Elephants & Skeletons

The Creative Recovery Initiative is a labour of love I’ve developed over the past couple years living with my wife in Edinburgh, Scotland as global personnel with Serve Globally, our denomination‘s mission wing. I don’t pretend to be a professional vlogger, influencer, or documentarian. I don’t even own fancy equipment. What I have however is an iPhone, a story, a Saviour, and a desire to tell that story to as many who might benefit from hearing it.

Perhaps you’ll find yourself here in some way? Perhaps someone you know might find hope from the stories I tell here? Either way, I invite you into this space to join me in the telling. In so doing, we’ll find healing and build community, together.

Peace to you all…R

“Elephants & Skeletons”

Reemergence and the Risk of Community

I stand corrected.

With my first foray into central Saskatchewan I witnessed a part of the Province at once unexpected and lush. I now retract all those youthfully snide comments I made as a boy every time I came to Saskatchewan and proclaimed it the flattest, most featureless place I’d ever seen.

Prince Albert in particular, where I had gone to preach at a sister church, was surprising. Understated and pastoral, she offered herself to me in all her “boreal transition forest” splendour. A landscape not terribly unlike the north of England quietly strut her stuff and I was impressed.

Saskatchewan, I apologize. I was a kid; ignorant, wrong. You are gorgeous. As were the good folks of Gateway Covenant Church with whom I shared and among whom I lived for a couple days. What follows is the edited version of my sermon with some music from our service on Sunday, August 8th, 2021.

Don’t make the mistake I made when I was growing up and decide something is the sum total of one’s limited experience. Wait. It just might surprise you!

I continue to be amazed at the generosity of friends and total strangers alike as they sign on as partners for our upcoming ministry to the UK with Serve Globally of the Evangelical Covenant Church. See below how you can do so, too.

For our American friends.

For our Canadian friends.

Grace and peace to you all!

Re-emergence – A Prayer

Found at iStock

Lord of all good things, through squinted eyes we peer into our great unknown and, with expectant hearts, step trustingly ahead.

One step, then two – three? How many?

We long for each other, for the smell of another’s presence, their touch on our sleeve. We timidly reach out to embrace those from whom we’ve distanced. Even strangers seem less intimidating somehow!

Oh, to feel the sacred solidity of body squeezing body, one heart next to another’s, in real time.

Are we safe yet, Lord?  

Regathering has seemed like a waking dream. Our computer screens show faces, beautiful and wrinkled, tawny and taut, smiling and praying, laughing and weeping.

But, for love of neighbour we’ve masked those faces…until now. We hid our faces for safety. We unhide now, in hope that we remain safe, but sharing what always lay beneath, stifled and waiting.

Like groundhogs reemerging into Spring from endless Winter, we do so a little wary, weary, eyes still heavy from pandemic sleep. Dare we to stretch? To yawn deeply and draw into our longing lungs the languid, lazy air?

Stories shared across tables are always better. Songs sung shoulder to shoulder always sound richer, more melodious. Prayers are always more real holding another’s hand, fingerprints and sweat intermingled with faith. Coffee tastes deeper when we smell it on another’s breath.

Lord, how long? Do we risk those very souls we love with our “return to normal”? What is appropriate? Best? Our loneliness battles our concerns, and we waffle. Then, in a burst of damn-the-torpedoes we gather, only to feel guilty a little. Afraid a little. Lord, how long?

Lord, we remember what each other feels like. Do you?

Take us, again, into the brightness of each other.

Corona-daze: just breathe

bridge-19513_1920.jpg

When the walls of fury and dystopia threaten our made up worlds,

just breathe.

When coughing madness spews upon us its pointless fury,

just breathe.

When those bent on denying as “fake” anything “those ones” have said,

just breathe.

When “those ones” spend all their time trumpeting the correction as the end,

just breathe.

When hints of community are abandoned for mutual blaming,

just breathe.

