Author: robertalanrife

I have spent the better part of my life as a professional musician. Primarily, that has meant the fun and challenging world of church music. Most recently, I have transitioned out of my role as worship and music director for Yakima Covenant Church, Yakima, Washington to global service in Edinburgh, Scotland. I'm a singer-songwriter, liturgist, poet, and writer. I love words. I love to read them. I love to write them. Most of all, I love the many intersections, like a sacramental tapestry, of life, liturgy, literature, the arts, and spiritual formation...oh, and I love haggis.

Finding my way with words…again

On September 15, 2012September 15, 2012 By robertalanrifeIn Words...always words8 Comments

As I say ad nauseam, words hold great fascination for me. Like a good wine or succulent steak, they should roll in the mouth teasing us out of lethargy and into fantasy. I’ve built entire paragraphs around a single tantalizing word I’ve discovered. I mean, come on, how can a person not get goosebumps upon hearing words like pandiculation, sententious; contumelious or jejune (thank you, Frasier). Since I am a word geek, but an amateur, I must speak without perspicuity (see, isn’t it fun?!) about a number of linguistic ailments troubling me of late.

The first is the unforgiving forward march of colloquialism for its own sake. The fullness and potential of our language is forced to pose as a mere undercurrent while our worst, or at least, carelessly casual renditions of it suffers from a “never cry wolf” scenario. It calls out, taunting us with its beauty and yummy goodness only to tease us upon reaching it with the text-speak it has become. Our etymologies, left underused, are trumped by the language of our street level encounters with one another. The onerous ubiquity of pop-speak, text-splutter all too easily bullies us with a kind of syntactical imperialism, usually from whoever holds the what’s-cool-now cards. Those of us self-appointed word cops run to the rescue of a drowning language only to discover that we had acted preemptively and the malady escapes. Like pushing a parachute underwater, it simply pops up elsewhere. When it happens again and again, we grow weary of the chase and join ‘em since we can’t beat ‘em.

Truth be told, this is how all language evolves. Perhaps this is not such a bad thing or we might still be in the throes of “straightway”, “contrariwise”, “forsooth”, “forthwith” and a host of other culturally high-nosed non-necessities. Lest I begin to sound too much like the aforementioned language-Luddites, I’m the first to admit my own occasional lapses into Facebook-ese if for no other reason than to escape the notice of those who might otherwise call me out on it.

Secondly, something I’ve said a jillion times – that abuse of overstatement otherwise known as hyperbole. Saying a word or phrase a jillion times does not, in itself, lend any greater credence to the word or phrase in question. Insistent hyperbole has left our language flat, uninteresting, boring and impotent, unable to even arouse us from our phonic slumber. I confess that my own struggle with the issue can easily be compared to the epic battles faced by Moses at the foot of Mt. Sinai or Lawrence of Arabia (this is exaggeration, not hyperbole…honest). The loss of subtlety, clarity and nuance delivers a word-life that is monochromatic, thin, even morose as a consequence.

Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, (my posts are generally far too long) is our love for the more-is-better preference. Our love for more-chat-is-better, not in length, depth and style, but in frequent, drably trite verbal diarrhea (think Twitter) has left us yearning for silence, the spaces between the words where we regain our footsteps. It’s often the punctuation and not the words it contextualizes that can steady our gait, allowing us to reenter conversation and community with class, poise and aplomb. The constant barrage of words, ideas and images (kinda like this post) all but guarantee that we are robbed of silence, the very silence that could enliven our spirits and enrich our conversation, leading to community.

So, there you have it. These are my ongoing struggles both for and agin’ the forward march of language evolution. As you can plainly see, I’ve been the victim more than once of a sound playground pummeling. After all, who wants their words of simple communication continuously berated as sub-standard? Especially by some smug, self-appointed word doctor? Be that as it may, I stand by my diagnoses and humbly await the next unwelcome conflagration unwittingly brought upon myself whereby the shape and color of my face are akin to the same in our less than ideal lexical enrollment.

In case we do not speak again, farewell, and think thee not ill of me…

guest blog – thinking about dad: 666

On September 13, 2012September 12, 2012 By robertalanrifeIn Words...always wordsLeave a comment

This is the second post by guest blogger, Dan Erickson (www.danerickson.net).

thinking about dad: 666

(Originally posted on June 6, 2012)

It’s been two years to the day since my dad died. On June 6 at about 6pm of 2010 my dad made the transition from this life to the next. I couldn’t help but chuckle at the irony. He died on the sixth month, on the sixth day, at six o’clock: 666. That’s exactly what dad would have done, too. He would have laughed.

