“The Woman at the Mart”- reenvisioning an old story

Today, she wasn’t sitting in her usual place by the window sipping Heineken and waiting for “callers.”  No, today was Wednesday, her day to go “to the burbs” and see how the other half lived.  She liked to shop in those big, fancy grocery stores with all those pretty people who would never frequent her regular haunts.  She had a whiskey voice, painted her make-up on with brush and roller and donned leather and spandex like a uniform – the requirements of her station.  It was rare for anyone to ever talk to her when she went there.  Indeed, it was more common to endure the leering gestures of young ne’er-do-wells under a dare. Or maybe the ‘GAP’ outfitted hard-bodies who only ever looked at her through their peripheral vision long enough to make her feel the sting of their unspoken judgments.

Today, something was different.

His appearance was that of anyone she might have met during any other visit to this bastion of pretension, role-playing, and economic benefit.  He wore no brand names that she could see and, for the most part, was indistinguishable from his rather astonished group of buddies (she counted 12) who pretended to be shopping nearby.  He politely asked her for the time.  She told him she never wore a watch.  Her instinctive reaction was that this guy was merely sizing her up like every other guy she’d ever met.  But something told her to stay and talk with him.  His eyes bespoke a certain gentleness and, contrary to the norm, never left hers.

“Funny, all this food around and so many hungry souls,” he said.

“Yeah, I watch the news.  You’re not one of them ‘bleedin’ heart’ types who gets sucked in by the skinny, little African kids on TV, are ya?”

“Well, actually I was speaking in a more…metaphorical sense.  I mean, people keep coming back again and again to this place, filling carts to overflowing with stuff that never ultimately satisfies.”

“People gotta eat, don’t they?”

“Sure.  But it’s what they don’t eat that keeps them hungry.”

She couldn’t decide whether she was annoyed enough at his rather enigmatic statements to promptly shut this down or intrigued enough to hang around for more.  She decided to take the plunge.

“Whaddya mean?  Eatin’s simple enough.  Ya eat, ya get hungry, ya buy more food.”

“True enough, but I can give you whole storage bins of food that will keep you going forever.”

“OK, count me in.  Where do I sign up?”

“Go get your husband and we’ll chat some more.”

She gazed at him incredulously.

“Yeah right.  Take a good look, buddy.  Do you really think I’m the marrying type?”

“Well, who was that guy who dumped you in the alley last week after he pretended to have good intentions?  You’re lucky to be alive.”

Silence.

“Uuuh… how’d you know about that?”

“You’d be surprised what I know about you.”

Normally a statement so bold and presumptuous would have frightened her to death.  Instead she stood mesmerized with curiosity. 

“Come on”, he said, “let’s us grab a coffee, I’ve got lots more to tell you.”

I often wonder how many “women at the Mart” we, and Christ by association, pass by every day.  How many such folks, who are branded as social losers whether spoken or implied, show up at our door each week?  How do such people find Jesus through our language, postures, and “guise” of faith? 

Picture the following: the second generation drug user, who has never been inside any church building, who not only doesn’t own a Bible but has never even seen one; the angry youth with self-imposed atheism and hatred of the establishment, especially religious, who stumbles upon us by sheer “accident” looking for the very answers she neither wants nor understands; the desperately bedraggled single Mom who, by incredible force of will against her body’s weary protests, pulls all three of her unimpressed children out of bed on Sunday morning to head to the church she has driven by dozens of times but who, today, inexplicably feels the need to attend; the fifty-one year old executive, let go by a boss half his age through “corporate down-sizing”, forced with the decision to take a 50% cut in pay or face entirely changing the only career he has ever known.  All that in a marketplace environment which worships “young and fresh”, disdaining whatever experience he has painstakingly accumulated over his 30 year career; the 15-year-old pastor’s daughter whose quest for attention and a “cool” testimony becomes pregnant casting her family’s reputation and ministry into disrepute and chaos; the high school drop out whose body bruises never have enough time to heal until more appear at the hands of an alcoholic father; the drug addicted mother whose “street time” is only interrupted long enough for her to disappear for days at a time to some crack house where her personal esteem can disappear even more….

Such are the ones to whom Jesus says, “come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest”.  Such are the ones who “once…were alienated from God…but now [are] reconciled…by Christ’s physical body through death….”  Such are the ones about whom Jesus says, “your Father in heaven is not willing that any of these little ones should be lost.”  Such are the ones we are called to seek and serve.  As disciples of Christ, what should we do in preparation for such a lofty and costly call?

