tenderhumiliations

Swim with the Fishes

2011-06-11T23:21:00.001-04:00

If I screw my eyes tightly shut and twist my mouth just so, I can remember the night when, at the age of about four, I came to understand the food chain in an all-too-real, meal-altering realization. My Baptist minister father and my pristine homemaker mother and I were eating dinner at a Red Lobster in Mobile, Alabama. I was an only child until the age of six, so I fancied myself a miniature adult.

Anyway, as we waited for the hostess to lead us to our seats, apparently my eyes roamed every surface and thematic element of the early eighties kitsch décor until I focused my attention on the bubble-front aquarium which housed a host of brightly-colored fish. The wood plank walls, the ship’s wheel hostess station, the hand rails fashioned from thick, rough rope, and the warm glow of hurricane lamps—these were all interesting, to be sure. But the fish captured my every thought—my parents had recently taken me to the New Orleans Zoo, where I squealed in delight at all the creatures, but wisely and carefully managed not to get my hands dirty.

“Mom, do you see those fish in that fish bubble on the wall?”

Never one to ignore a teachable moment, my sweet mother probably said, “Well, Matthew, that DOES look like a fish bubble, doesn’t it? Those are special glass houses for fish. We call them A-Q-U-A-R-I-U-M-S. Can you say, ‘aquarium’”?

“Of course it’s an aquarium, Mom. What, did you think I was three or something? They talk about aquariums on Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood all the time. But I’ve got a question about those fish.”

“Okay, babe. Ask me.”

“Well, okay. Are the fish in that aquarium the same kinds of fish that swim in the ocean?”

“Yes, Matthew, those ARE the same kinds of fish that swim in the ocean. Isn’t that neat that they are living in that AQUARIUM right here in Red Lobster?”

“If those are the same kinds of fish that swim in the ocean, are the fish on my plate the same kinds of fish that swim the ocean, too?

I’m not sure if my mother noticed the look of disgusted horror that had begun spreading over my small face.

“Why, yes, Matthew. Those are the very same kinds of fish that swim in the ocean.”

My memories are foggy at this point, likely due to the queasy shock that was spreading through my entire body. I’m sure my parents launched into a “Garden of Eden, Noah and the animals, God makes the animals to give us food” talk, but I was suddenly lost. I don’t think I ate any kind of seafood again for the next ten years. I was none too fond of chicken-on-the-bone, and luckily standing rib roasts usually were out of our price range, because it was just too much for my mind to assimilate when I saw a steaming plate of meat still in the shape of some kind of barnyard—or ocean-depths—carcass.

I remember fighting the urge to gag in Sunday School one day when the teacher started talking about the “Boy with the Loaves and Fishes.” I saw her move over to the electric skillet sitting on the piano bench and begin passing out her object lesson—fish sticks. I was in a second grade quandary. Do I risk hurting her feelings and not eating the fish? Or do I eat it and throw up all over the table?” I don’t remember how the situation resolved, but I’m sure I managed a politician-worthy smile and a “No thank you, Mrs. Betty. Thank you, though. What a neat lesson!” (Wow, did I ever lay it on thick.)

I finally acquiesced and began eating fish again in high school. In fact, lo these many years later, one of my favorite dishes to cook is a nut-crusted, pan-seared orange roughy with couscous, but you still won’t see me wielding a butcher knife and filleting it my own self. I’ve come a long way since then. I mean, recently I even roasted a whole chicken. I even managed to eat part of it at the flawless dinner party I was co-hosting. (It was great, but I’m just saying.) I still don’t like the thought of eating something with eyes still on it—whole fish, crawfish, head-on suckling pigs—these things are still beyond me.

* * *

With my less-than-stellar history when it comes to obtaining foodstuffs from the beautiful, briny sea, you’d think I would have noticed the ill omen when fresh out of graduate school, I walked up the hill to embark on an exciting new career—only to find that the place reeked of fish.

First, let me give you a quick crash course in the wild and wonderful world of therapeutic rehabilitation. Intended for adults with chronic or severe mental illness and/or developmental challenges, these programs offer clients (or consumers, as the current literature dictates) a structured program of work tasks and recreational activities intended to help them transition back into society after hospitalization. Each member participated in work tasks depending on their interests and previous experience. The “Office Unit” answered the phone, made photocopies for therapists, and kept the center’s store, at which clients could earn points to buy candy, cigarettes, and other sundries. The “Activities Unit” planned and carried out bingo, karaoke, and other table games. The “Maintenance Unit” attempted to keep the premises clean…You get the picture. In addition to group and individual therapy sessions and administrative paperwork (all for which my schooling at least somewhat prepared me), each staff person was expected to lead one of the aforementioned “units.”