My father, Onnie Victor Erickson, affectionately known as Bud, was one of the kindest people I ever knew. He was non-judgmental and forgiving. When things were stolen from him he’d say, “It’s alright. I can always get another one. They need it more than me.” He said this knowing he couldn’t replace the item because he had very little money. When people would judge my dad based on his unique set of spiritual beliefs he’d simply say, “That’s okay. It’s part of their experience. That’s where they are in their life. I understand, because I’ve been there, too.”

Dad was also a seeker. It was his relentless desire to know more about God that got our family into a cult in the early 1970s. He thought he’d found the right path, the right group. Although he’d later leave that group, I’m not sure he’d claim it had been a mistake to get involved in it in the first place. His attitude was that everything we do and experience is destined. He’d say that we went through the cult experience because we were meant to at that time. He’d claim that coming through that experience helped us to learn something about God and would take us to the next level of our spiritual walk.

Dad later joined another fringe group and stayed with it until a few years before he died. Coming from the ministry himself, one thing may dad’s choice of spiritual leaders always included was a Christian-based belief system. He always believed that God and Christ were at the center of each group he attended, just not exactly as tradition might claim.

In the last few years of his life, dad forsook larger groups for studying a large variety of spiritual-based literature in smaller groups, small circles of likeminded people. In the end, I believe my dad had tapped into some ultimate truths concerning Christianity. He believed that the seed of Christ is in every soul that has ever lived, is living, or ever will live on earth. He called it “The Christ within you,” and he always did his best to live up to that phrase. He was honest, peaceful, loving, and fair. He was always there when a brother or sister, or a son or daughter needed a helping hand. We spent hours sharing our thoughts and feelings about God, Christ, and the state of the world. Dad was an optimist. He believed everything would work out for the good of God and all humanity in the end.

I started writing my first book A Train Called Forgiveness about ten months after dad died. Many of his ideals and values about God, Christ and religion are weaved into that story. It’s something I hope would have made him proud. Dad would have turned 75 on June 14, 2010. He was eight days shy, but now lives on infinitely. So, dad died on 666. But he’d say, “It doesn’t mean a thing. People are superstitious. God’s not superstitious. God is a beautiful representation of love.” God is a lot like “dad.”

Hope Arising

On September 10, 2012 By robertalanrifeIn Life of Rob, Waxing Poetic4 Comments

One man’s horizon is another’s destination.

To see far is not to see clear,

but clarity comes when morning hints

a cold shoulder mystique against the fallen night.

And once more, dawn rises over dusk

one day’s ‘yester’ trades places with another’s ‘to’-

never to return for

all is new once more.

An Evening’s Refrain

On September 6, 2012September 23, 2012 By robertalanrifeIn Waxing Poetic2 Comments

“There they are”, she says,

“how noteworthy, how noble under bastions of light

these gentlemen in tea-coats and cummerbunds.

They tilt their caps to passing ladies

with “adieu” and “hail, and well met, sweet girl.””

“Quickly”, she says,

“step lightly toward the dawn

and, before the shivering, cold dew of morning,

pin the drops that fall to the ground

with footsteps, trim, and gayly tripping.”

When one decides for time and chance,

fortune’s wind of destiny depletes itself

amid the wild, barren tapestry of evening –

and stops to sigh and, with delight, gently whispers

“goodnight.”

Guitar Player

On September 5, 2012September 5, 2012 By robertalanrifeIn Life of Rob, Waxing PoeticLeave a comment

Like many other twelve year old boys with thoughts of rock star status, I too dreamed of such things as I taught myself to play my sister’s guitar. Unfortunately, I was too much a lover of acoustic music to make much of a run at the smoke and sweat-filled tour bus mystique. I was too bookish, intense and eclectic to fit nicely into most single strata rock bands. And, perhaps most importantly, I was far too afraid of girls for the groupie thing to ever be an issue. But I love the instrument. I love the sounds it makes. I love when those sounds and the instrument meet together at the insistence of my own probing hands. This is a short poetic tribute to a favorite instrument of mine…and apparently many others.

* * * * *

Like hand and Hand stretched across a Renaissance ceiling,

hand meets hand in effortless motion,

too lithe to care what darkness inspires this happy tune.