 Whatever it takes.

To worship is to ask, seek, knock

Corporate worship, its liturgical direction and artistic support has, for many years, been a big part of my personal and professional life. In fact, for the past fifteen years it has been my bread and butter. Whether I have been involved as lay person or “professional” staff, these things have occupied much of my waking hours. I love to reflect on them. I’ve done so for many years now. The following is one of those.

“Worship” as defined by Webster’s Dictionary: “The act of paying reverence to God”.  Vine’s Expository Dictionary of New Testament Words defines worship this way: “to make obeisance (a bow or a bend of the knee indicating submission or homage); do reverence to.”  The original Greek word, “proskuneo” literally means, “to kiss toward”.  Moreover, our English word for worship is transliterated from the Old English, “worthschipe” denoting a sailing vessel of total reliability worthy of our complete trust.

The worship of God is nowhere defined in Scripture.  But, as we consider the 5 different biblical verbs used for worship we see that it is the act of praising God but not confined to it.  Broadly, worship “may be regarded as the direct acknowledgement of God, of God’s nature, attributes, ways and claims, whether by the outgoing of the heart in praise and thanksgiving or by deeds done in such acknowledgment” (Vine’s, pg. 236).  However, with so little in the way of specifics, worship is the central activity of the Christian church.

The words “Praise” and “Worship” are often used interchangeably in the Scriptures.  I believe this tells us that, insofar as the activity of worship is concerned, we worship God as we praise God.  We ascribe to God adoration, praise, honor and blessing as this is fitting for the created toward the Creator.

There is great blessing in the invitation of Jesus to ask, seek and knock.  As it relates to worship, it can provide a wonderful freedom to carve out a worship which is unique to each local congregation – like a tattoo delineating one group from another.  As the Church of Jesus Christ faces, together, the dawning of new things in her midst, a continued courage and commitment will reap rich reward in the future.

New endeavors in any field of inquiry will present many experiences, responses and potentialities which challenge the current understanding.  And, expanding our understanding of worship can become a wonderful expose of who is in our own faith communities seeking after meaning in Christ and for those already here who want to experience Jesus in a whole new way.

The art of seeking God in Christ is one which demands of us whole new ways of thinking and being. We are called upon by the God of grace and forgiveness to become small, needy and broken.  Herein lies the difficulty with our contemporary way of thinking, which suggests that to live is to accumulate, to produce, to do.  In this milieu, I most certainly journey, for even in writing this I am confronted with the reality that what God calls us to – honesty, integrity, humility and simplicity – is not simply an extra way to spend my time – but the only way.

To do or not to do: a short reflection on Sabbath

I take a short break of posting about my accident of last year to post this:

Why is it that I practically live for Fridays? As a Presbyterian Church music director with a steady Sunday gig, Friday is my Sabbath. It is the day most likely to be given over to nothing. Such is the freedom given us in the created order: a day to waste. What is it about this day that engenders such anticipation all week and, at the same time, impatience once it arrives?

What will I do today? Better still, what will I not do today? What if I do the wrong things all day and I’m left dissatisfied, wanting for that unnamed thing I might otherwise have done? More likely, what if I waste the entire day second-guessing whether I did or didn’t do what I set out to do or not do?

This is what happens when we’re presented with one day is to live without agenda. Our ridiculously over-busy, to-do list driven lives train us well in the art of hectic minutiae. Like Pavlov’s dog, we salivate whenever bells ring or buzzers sound offering us the juicy bone of self-satisfied accomplishment.

Life is too often an unending romp in the fast-food ball pit with the rest of the over-sugared kids when what we need most is to find the turd at the bottom and get hastily pulled back out where it doesn’t smell so much like sweat and urine! At least when our ball pits of shame are roped off for sterilization we get to see the interesting faces of those with whom we have shared the experience.

The need to incessantly do something is built into the DNA of our fast food, sitcom culture. When we stumble across that rare soul who takes Sabbath rest seriously we think him lazy or even misguided. We glare disapprovingly over the tops of our day timers, cell phones at the ready, sitting impatiently, green-light souls at an eternal red light. Clearly time management skills wed to a lack of prioritization have led this irresponsible oaf to simply throw away an entire day. After all, we inwardly tell ourselves in congratulation, we are to “redeem the time for the days are short.”