When neighbours and friends respond to us as foreigners and enemies,

just breathe.

When social distance becomes an excuse to deepen selfishness,

just breathe.

When social distance deepens our loneliness, broadens our fears,

just breathe.

 

When time and brilliance and humanity once again find their way,

just breathe.

When the disparate voices of the many find semblance of singularity,

just breathe.

When the despair from our losses kisses the tears of our gratitude,

just breathe.

When the detritus of our streets, our homes, our world is swept away,

just breathe.

When the heroes of our wholeness return to their own neglected homes,

just breathe. 

When opens again the doors of mosque and church, synagogue and hall,

just breathe.

When real, unimagined community replaces rampant, unbalanced commerce,

just breathe.

When masks, gloves, distance, and disinfectant give way to gathered embrace,

just breathe.

When the darker memories of our day become the fodder for our laughter,

just breathe.

When breathing and prayer are indistinguishable,

just breathe.

 

Just breathe.

 

Remarkable image by Larisa Koshkina

 

 

Summer’s Repast

The Fairy Pools 20.jpgHer voice is always clearer
when she breathes her way
to late sunset-thoughts,
and a thousand possible songs –
ready to sing, but with no
urgency to sing them.

They’ll wait, and when you’re not looking,
they’ll groom themselves
into symphonies of days where casual
melodies of lazy, guilt-free sun
harmonize your life. 

Hush, speak slower. Say only 
what words bring thought and chance,
laughter and hearts to find the same story.
Never let a single sentence pass
without introducing yourself as
someone ripe for more of the same.

Forget what losses brought you
to this place. Remember only that
which formulates in the bubbling folly
of untamed rivers of remembrance.
They always have much to say
when one is tuned to hear
riddles in the waltzing water.

But, if sing you must, let go
the notes, large or small,
ripe and raw, trembling with anticipation
of summer’s repast, tuned and teasing.
And, above all else, don’t sing alone.

These are the days well fitted for 
the songs of neighbours.

Robert Alan Rife, May 29/18

_________________________

Photo: The Fairy Pools, Isle of Skye, Scotland, 2016

Finding my way with words…still

As I’ve shared before, I am one of those who cares deeply for words, big words, little words…words about words. I recently read Marilyn Chandler McEntyre’s brilliant tete a tete on language entitled Caring for Words in a Culture of Lies. In her book she offers some strategies by which those of us who make this claim can begin to reclaim the power, clarity and beauty of language from the many dangers both immanent and potential that beset it. She encourages us to become caretakers of language. At the top of that list is a simple but obvious one:  become a lover of words.

Check.

Language and all it represents is a gift worth fighting for. God uses it to create and recreate. God, in some mystical sense most of us will never understand, is language; is words – the Word. Hence there exists an inseparability of language from the One whose idea it was to speak all things into existence by means of it. From the first words we read in Genesis, “In the beginning…God created…and it was good” we get a picture of the dominance of speech in the totality of human life. God, as Word, speaks words by which all we are and have come to know now, exists.

Language seems like it’s a God-thing alone in the first broad brush strokes of God’s ex nihilo creative activity. It’s not until another comes, by God’s design and in response to God’s words, that language can be seen as the glue in communication between parties. It now acts as the bedrock of love, community and progress. As language that is beautiful, reliable and truthful disappears, so does the community it was meant to gather and nurture.

We’ve lost our trust in the reliability of language. Words change over time. In many ways this has always been true and, to a large extent, inevitable. The problem is, however, that the purest forms of speech that give voice to our deepest needs, desires and passions have become as distorted and bent as we who use it. Whatever is meant by “the fall” it took language right along with it.

It’s common for any collective to morph according to the will of the alphas in the group. Similarly, the shape and demeanor of our communication will bend to the loudest kid in the room; it will come to serve whatever happens to be the most influential force to which we pay homage.

