you not stay awake with me one hour? 41Stay awake and pray that you may not come into the time of trial; the spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.’ 42Again he went away for the second time and prayed, ‘My Father, if this cannot pass unless I drink it, your will be done.’ 43Again he came and found them sleeping, for their eyes were heavy. 44So leaving them again, he went away and prayed for the third time, saying the same words.

Life at times puts the squeeze on us. All of us at some point must carry the burden of the cross. We will confront fear, disappointment, pain, doubt, failure. We will face our own fox-hole faith moment when all our waning energies rally to a single point of bursting emotion: “Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me…”

Life lived as Good News is challenging. It will ask of us everything. Our time, our trust, our energy, our finances, our faith, our doubts…all of it. We will often be taxed well beyond what we can manage on our own.

Prayer is the place we are given enlightenment – seeing what we most need to see. Prayer wakes us up to what’s happening all around us.

Prayer is where we are empowered to do the work set before us. It is the oatmeal of our faith journey – where we are enlivened and sustained in Kingdom work.

And, prayer is where we will find encouragement to persist when all around seems bleak and impossible.

Why do we begin with prayer? Because Jesus did. And he’s the reason we’re doing any of this anyway.

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Thanks to www.holyart.com for sponsoring this post

On Writing a Memoir, Part III

It is an odd thing, this whole memoirishness. 

poets-pen.jpegTo read a memoir is to sit in someone’s living room drinking beer and eating Cheetos as someone outlines plans to save the world, or at least make it a little less shitty.

Except for a few cases, their stories are rarely intended for their own self-aggrandizement. Instead, they act as a window, a prism of sorts that divide up a fully lived life into its constituent parts for our amusement and awe. Once we happen upon these parts, it is for us to find ourselves within them.

Although not entirely without a modicum of gravitas, I am embarrassingly unknown. A small-town guy writing for other little guys, but with a tale to tell. What I can offer is a fireside tale told by a friend you just haven’t met yet. A regular guy with a story for other non-luminaries out there.

For my part, there’s an unquenchable thirst to read the journals of other next-door Joe’s like me. Those who put in writing what had previously been stuck in memories, photo albums, iPhones, shoe boxes, or desk drawers. Ordinary people become extraordinary through telling their story. We become greater than the sum of our parts as we are willing to share something of the remarkable, the redemptive, the road made a little straighter, the discoveries we’ve made along the way. Memoir is the result of someone’s self-discovery in writing.

I have loved such stories my whole life. Thomas Merton’s The Seven Storey Mountain, C. S. Lewis’ Surprised by Joy, Anne Lamott’s Traveling Mercies, Kathleen Norris’ The Cloister Walk, Deal Hudson’s An American Conversion, Augustine’s Confessions, Henri Nouwen’s The Road to Daybreak, Christian Wiman’s My Bright Abyss, Will Ferguson’s Beyond Belfast, Bill Bryson’s Notes from a Small Island, Mary Karr’s The Liar’s Club among scads of others.

These stories invite me to ask, how am I also the statesman? The conqueror? The activist? The poet? The World War II code breaker? The rock star? Can it be that my horizons grow in reading the exploits of those great ones of whom I can only dream? Do their larger-than-life stories strike a chord, even a strident one, with folks-next-door like me? Like you? What is it about their stories that make us buy the books, makes women sigh and men jealous?

When I first dove into The Seven Storey Mountain,

Thomas Merton (1915-1968)

was surprised to discover Thomas Merton, an artsy intellectual, Trappist contemplative who, on his worst day, was hipper and smarter than I will ever be. I’ve read, jaws agape, of the jaw-dropping exploits of British navy explorer Ernest Shackleton. I soil myself at the notion of being anywhere near the same impossible scenario. I get lost in parking lots, let alone a frozen continent significantly larger than the country of my birth.

To read of Mahatma Ghandi, Martin Luther King, Jr., even Steve Jobs, requires a suspension of disbelief since I’m normally polishing off a chapter in between building retaining walls, preening what’s left of my hair or pealing potatoes for dinner. But then I discovered something, or rather, someone(s).

A good memoir is one in which a writer who, although more famous and established than myself, can bring themselves closer to my ilk. They are just regular folks, or see themselves that way (even if their bestseller status denies them the qualification). They are “small,” but with big stories. Anne Lamott for example, whose disarmingly genuine and authentically humorous depictions of her coming to faith give courage to those like me who would venture to do the same.

Kathleen Norris, whose writing and teaching career places her in a broader orbit, still writes for artsy-fartsies like me; those who consider themselves “thinking contemplatives” and a little rough around the edges. Another example might be naturalist philosopher, poet-academic and farmer, Wendell Berry. Now, there’s a guy I can relate to – a farmer who writes poetry – good poetry, and novels that bespeak our common life and run-of-the-mill experiences that hold within them the hearty smell of dung in the boots and the glint of heaven.