However, when we do finally grace ourselves with even a single moment to reflect, we admit that we’re not a little envious of such a one. When envy moves over for curiosity that, in turn, births an inner longing, we stand on the doorstep of God’s gift of Sabbath rest.

Gotta go. I’m not finished wasting time…

Robert Rife, September 2, 2011 (but who’s counting?)

Help and thanks

Gracious God, in our crazy, fast-paced world, we lift up our eyes to you whose throne is in the heavens but whose feet have walked among us here on earth.  And, Lord, our simple, stuttered prayers can be condensed into two words:  “help” and “thanks”.

Thanks that when we awoke this morning, You were there waiting for us.

Thanks for showing us what love was intended to be.

Thanks for taking the first step in bringing a broken world and our own sin-filled hearts back to you.

Thanks for the fact that the same grace that brought us to you in the first place is the very grace in which we learn to live.

Thanks for the promise that those who sow in tears will reap in joy.

Thanks for our loved ones-that we arise to see their faces each day.

Thanks for the beautiful surroundings in which we find ourselves.

Thanks for food on our tables, a roof over our heads and clothes on our backs.

Thanks that no experience either good or bad is ever wasted in your economy-we are assured of your work in us in spite of circumstances.

Thanks for the fact that we can quiet our hearts before you and bring every joy and pain before a God who hears and empathizes with our weakness.

Thanks most of all for the Holy Spirit, your great gift to us who brings the risen Christ to abide in our hearts and fellowship with us.

Help us, forgive us Lord, that when we awoke this morning and you called out to us we ignored you for what seemed like more pressing needs.

Help us, Lord, when we crowd you out of our lives with the meaninglessness of sin.

Help us, forgive us Lord, when we turn our eyes away from that which is eternal to dust and metal and wood.

Help us, Lord, when, in weariness we turn to stop-gap measures to shore up our strength when we could turn to the all-powerful God who lives within.

Help us, Lord, to remember you when opportunities arise to defend your name and your cause.

Help us, Lord, to love you above all things so that we can hide you in our hearts and find in you all the treasures of heaven and earth.

Through Jesus Christ our Lord who lives and reigns with you in the power of the Holy Spirit, one God, forever.

Amen

The Gift of the Ordinary

Since graduating from Spring Arbor University two months ago my soul has been afflicted with a deep and annoying restlessness. I suppose one could chock it up to a famine of soul following a three-year feast – like standing alone in a banquet hall, glasses and plates strewn about hinting at that which had gone before but now lacking the music and the guests. Perhaps it hints at the profound relief from the constant and insistent requirements of completing assignments. Might it even be a spiritual acedia (the monastics called this the “noon-day demon;” a spiritual laissez faire) finally having its way with me after being held at bay for so long? Is it biological? Chemical? Indigestion?

Whatever it is I wish it would make a speedy exit from my interior life. It seems to me that happiness (however we define the term) and comfort, the very things I am so often grasping after are actually enemies to the spiritual fervor I crave. Apparently, I do best under adverse circumstances. Crap.

It is an interesting coincidence that the liturgical calendar places us in ‘ordinary time.’ What I both love and hate about that is the external imposition of a chronos in which to learn kairos. It is an outward reality giving us the framework in which to sow the seeds of grace toward our growth in salvation. To add further complexity, this has converged with our unnecessarily long summer schedule when routines are challenged and stretched beyond recognition.

I tend to fall apart in these periods. Faithfulness is sometimes most difficult when all is well and such faithfulness goes unnoticed one way or the other. When we have nothing to gain from faithfulness is the precise moment when it is most crucial. For me, now is that time.

There is mystery in the idea of ordinary time. While everything around us may show little or no daily change there emerges within us the slow, almost imperceptible greenery of spiritual life. There is nothing ordinary in the growth of living things. It is as miraculous as it is beautiful. It is also slow enough as to render moment-by-moment changes impossible yet mysterious enough that to look away for a single day is to miss the biological sweatshop that has invisibly produced a most magnificent result.

Something comes to mind as I reflect upon this. We gain little by staring at ourselves, craning our necks and squinting our eyes to see our own growth. Such endeavors inevitably result in discouragement or even cynicism. Keeping our eyes fixed on the long-term process of growth and marveling at it is that which yields the peaceable fruit of righteousness and with it, our most abiding joy. Someone once said that we’re always frustrated by how little we accomplish in a day and how much we accomplish in ten years. That is the gift of ordinary time. It forces our eyes up to the sky instead of buried in the soil. Sun in the eyes is always a better option than dirt up the nose.