As the newest staff person and thus the low man on the totem pole, I faced a completely unexpected joy for which I was neither prepared nor particularly suited—the “Kitchen Unit.” On my first day, after introductions to clients and staff, the director smiled at me with an odd little smirk and led me into the kitchen to meet the client who served as the head cook. I met a lady, who I’ll not describe here for the sake of confidentiality, other than to say that she was a delightful, talented, witty, and intelligent person who had faced a series of difficulties in life that I can scarce imagine. All of that I would learn later—but on this day, I must admit that she seemed like Attila the Kitchen Hun, bedecked in her plastic apron and hairnet.

My eyes were watering and my stomach quivered at the noxious fish stink, but Attila the Kitchen Hun grinned toothlessly and told me the day’s menu: Tuna Fish Salad Sandwiches with Potato Chips. I had to completely step outside myself as I snapped on a pair of yellow elbow-length rubber gloves. Holding my breath, there was nothing to do but dive arms first into the enormous vat of oily tuna, mayonnaise, and chopped sweet pickles. Apparently, when one mixes tuna salad for fifty, one finds it easier to use his or her hands. And said tuna salad leaves an odiferous lingering au de sardine that lasts all day, pervades car interiors, and causes roommates to exclaim, “My LORD, where have you been today? Good grief, go take a shower!”

Given my early horror at the eating of fish and my lifelong distaste at getting my hands dirty, I’m surprised that I lasted as long as I did in the wonderful world of therapeutic rehabilitation. For a year and a half, in addition to therapist, confidante, cheerleader, and encourager, most importantly, I became chief menu planner, grocery shopper, and Attila the Kitchen Hun’s sous chef.

So…if you need tips on feeding 40-50 people, 5 days a week, for under two hundred and twenty-five dollars, I’m your man—as long as you like tuna fish salad.

Back to Work, Slacker...

2011-06-09T14:01:00.000-04:00

It’s been just about two years since I turned in my 30 days notice, packed up my office, and got the heck outta dodge. In the months before my Descent Into Voluntary Underemployment, I bid farewell to several dear lifelong friends due to cross-country moves, mourned a murdered friend, and turned thirty. I didn’t have many clear expectations of the new life I would build, but I knew I was ready for something new when my day-to-day work life made me seriously consider drinking Clorox and setting my hair on fire. It’s not like I was digging ditches, but as I saw clients and tried to provide effective therapy for kids and families, I eventually passed burn-out and found myself crazy-eyed, laughing maniacally, and entertaining fleeting murderous desires.

I worked for a private, non-profit community mental health agency that provided state-contracted counseling and psychotherapy services for a wide range of clients. Just reading that sentence gives me the beginnings of a migraine headache and slightly vomitous rumblings in my digestive tract. Don't get me wrong, I’ve known some amazing people who worked in community mental health for their entire careers without wanting to shove their clients—or even more to shove their colleagues—through an industrial-sized food processor. It just so happens that I wasn’t one of those noble and amazing people, I guess. Sure, I started with lofty ideals of rescuing the world, but after almost five years of clinical work, everyone around me was coming to realize that I needed a break.

I remember one particularly noteworthy meeting. After two years of keeping detailed records of supervision notes, client contact hours, and passing a ridiculous licensing exam, I could finally operate as an autonomous counselor. But one fine day, after a tirade from the higher-ups about medical records or billable hours or some other such nonsense, my supervisor and I had assembled in the big boss’ (who just happened to be a dear friend and wise mentor)’s office. I knew I needed to begin exploring new options when I stepped outside myself for a moment—only to see me pacing the floor, pulling at my hair, and expelling flecks of saliva from my mouth with every near-yell. I’m just glad they didn’t alert security. I probably wouldn’t fare very well in the clink.

As I look back on this season of my life almost two years later, it’s no surprise that I ended up needing a break. During my brief career in community mental health, my experiences ran the gamut from odd to exhilarating, from heartwarming to nauseating, and everywhere in between. I befriended pet ferrets, imaginary guardian warrior angels, and dotty grandmothers. On the other hand, I saw a few clients overcome incredible odds and celebrate major victories—even if these moments were just a bit too rare. I lobbied judges on behalf of parents about to lose custody of their children. I watched proudly as kids graduated from high school, scored in the big game, or clarineted through their first band concerts. On the other end of the spectrum, I somehow experienced any and all possible human fluids depositing themselves somewhere on my person at one time or another. The work wasn’t rocket science. Most of the time the job just required that I show up, nod my head, and try to keep up with the never-ending paperwork. While I couldn’t have seen this truth as I left my farewell lunch (especially since I could hardly keep from jumping in the air and clicking my heels together Mickey Rooney style), some of my clients helped me, changed me, and brightened my life exponentially more than my piecemeal therapy did for them.