The idea that someone with whom I might share the frozen food aisle at Safeway has written a personal retrospective, complete with spiritual ups and downs, relationships won and lost and the polished and buffed exteriors that don’t always line up with their guts, is tacitly satisfying. Taken together, these individuals have emboldened me to see my own journey, a little pedestrian and squishy by most standards, as still mineable for universal truths, frequent tears and the occasional belly laugh. They encourage me to find out who I am becoming and write in the process.

And this is the end of my beginning. I may not be famous enough to dwell among whomever is the star du jour. I may not be old enough to be particularly interesting  – unless you ask my boys for whom I am an animated skeleton with opinions. I may not be young enough to be on the cutting edge of anything. Most anything sharp about my edges has long ago been dulled to a coffee spoon. I’m smart, but not quite smart enough to produce those clever turns of phrase about the deep stuff destined for the thick books sold in packs of two, the other being a dictionary.

Courageous? Perhaps, but not quite brave or selfless enough to reach out quivering hands into a crying world like those grand souls whose hands have done so before, often at their peril. Their tales provide the templates from which I glean my own courage.

Smart and edgy like Merton? Working on it. Leader with bravery and character like Shackleton? Um, sure, let’s go with that. Articulate, and passionately dedicated like King or Ghandi? I do good, I guess.

They say the devil’s in the details (whomever they is). But, ultimately, God authors the story. I get to put together the puzzle. And who doesn’t love a good puzzle? 

On Writing a Memoir, Part II

I love to write. Whether it loves me back is not for me to decide. The jury’s still out on that one. No matter. It doesn’t change the fact that I am compelled to tell people my story. Well, bits of my story. Bits of my unfolding story.

poets-pen.jpegWhy, you may ask? Because stories unite us. Jesus loved them. He had a particular attachment to stories. Parables to be exact. Parables are simultaneously beguiling and didactic. They amuse as they teach. They are immediate in their images and settings. It’s like we get to be in on the joke. And, their disarming specificity is surprisingly universal.

Once a story is rooted in the ground, where we all walk; once there is an address, a face, names, insider talk, maybe a joke or two, it becomes magnetic. They bring us together in ways few other things can. They are the campfire songs of our childhood, the foolish dares of youth, our first kiss, or broken heart, our first-child elations, the decimation of loss. All this and more is common to us all. 

0da867-20140929-mother-and-children-reading-stories.jpg
Postcard depicting a mother and children reading stories. Smith, Jessie Willcox, 1863-1935 (artist); L. Prang & Co. (publisher); Boston Public Library, Print Department

It is for these reasons I love memoir. It’s like someone letting you rummage through their sock drawer. There’s always a gem or two to be found in the oddest places. 

And I think I’ve got one (or more) in me somewhere. It’s been floating around for years trying to find its way out. But, in order to do so with authenticity and putting my best foot forward, I need your help. 

I’m so thankful to all of you, my readers, for your ongoing support of this blog. It’s gratifying to know that my emerging soul, rife as it is with the bullet holes of life, is of enough interest to draw in an onlooker or two!

My invitation remains open. Join me in the journey toward a story on paper? Share with me your impressions. What has moved you? Delighted you? Disgusted or enraged you? Your thoughts mean everything to me. As do you.

Always in the Way, R

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On Writing a Memoir, Part I

poets-pen.jpegSo, dear friends, I need your help. I’ve had a book percolating in me for some time now. But I need your help in pulling it out and getting it down. I’m inviting you, my dear readers, to help guide me on this journey.

Many of you have faithfully followed along with my often random, esoteric ramblings, with grace and dedication. I am utterly gratified to be in this with you. Truly.

Of the pieces you’ve read, what has struck you most? Deepest? What are the bits and bobs that have most touched you, made you laugh, or cry, or angry? I mean, the kinds of bits you’d read more of were they to find themselves between covers? So, this is an open invitation to you, my beloved readers, to walk with me toward some as yet undetermined goal of a memoir.

I appreciate you all so much. Your input is invaluable in the discernment process for this little project. Whaddya say? Can ya help a guy out?”

 

 

Spirituality, Imagination, and Pole-Dancing

Originally published on my robslitbits poetry and writing blog.

Rob's Lit-Bits

I think often, and occasionally pontificate, on the spiritual practice of creativity; the places they mutually inform and intersect, the artesian possibilities of art-making. It has been for me a means of keeping a few useful items on my mental table, known to topple over from time to time. It means reading. Lots of reading. Further, it means writing about and because of what I read.

Some of the best stuff gets a chance to percolate, and then regurgitate back onto the page. In the process, some of that wordy goodness forces its way into me. Into who I am becoming. Why I am becoming. And for whom.