Together on the journey, Rob

John the Baptizer, part 4: On the baptism of Jesus

In the Bible, prophets (people who do what John does) proclaim and preach. They provoke and convict. They encourage and condemn. They cajole and comfort, all with whatever tools are given them for that task. It usually amounts to powerful words of exhortation to a people either hurting or hurting someone else. In Jeremiah’s case it meant a lot of rather unnecessarily embarrassing antics that included wearing loincloths, ox yokes, smashing clay pots. For Isaiah it meant walking around stripped and barefoot for three years. Ezekiel was instructed to lay on his side for over a year. In Ezekiel’s case it meant and chomping on a scroll that, although sweet to the taste, made his stomach turn and laying on his side for over a year. With Hosea it required marrying a prostitute, that one girl his parents refused to let into the yard. It promised him a life of knowing winks from the unrighteous and huffs from the self-righteous.

Yet, what was John’s weapon of choice? Baptism. What a strange way to reveal a person’s intentions. Only a God of utter mystery with a lot of secrets would conjure this up. Unlike other rites of passage like fancy handshakes, drinking a yard of ale or running with the bulls, baptism is hardly manly or even especially daring in and of itself. It is, however, anything but neat and tidy and forces dry, respectable people to become soggy, vulnerable ones. As a former Baptist, now Presbyterian, I have seen baptism from more than one angle and I can safely say that, regardless of dunk or sprinkle, lake or font, bathtub or teacup, baptism is an odd practice at best. It has that weird insiders only feel about it like those funny Shriner hats, holy underwear or cryptic Freemasons chant.

It is surprising to me just how clear a picture John had not only of his ministry but of Jesus’ ministry as well. John’s baptism was rather like the promissory note that hinted at the banquet to come. It was like the paper wedding invitation before the personal one from the bridegroom’s own lips or perhaps like the ticket to the concert yet to begin. Although John was rather more than mere ticket-taker, he was fully aware of his preparatory role in this strange unfolding of much anticipated but little understood events.

Imagine if you will the first chair violinist from the New York Philharmonic approaching Homer Simpson and asking him to restring his violin. Better yet, imagine the Pope asking you to offer the New Year’s Eve homily. If ever there were a time to feel both baffled and horrified it would be then. This must have been the case for John as the one he had spent his entire deprived life preparing to introduce; the Lord of heaven and earth approaches him, asking to be baptized.

For my part, I would be excitedly fumbling for my cell phone in my soaking wet camel hair dungarees in order to fire off the quickest mass text to my sure-to-be-impressed friends of my good fortune. Man, would this look good on a résumé and the guys at the office would have first round rights for some time to come.

But John was a well-formed, humble man who knew his place. This request made of him wasn’t flattering as much as it was shocking; puzzling at the very least. Jesus had just asked him, calmly, to do for him what John had just shouted at the Pharisees and others to do: “be baptized for the remission of sins” to the end that they “bring forth fruit worthy of repentance.” This was something others did in preparation for him and something not applicable or even sensible for Jesus to do.

But there it is. Jesus enters the water where John is standing, looks him square in the eyes and requests as much. In keeping with John’s character, he questions the request with a nervous quip about his own suitability. Jesus, always ready with an enigmatic, oft ambiguous, but always life changing statement, replies simply, “let it be so now; for it is proper for us in this way to fulfill all righteousness.”

I end here because, quite simply, to imagine for one minute that I could render up any better interpretation of Jesus’ remarks here than others far more educated and astute than I have done would be the height of pretense. Besides, it gives me something more to write at some other time.

Still considering John the Baptizer (Matthew 3:1-20, pt. 3)

Matthew 3:1-12, pt. 3

For a guy who had spent his entire life hanging out with nature’s ruffians – a life closely mirroring that of Grizzly Adams or Gollum of Lord of the Rings fame – John was surprisingly adept at political repartée. He had little to prove and even less to lose. He was barely dressed for one thing; hardly presentable as a suitable dinner guest. It did, however, allow him, deftly and with nimble turn of phrase, to jostle and joust with the religious muck-a-mucks in ways that would have had my mouth duly soap-scrubbed as a youngster!