Finger kisses finger just far enough apart to spike the yearning.

From whence come these doleful sounds,

these cries of joyful anguish?

They twist and writhe, competing for space

and steal the air with deft amusement.

From careful pause, adroit motion, and artful thrust

come strains unstrained; music feigning perfection, deigning imperfection.

Yet still it comes, music for ears made perfect –

singed,

soothed,

satisfied.

Glimpses VI: peering into the abyss

On September 4, 2012September 16, 2012 By robertalanrifeIn Christian spirituality, faith, sacramental living, spiritual formation7 Comments

A truth many of us would rather not face is what I will call “lostness.” St. John of the Cross speaks at length of the dark night of the soul in his classic by the same name. But, since I’m not St. John, or perhaps saint anything, and my understanding of such things is limited, allow me to share my own rudimentary gleanings.

I’ve often mused that, if a person can say with confidence they are in a dark night, they’re not yet in a dark night. Nasty and ghoulish perhaps, but not what I mean by lostness. Dark means just that. Light has gone. Dark has come replacing sure steps with foundering ones. A way forward succumbs to guess work or less. Destinations become forgotten in a haze of bumping into walls not of our own choosing and which we cannot see anyway. As such, we lose not only orientation but the reasons for our non-whereabouts. Soon, we lose hope that light will come again and, at its worst, lose the desire and ability to see life as anything but one’s present bleak experience.

I am told that in situations of torture, people will sustain terrible beatings and then are placed in dark cells for weeks at a time. Painful sensory overload is replaced by unspeakable deprivation and loneliness. The non-existence experienced in these holding periods becomes even worse for the victims and they literally yearn to be beaten again. At least something is happening. Besides, even bad company means we’re not alone, the worst of all punishments.

Such is the lost-ness of lostness. Ostensibly, this is where God does God’s best work on the soul. When the senses have vacated their steadying influence and only a hollowed out vacuum remains, we are left with but one choice: believe anyway…or not. The sheer pointlessness of it all needs to sink into our being in order for us to be stripped of our need for pin-point accuracy in all our dealings. God alone rules here for, alone, there is only God. For we do not exist. Or so it seems. It is both the worst and the best thing God ever does in the human soul. A sweet cruelty, the pangs of which remain indelibly etched within.

A particularly poignant biblical picture of how best to weather such places of struggle is the aching repartee of Jesus with his Father in the garden of Gethsemane. The king of the ages, a long way from anything that was home, has just gotten comfortable with this broken, mortal coil. He loves us but is now asked to give it all up. For something even far worse. Perhaps with little idea of what “to be raised on the third day” might actually mean.

What is the intended result? In time, an eternity to us, a wink to God, we become shining trophies of grace. Not shiny like cheap flea market brass trinkets. But the rich, robust pewter and silver serving trays fit for royalty. The fickle fetters of sense and emotional agility that throw us under the bus when we’re not looking have now bowed to a deeper well. Unseen, but oh so quenching.

But not before we do a lot of fist shaking, weeping and finally giving up. That’s when rescue is sweetest.

Prayer of one who is lost

Hello…anyone,

can I call you God? or god? or what?

I am sick. My soul is sick and I am crushed.

Are you there? If you are, are you good?

Are you to be trusted?

Are you the one I should be looking for or do I wait

for someone else? something else? somewhere else?

How much does guilt, shame, blame

fortify this place of thick, impenetrable walls?

Am I wise or even smart to hope when all I see is

blackness; sorrow draped in the sickly posture of dreams forgotten,

of light full shaded?

Do not speak to me of Job like the others.

He is a fairy-tale, a mockery to me,

a dream of dust and ancient woes

far removed from this Halloween of hellish delight.

He does not speak anymore and,

unlike his, my book has an ending yet undecided,

murky, unmoving like a lake long dead.

Perhaps no ending will come at all?

Perhaps there is no book?

Picturesque dreams no longer peek into sleep otherwise uninterrupted.

A mind instead, in broken time, refuses better context,

mocking lost memories of what I once thought was life.

When a heart bitterly refuses whatever comfort felt like,

to what do I cling? Is this to be my rebellion? My condemnation?

Am I headed for hell because of these questions?

Because, frankly,

the questions are hell enough.

For what it’s worth,

help me through one more day, this day,

if indeed there still is such a thing.