Now it’s been two years of building a new life in a new place. I’ve found a church home, made some great friends, and studied spiritual formation with some of the most wise and kind people in the world through the Upper Room’s Academy for Spiritual Formation. I’ve learned volumes about myself, and I’ve even kept up with the heinous CEUs required to maintain my counseling license, which I’m saving for a rainy day that I hope never comes! I have edited countless doctoral dissertations, transcribed sermons and speeches, written book proposals, and tried my hand at ghostwriting (which turned out pretty good, if I do say so myself). I’ve written political pieces from both sides of the aisle, tried my hand at travel writing, and edited so many chapters of curriculum and standardized tests that I should have more honorary degrees than a former head of state. I’ve spent hours at my local gym, trying to burn off too many fast food meals and late night snacks. I’ve accompanied choirs, played piano for churches, catered dinner parties (I make a mean Swedish meatball, let me tell you!), and even gone back to that favorite money maker of adolescents everywhere—babysitting!

In the meantime, because of the wisdom of a generous friend, I experienced Reiki for the first time, and then eventually found the root problem for several years of frequent illness and poor sleep. Chronically inflamed tonsils coupled with a severely deviated septum (thank you, long ago car wreck) are like little bio-terrorists! Thank God for COBRA health insurance—the surgery went well and I now have a new lease on life. My family has welcomed a new baby, and I’m enjoying being an uncle to my 6 year old nephew and my new niece.

So for two years, I’ve been pretty busy. Through all of the other day-to-day excitement, I’ve read about writing, I’ve thought about writing, I’ve talked about writing, I’ve dreamed about writing…I’ve even written about writing. But what do I have to show for it? I have the initial chapters, outline and the skeletal framework for a novel about an unlikely friendship between a young African-American man and a white preacher in South Alabama. I have the beginnings of another novel about two aging southern socialites who lose their husbands, lose their money, and decide to hit the road bedecked in sequins and glitter as velvet leisure suit wearing Pentecostal revivalists in the 1970’s. I have a journal full of reflections on my experiences in the north Alabama foothills during the Academy. Lots of ideas, some of which I think are pretty good. Now I just need the fortitude to finish something. Perhaps putting it out here in the blogosphere (is that a word?) will give me the impetus to get back to work. (Nothing like a little accountability from the 3 and a half people who actually read this blog).

Someday soon this season of my life will draw to a close and I’ll go back to the 9 to 5 world—which may not be so much of a bad thing, after all. Retirement, insurance, and paid vacation days are quite the perks! But until that day comes, I’m a man on a mission…

Homily from the Hundred Acre Wood

2010-06-19T20:42:00.000-04:00

The Academy for Spiritual Formation - Spring 2010

I haven’t ventured into the attic at my parents’ home in several years. Nevertheless, I’m sure if I climbed up the ladder into that vast storehouse of memories, if I peered underneath scrapbooks, looked behind stacks of quilts, leafed thru reams of kindergarten papers, and heaved aside my mothers’ clippings from long-faded issues of Southern Living, I would find a vacuum-sealed bag filled with my old stuffed animals. There’s at least one friend there with whom I wouldn’t mind spending some quality time. He’s an approximately thirty-one year old orange-colored bear wearing a bright red shirt, and he’s probably best described by the words of an old song we sang together once upon a time.

“Deep in the hundred acre wood

where Christopher Robin plays ...

A donkey named Eeyore is his friend...

and Kanga and little Roo.

There's Rabbit and Piglet and

there's Owl, but most of all.

Winnie the Pooh...

Winnie the Pooh...

Tubby little cubby all stuffed with fluff.

He's Winnie the Pooh...

Winnie the Pooh...

Willy nilly silly old bear.”

A. A. Milne originally wrote the “Winnie the Pooh” stories for his son, Christopher Robin, about the little boy’s make-believe adventures with his stuffed animal friends. If you aren’t familiar with these stories, might I suggest a few additions to the reading list for next session? We’ll talk about that later.

In the classic Winnie the Pooh Disney cartoons, the opening credits began with a camera panning over an array of stuffed animals in a child’s room. Then, the magic happened. (And nobody does magic quite like Disney, do they?) As the narrator began describing the antics of Winnie the Pooh and Christopher Robin, words on the page of an animated book slowly erupted into little black rainclouds and honeytrees, until the book faded away entirely and gave way to a blustery animated world. Before the magic, I saw just an ordinary run-of-the-mill stuffed bear sitting on a window box in a little boy’s room. Patched and worn, glassy-eyed and lifeless, he was just a stiff, stuffed toy. Only Christopher Robin’s friendship made Winnie-the-Pooh come to life. For Winnie-the-Pooh, friendship made him real.