One wonders if this is the reason why Jesus so often insists upon his followers’ disavowal of worldly wealth in favor of the relative mobility and freedom promised by possession of little. Unencumbered by the often unwelcome and burdensome responsibilities of consumptive living, Jesus’ disciples are then free to move in and out of places, conversations and situations requiring the touch of God. Then they, like John, can float easily into unknown territory rife with uncertainty and even danger in bringing the prophetic but healing message of the gospel. Then they, like John, can speak truth in love without fear of reprisal in the way of property loss, theft, or impounded vehicles. Then they, like John, can spend significantly less time and resources on appearance, entertainment, security or insurance.

John the Baptizer as he came to be known is best understood as our very first Desert Father. Before Abba Antony of Egypt was John of Judea. As the Jewish leadership walked the sharp edge of a knife wobbling between capitulating to Rome’s insidious charms, including her deadly Pax Romana, or throwing in their lot with Zealot revolutionaries, the spiritual malaise left in the wake made for thirsty, disillusioned souls. Many of these stood ripe and ready for the kind of radical removal from Roman rot John enfleshed. Say Shane Claiborne and Chris Haw of John: “He invited people from the centers of civilization to the desert, to the margins, to find God. All of Rome’s dreams were made irrelevant as he ate locusts and made his clothes from camel skin. And folks didn’t go to the desert simply to escape the world; they went to the desert to save the world” (Jesus for President, ©2008 by the Simple Way, pg. 78).

Rome: just another empire claiming a unique place in history – special, gifted, envisioned, blessed by “god” and triumphing over “evil.” To fall under her spell was only too easy given the awful alternatives. Many succumbed only to sell their souls to the prevailing militarized political reality that appeared sparkly and dizzyingly arrayed in the best the ancient world had to offer. She was the newest version of Babylon.

Hence, when John comes, preaching a bold message of repentance on the margins of the empire, its allure was complete. He spoke freely, unfettered by the weight of Roman economic detritus, inviting all who heard to come and take a dip with him in the Jordan. How mythical. How transcendent. How authentic. He offered a new way to think about life and how we live it together. “People went to the wilderness to get Rome out of them, purging themselves of empire and seeing the world stripped of the fabrications of civilization” (Jesus for President, pg. 78). Is it any wonder Herod was at once fascinated and fearful of one whose life of freedom from the fears of a warmongering empire preached so loudly to so many?

Matthew 3:13-17

John’s weapon of choice: Baptism. What a strange way to reveal a person’s intentions. Only a God of utter mystery with a lot of secrets would conjure this up. Anything but neat and tidy, baptism forces dry, respectable people to become soggy, vulnerable people. As a former Baptist, now Presbyterian, I have seen baptism from more than one angle and I can safely say that, regardless of dunk or sprinkle, lake or font, bathtub or teacup, baptism is an odd practice at best.

It is surprising to me just how clear a picture John had not only of his ministry but of Jesus’ ministry as well. John’s baptism was rather like the promissory note that hinted at the banquet to come. It was like the wedding invitation on paper before the personal invitation from the bridegroom’s own lips or perhaps like the ticket to the concert yet to begin. Although John was rather more than mere ticket-taker, he was fully aware of his preparatory role in this strange unfolding of much anticipated but little understood events…(wait for the final segment yet to come).

Of snakes and ladders: a lectio on Matthew 3:1-12, pt. 2

Matthew 3:1-12, pt. 2

As a boy growing up in the Canadian province of Alberta it was a common summer occurrence for me to visit my cousin, Lance, in the rattlesnake infested prairie city of Medicine Hat. The two things I readily recall about this place were the extreme summer heat and copious amounts of snakes and bugs. It had all the makings of a Texas panhandle, Canadian style. Sometimes Lance and I would spend all day snooping around in a local swamp for tiny frogs we would stuff into plastic bags and even our pockets to use as food for his sundry pet snakes.

Snakes make for hours of macabre afternoon fun for young boys. The other neighborhood kids thought us especially daring as they observed our coolly maniacal method of placing live (well, mostly) frog bait into the glass snake enclosure and watch the even more diabolical process of a bull snake swallowing them whole. The unsuspecting frog instantly became one with the body of the snake as it slowly ingested, without chewing of any kind, the poor little bugger. Lance told me that the snake could live for weeks on that one amphibious morsel.