* * * * *

Is this you right now? What practices might be helpful as you and God seek to navigate this dark time?

Do you have a support system in place? Others who can be co-sojourners with you?

Share some of your own dark night experiences.

the intricacies of supple hearts – a guest post

On September 3, 2012August 17, 2012 By robertalanrifeIn Waxing Poetic, Words...always wordsLeave a comment

Friend, fellow musician and writer, Dan Erickson, has kindly used a couple of my own pieces on his blog: www.danerickson.net I would like to return the favor with a couple of his own. I invite you to learn more about Dan at his site. The best way to get to know someone however is through their creativity. Hence, I give you this first offering by guest blogger, Dan Erickson.

the intricacies of supple hearts

(originally posted on July 7, 2012)

Once broken, it’s hard to remain soft,

like shattered glass most tend to cut

ourselves or others again and again.

It takes ten, maybe twenty-thousand days

for the fortunate few to mend:

less fragile, less frigid than before.

After years of abuse: some learn

to become unbreakable without hardening;

to love without fear of rejection or pain.

Our paths to pliability were weaved

intricately; our supple nature shaped

by something greater than ourselves.

Knowing this:

If two should meet and intertwine,

melting together while continuously

bending to and fro, the intricacies

of supple hearts, like water and wind,

create a bond that cannot be broken,

neither now nor in the age to come.

This Holy Skin

On August 28, 2012August 28, 2012 By robertalanrifeIn Christian spirituality, literature, poetryLeave a comment

Since dividing up my writing into two separate blogs, my other blog: www.robslitbits.com has received all of the poetry. I think that unfair, don’t you? Hence, I give you…

We stand and crane our necks

reaching for heaven’s bright smile,

upon shoulders of brown and moving green,

and in the act forget ourselves as one and there and good.

Made from unmade to make again,

these arms outstretched with fingers hoping

to touch the air and the unseen,

we hope for less than our skin suggests.

And yet, in this, there is no shame

since we ourselves are of the dust – rooted,

embranched and gnarled but numinous and whimsical

as the clouds and rain.

To escape from this is not as good

as other fingers poised to touch,

to show what we weren’t looking for…

ourselves, God’s fingerprints smudged

on the pane of humanity,

in the humanity of our pain-

on us.

Ranch Life

On August 27, 2012August 27, 2012 By robertalanrifeIn Life of Rob, Waxing Poetic1 Comment

I was concerned at first that this one sounded a little too much like a contemporary country song lyric. But, on second thought, those rough ‘n tumble folks whose lives are lived in the often harsh and unforgiving collision of disciplined ranch life with a relentlessly greedy marketplace do live lives not unlike a rhyming song.

Cowboys, fiddles, flapjacks and boots,

fossilized farm tools, rust in the roots.

Breakfast at dawn, now to welcome the day,

well before coffee, the horses get hay.

_____

Dog’s on the porch nearly losing his mind,

barking insistently trouble to find.

As the last ranch hand has loaded the truck,

sisters and mothers got cobbed-corn to shuck.

_____

‘Sbeen twenty years since this place has made money,

nor a vacation for he and his honey.

The kids have been patient and never complain,

despite hand-me-downs nigh as wore as the train.

_____

When dinnertime comes and they sit at the table,

hands clasp in prayer, ‘cause their faith ain’t no fable.

Then Papa prays words that they all know so well,

and they gratefully dine till their bellies are full.

_____

Mom still can sing and has music to spare,

for six tired children too weary to care.

Through notes sung with love lives a heart touched with grief,

for this place to survive there must soon come relief.

_____

And when the day’s ended and covered in sweat,

a dog-tired sun not yet ready for bed,

succumbs to the weight of a perfect, round moon,

till daylight returns a few hours too soon.

_____

If you think this here’s the end to this tale,

kindly don’t think that these good folk will fail.

There’s plenty of hope in their hearts to go round,

‘cause this is ranch life, where the lost can be found.

Rosebud

On August 23, 2012August 21, 2012 By robertalanrifeIn Life of Rob, Waxing Poetic9 Comments

Rosebud, Alberta is a tiny hamlet of less than 60 people. However, during the year it boasts thousands of tourists who come through its rustic, historic streets to browse, shop and enjoy the museum, mercantile, art gallery and dinner theatre. I worked here many years ago. It remains one of my favorite places on earth. Visit sometime…you’ll understand why.