English is the undisputed language of commerce worldwide. Because English is the language of so much conquest, it is well practiced in the macabre arts of dominance and privilege. The sheer volume of English words coupled with its global dominance make its destruction both troublesome and ominous. Language has, for too long, been lashed to the flagpole of corporate nationalism, the yardarm of the sinking ship of words for their own sake where form is function. This cross-pollination of words has left a confusing moral-linguistic morass. For example, to use the warm-hearted language of family and connectivity in corporate interests or sports gibber-gabber to describe the horrors of war, we are effectively removed from the wider, deeper concerns language begs to convey and possibly amend.

Conversely, since English is also the collected amalgam of the street-speak of vanquished foes and victims of such empire building, it is a language of unparalleled nuance and texture. It needs those who love it for the latter while seeking to undo the damages of the former. It needs caretakers.

For words to do the work for which they were intended and move beyond mere factual transmission at best to manipulation and domination at worst, we must re-tool ourselves to being lovers of community built upon communication with words at the deepest levels. Words are performance art over against utility, a dance instead of marching army or typing pool. Like discovering our enemies have fears and dreams like we do, words can be freed to promote beauty, friendship and good will.

At least I hope so.

Going Down? Faces in the Crowd

Faces, many faces, unite into a single, generous community of helpers in this debacle. Without these individuals I’m certain that my present might have been considerably less bearable and outcomes considerably less promising. People are often at their best or their worst under duress. And, since I was too busy groaning and deep-sea diving in my battered brain for coherence, it fell to others to help me onto the healing road.

It’s anybody’s guess how long I waited on the church floor before someone found me. The first one to take their place among this kaleidoscope of holy heroes was Clarence, our stoic and humble custodian. My friendship with Clarence is glowing testimony to the unifying power of the gospel, he a Rush Limbaugh fan and me a Rachel Maddow disciple! Clarence is a man of few words but numerous qualities, gracious hospitality and selflessness being chief among them. I cannot readily recall his exact role but can feel quite certain of his strong and compassionate presence in the midst of the chaos. I feel better just knowing he was nearby.

The next on the scene apparently was Lisa, our Children’s Ministries Director. Lisa is a gal of extraordinary energy, passion and determination. Having won a not inconsiderable battle against obesity she stands head and shoulders above many whose exploits, though laudable, pale by comparison. Her love for children is matched by her joyful effervescence – a quality put to the test upon finding me and then calling 911.

Either coming with Lisa or a short time later was our Office Administrator, Denise. She is a girl blessed with that rare combination of razor-sharp administrative skills with an easy-going whimsy that help her avoid the total pain in the ass syndrome most admin types can be (well, to whacked out, right-brained, artsy types like me anyway). Now, since I remember this story only in pieces, much of this first responder type stuff is borrowed as second-hand news from those who were participants in it.

At the hospital, the faces of these colleagues were joined by that of my doting wife of over 23 years. She is a firecracker of a girl, loyal without hesitation, buoyant and unapologetically extroverted. Someone blessed with quick wittedness, deplorably lacking in me I must admit, she was in this instance beside herself with anxiety and uncertainty. This was exacerbated by the fact that a women’s retreat she and her friend Lisa from Nashville had spent weeks organizing had been planned for that very weekend at our place in Ocean Shores. While waiting dutifully beside me (while, as you will recall, that husky fellow is cutting my pants off from stem to stern) she is busily making phone calls to Lisa, already en route from Tennessee.

Shock and delirium do strange things to one’s thought processes as I recall thinking that I could still sort this out and find a way for her to go ahead with her weekend plans. Knowing Rae and Lisa as I do, those plans would involve not an inconsiderable amount of off-color humor, laughter complete with obligatory snorting, and generally unsightly behavior. Together with their other estrogenic cohort, they would create a veritable storm of holy misdeeds that would end in tears of prayerful joy; the kind of parties Jesus not only attended but started. Heck, I would have gone myself if I didn’t hurt so damn much. Oh wait, I have a penis. Maybe next time.