Two prevalent ideas in American society are mutually exclusive: spirituality and capitalism. They are the philosophical bed-mates of spirituality and profitability (otherwise known as the New Age Movement or the Christian publishing industry), or sex and time management (although it would be…

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Uni-Versitas: Start with Wonder

Albert Einstein and Augustine of Hippo are different people. They are also the same. Having now exercised remarkable powers of observation and obfuscation, allow me to explain.

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Einstein. A genius, obviously.

Albert Einstein of Theory of General Relativity fame was a troubled failure of a student who became a theoretical physics superstar. He began as Steve Erkel but later became the Tom Brady of the 20th century science world, although rather wanting in groupies I should think. Albert stumbled his way through grade school having revealed a rather less than stellar academic prowess. But his was a great mind waiting to bust out of the starting gate and take a stab at the big world he observed. Better than most as it would turn out.

We’ll call him a good candidate for the Ellen Show.

Augustine of Hippo was a troubled saint-in-training, a self-proclaimed failure whose frat-boy lasciviousness (constantly horny for the lay person) and subsequent coming to Jesus moment is wonderfully outlined in his Confessions. It was the first of its kind. Memoir and theology wed together in a single book. It happens all the time now. Not so much then, however, when even average brains were pushed around in wheel-barrows.

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Augustine of Hippo. Kinda has frat-boy written all over him, doesn’t he?

Frankly, as much as I love the guy, he needed to chill a bit on the whole self-flagellation thing. He commits pages to the ravages of soul he encounters from stealing some of his neighbour’s pears. Really, dude? No “boys will be boys” pass on this one, huh? Like, I’m not trying to justify thievery here, but let’s get a grip, shall we? I sin more before morning coffee than this guy ever did, and he gets to be famous?

He’s more Jerry Springer.

What Gus and Al bring to the table however is exactly the same. A stretch you say? Perhaps. But, in a non-dualistic world, where everything is allowed to be interconnected, the starting point for science and for spirituality are one and the same.

Wonder.

My love for science is birthed from the same place as my longing for God. Frankly, I think they work the same turf, just with different conclusions for different reasons. But, in this uni-versitas, one truth, wonder reserved for black holes and quarks feels tellingly like that which the mystics experienced in the throes of contemplation.

For the sciency types, wonder is of the curious kind. The more rational, sensory kind where eye-balls matter more than Bibles. Observation, experimentation, hypothesis, theory, deduction. Repeat. One can hardly look to the heavens without asking how the hell all that stuff got way out there. It really is quite stunning. Go deep-sea diving and one has both dinner and questions. Or perhaps gaze out across the horizon and discern just how flat or round the earth might be (I leave the conspiracies, snickering and finger-pointing to you).

The greatest explorers, scientists, and theologians all began with the same premise. Wonder. But, it is in rather short supply in a world more concerned with body image or retirement savings than all this silliness.

What’s needed is a healthy dose of children. Not by way of breeding (although not entirely a bad thing), but learning from them. If you’re looking for answers to quantum mechanics, modifying your car, or the latest stock tips, don’t ask children. They’ll just show up with enlightened curiosity and wide-eyed wonder.

And, what good is that? Our lust for all things pragmatic chews away noisily at us, forcing misplaced expectations. We wouldn’t want to get our hopes up too high just in case today sucks. Besides, who has time anyway, right?

Rush, run, push, pull, grunt, wheeze, talk, squeeze – and that’s just zipping up our jeans. The real business happens once we get into our car for work. Then we practice a lifetime of adulting, or at least adultifying our child selves, silenced years ago in the frenetics of bills and babies, dishes and disappointments. Our playlist at the ready, we fire up the car (light on style, heavy on sensible) and join the rest of the one-per-vehicle parade floats. None of us dares to look at each other unless it’s to offer that you’re-really-gonna-change-lanes-here?! look of exasperation.

It’s almost cliché to write about the curse of busyness. Everyone’s doing it. Both the busyness and the writing about it. We’ve learned little in terms of how interconnected the universe really is, chaos theory notwithstanding. We’re fragmented, frightened and frazzled, all before coffee break.

These days, in pursuit of spiritual development, I tend to read Stephen Hawking and Bill Bryson as easily as I might St. John of the Cross or Meister Eckhart (Uncle Wiggy as I like to call him). Their aims are different. Their yearning for knowledge the same. Their process is different, although a case can be made for observation and seeing as central to both. Their outcomes just as mystifying. Just as satisfying.

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Meister Eckhart (Uncle Wiggy). Brilliant spirituality I like to call Christus Cannabis.

Ironically, I gain as much from reading those whose aim it is to prove God out of existence as those who presuppose that existence. Doctors of astronomy and asceticism, gravity and gratitude, dinosaurs and doxology. They are different, and they are the same. For me, they all begin in the same place. In wonder.

It’s all of a piece. And, if you let it, all of a peace.

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Picture of Al found here

Picture of Gus found here

Picture of Uncle Wiggy found here