Lance and I would take his twin Garter snakes, wrap them around the handlebars of our bikes and ride through the neighborhood hoping to attract praise for our daring and courage. However, for how cool this was, something snakes are not is a guarantee of fully comfortable parental units or girl-attractors. The latter would scatter at our approach with throaty screams of horror. The former, specifically Moms, were aghast to discover frog guts in the washing machine after running our pants, frogs still in the pockets, through the wash cycle.

With these pictures in mind I must admit to more than a modicum of surprise in John’s choice of descriptor for the religious leader looky-Lous as they came out to spy on the strange goings on surrounding this desert hermit. With precious little concern for their high position or mind-your-manners politeness my parents would have insisted upon, he barks at them, branding them a “brood of vipers.” Far from the rather mundane characteristics of a bull or garter snake, by comparison vipers are insidious creatures. They are remarkably fast and poisonous possessive of hollow fangs and a mouth that can open almost 180 degrees. They paralyze their victims with both of these advantages and then proceed to swallow them whole. They enjoy the further benefit of special eye-slits that allow them to see in any light and make them particularly ominous at any time of day. Finally, the term “viper” derives from a pair of Latin words, vivo for “I live” and pario, “I give birth.” Vipers do not lay eggs like most reptiles. They give birth to live babies. Delightful.

Hence, as John sees the approach of Pharisees and Sadducees among the unwitting crowd he accuses them of being those who quickly poison others around them with a brand of teaching designed to paralyze them, denying freedom and life, and which draws them to their ultimate, slow demise. They stalk at night, the time when people have their defenses down and are most vulnerable, pouncing with the full weight of their religious machinery and, without the protective mechanisms of time and deeper consideration, give birth to more like them.

Only someone as unencumbered by the comforts of civilized life, “normal” food, regular bathing, nice breath and otherwise polite appearance would dare to be so disrespectful of their authority as John. He had nothing to lose for he had nothing. As such he was free to reveal the darkly sinister reality of their voyeuristic presence among those hungry souls of simpler pedigree coming to be baptized, freed from the weight that bound them. John’s modus operandi was hardly “gaining friends and winning influence.” Yet, that is exactly what he did despite the lack of bleached white teeth and dress-for-success power tie.

John’s ministry wasn’t an end in itself. It was preparatory. Had the gospel message ended here we would have had simply another Old Testament style prophet who proclaimed a return to the Law and obedience to it. The message and the preparation would have been one and the same. No, John is arming us for something. He is pushing people into the murky Jordan for more than good fireplace mantle photo opportunities or a short-term conscience cleanse. John was in the repentance business. He had spent his entire life, withdrawn from polite society, preparing for this moment. He had nothing to lose, literally. He would let nothing stand in the way of his ministry; certainly not these do-gooder pretender-monkeys whose idea of religious life included dividing up mint, dill and cumin like lines of cocaine with at-the-ready noses in the air all the while flinging theological feces at each other and worse, at us.

I’ve watched snakes being snakes. Cousin Lance and I could say a thing or two about John’s indictments here…I think I get his point.

God’s less than stellar representation-a lectio divina on Matthew 3:1-12

John the Baptizer was a strange character indeed, certainly not the kind of emissary one might send to the front of an important parade. He might have been the equivalent of the dorky computer nerd of the Ned Flanders variety donning a leisure suit, white socks and sandals acting as ambassador to the Pope – not exactly the type of Wall Street trader, briefcase-toting, pinstripe 3-piece one would expect to herald the arrival of Donald Trump. Yet, here he is; skinner than a flagpole, unkempt, dried honey on his fingertips, locust parts stuck in his beard, boney ass peeking out from under flea-infested animal skins smelling worse than a fish packing plant and shouting like a madman, “Repent for the kingdom of heaven has come near.”

John’s arrival on the scene is poignantly picturesque of the bigger narrative taking place with the One he is proclaiming as the living recapitulation of the ongoing “out of Egypt” motif God is so fond of. Instead of forty years of wandering born of disobedience, Jesus, would later face and defeat his demons in forty days; a feat worth trumpeting on any level! It is God saying, “alright, since this didn’t work so well the first time with my national people, let’s try this at a deeper level through a chosen group from everywhere in the name of my son.”

What is rather apparent is just how ready for John the Israelites were. With little question they came in droves to see and hear him and allow his grubby hands to baptize them in the Jordan. This tells me that this was one thirsty people, primed and ready for the Elijah-styled prophet whose radical nature and message was the stuff of lore; of the Torah. It tells me that this was a people well aware of God’s very loud silence for such a long time. For them, to hear a voice, any voice, was to hear the Voice.

The message of John was the same as that of Jesus: the kingdom of God – a kingdom immanent and hopeful but ominous. A kingdom suggests many things. One is confronted with the reality of the One to whom is owed allegiance, property, relationships – the stuff of life. It also tells me that whoever this Jesus is, he doesn’t come merely to molly coddle our pre-existing ideas about ourselves, the world, God and how all of these work together. No, John is telling us that our tiny, insignificant ideas about life are about to be stretched to the breaking point. The kingdom of God is the wake created by the ocean-liner of God brushing up alongside the dingy of our heavenly imaginations; overwhelming, subsuming them. And, if God was primarily interested in helping us understand, he would have sent a more well read and respectable Pharisee to explain rather than a grimy holy man to evoke. God doesn’t want students as much as followers.

At the time of writing the world sits poised with necks craned and eyes scanning the horizon for the apparent return of Jesus-or at least says radio announcer, Harold Camping. He is only one of many to do similarly. Is this really the sort of questionable character God wants as mouthpiece? If we think Camping to be some insane doomsday wacko, imagine what we would think John the Baptizer to be. He, too, is confidently trumpeting a prophetic sounding message that sounds eerily similar. Apparently, the God of the universe is fine with less than stellar representation.

This has been the case throughout history. When we scan the backwards horizon, it is filled with buffoons, power mongers, horny old men and troublemakers all who claim the name of Christian but whose contributions to kingdom life were dubious at best. And yet, if God is quite happy to be so strangely represented, seen in the same prophetic picture, as John the wild-eyed-scraggly-one, what might God think of me?

Learning to unleash goodbyes

My oldest son, Calum, and his songwriting partner, Eli, recently wrote a love song entitled The Highs of Hellos. It is a love song of sheer genius on more than one level (but, of course, as a shameless stage Dad, what would you expect me to say?). The opening lyrics paint a black-and-white Casablanca type scenario of longing for love but also of its elusive quality:

“She says hello, monotone,

staring over the glass of a cocktail an hour old.

She says there’s no need to explain,

But then a restroom break turned into a departing plane.

And that bar piano man, he started playing…”

My point is not to depress everyone with sad love songs. What I will say is that, when facing the unspeakable ache of leaving with beloved faces in the rear-view mirror, songs with uncertain endings often make for good travel companions. Elton John once wrote that sad songs say so much. For one who is sad, a truer statement cannot be found. But sadness isn’t always what songs and poetry say it is. There is a good, almost welcome sadness in the wake of friendships, forever sealed but never forgotten, that must endure parting.

Sadness gets a bad wrap in a culture hooked on the elusion of a happiness bought and sold. It has come under hard times since our hope for anything but pushes us to cloak it with…well, anything we can find. It is seen as the hooded marauder, seeking whom it may destroy rather than a potential friend if we could just sit with it long enough to say hello and get acquainted. The sadness of which I speak isn’t the dire hopelessness of unrequited love. Instead it is the bittersweet angst of a love, of necessity, left behind – at least physically.

The last time I wrote of this was upon my return from this year’s grad school January Residency. At that time I admitted to a certain lost-ness birthed of the realization that it was the last of three such residencies and potentially the penultimate meeting of our beloved “Conspirators.” This weekend marked the end of a three-year foray into the wilderness, both mysterious and hopeful, of a Master of Arts degree in Spiritual Formation and Leadership, now complete. As I’ve shared previously, these 18 other dear souls know far more about me than is either comfortable or reasonable given the rather edgy and dangerous personal territory into which we have frequently traveled.

This is the result of all our seeking. It is both reason and end of our doctrine. It is the direction our lives must take if the painstaking journey of vulnerability wed to authentic community life is to yield her ripest fruit of hope. Recognizing that most of the people I know and work with have perhaps never experienced community and awareness of the mutuality of love as I have enjoyed these brief three years creates a fire within me to be a catalyst for it in the community to which I now return.

That and that alone is what turns the “highs of hellos” into the possibilities of learning to unleash goodbyes…

“Where did you go, my darling?

Where did you go, my old friend?

What she did not know,

Is that shot boy with his hands in his pockets,

You were all he ever wanted – somebody to hold,

Life’s just a series of goodbyes with the highs of hellos.”