We all could list icons of friendship from our culture and from our childhoods. Bert and Ernie. Lucy and Ethel. Jonathan and David—what beautiful pictures of friendship there. Anne Shirley and Diana Barry from “Anne of Green Gables,” Oprah Winfrey and Gayle King, Gus and Call from Lonesome Dove, Celie and Shug Avery from The Color Purple… Can you see a trend here? We resonate with images of friendship. We hunger for such images in our own lives.

I’m not suggesting to you that my only childhood friends were stuffed bears and TV characters. Still, it seems that I learned early on to keep people around me at arm’s length. Indeed, there parts of me they could never accept, never hold, never celebrate. Deep down, beneath my well-rehearsed soft shoe, the smoke and mirrors, the sequins and glitter routine, it was just a show. I remember many times when I would literally hide behind my hands lest someone read my emotions betraying my face and telling my secrets.

About eight years ago, I began meeting a small group people with whom I could be fully honest. Slowly I realized that I could fire my internal censor, and free my internal prisoner. Eventually I realized I didn’t have to hide anymore. I could look them in the eye and see my reflection. Through the mystery of the Incarnation, not only could I see my own reflection in their faces—I saw Jesus smiling back at me. I felt the laughter of Jesus in their jokes, the grief of Jesus in their tears, the temptations of Jesus in their struggles. And yes, I have even known the justice of God’s kingdom in their fist bumps of solidarity. I eat with Jesus when we share meals—and I felt the arms of Jesus when I sat on their enormous green couch, or rested in their collective embrace. We have walked together through births, deaths, marriages, break-ups, graduations, cross-country moves. Together, we have chronicled going in…and coming out…And, as we journeyed together, we walked in the blessing of the Father, fellowship of the Son, and in communion with the Spirit.

A wise friend told me—in his funny little Texan accent, “Church people are always saying how we need to be more like Jesus. Make me Christ-like. Be like Jesus. Well, what if in order to be more like Jesus, ya gotta be more fully human! You can’t be like Jesus and be a durn robot at the same time!”

Well, these friends gently convinced me that my charade was up. As I related with them in an embodied, human way, I met Jesus all over again. You see, their friendship—and my friendship with the Incarnate Christ—made me real.

When one of us needed assurance of acceptance, of grace, or even just a place of mutual understanding, we would lower what we laughingly dubbed the “Cone of Safety.” Anything could be spoken there. It was just all okay. All—each hidden place—is welcome in that cone of friendship encircling us. Within these holy friendships—this Cone of Safety, I have encountered the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus. Not only did their friendship make me real. With my friends—and Jesus within them—their friendship makes me safe.

I just love the healing story in the fifth chapter of Luke in which Jesus healed the paralyzed man. Just picture the scene:

One day as he was teaching, Pharisees and teachers of the law, who had come from every village of Galilee and from Judea and Jerusalem, were sitting there. And the power of the Lord was present for him to heal the sick. Some men came carrying a paralytic on a mat and tried to take him into the house to lay him before Jesus. When they could not find a way to do this because of the crowd, they went up on the roof and lowered him on his mat through the tiles into the middle of the crowd, right in front of Jesus.

When Jesus saw their faith, he said, "Friend, your sins are forgiven."

A few verses later, we read:

Immediately he stood up in front of them, took what he had been lying on and went home praising God. Everyone was amazed and gave praise to God. They were filled with awe and said, "We have seen remarkable things today."

This man’s friends provided him with access to Jesus, and Jesus called him friend. And the friendship—made him well.

This sounds familiar to me. Maybe it does to you as well. These friendships made me real. When I found myself unable to see the face of the Holy in my life, these friends dragged my mat into the presence of Jesus. They carried me, quite literally sometimes, to encounter Jesus. They made me safe and showed me the face of Jesus, and Jesus called me—as he calls you—friend.

And as it did for the paralyzed man, this friendship—this miraculous, grace-filled, holy friendship—makes me, and makes you—well.

Jesus’ words in the Sermon on the Mount sound so near to me—almost as near as it must have felt for that paralyzed man on that mat, who depended upon the persistent, unconventional, life-giving love of his friends.

Hear the words we heard just a few moments ago. This time, from Eugene Peterson’s The Message:

9-10"I've loved you the way my Father has loved me. Make yourselves at home in my love. If you keep my commands, you'll remain intimately at home in my love. That's what I've done—kept my Father's commands and made myself at home in his love.

11-15"I've told you these things for a purpose: that my joy might be your joy, and your joy wholly mature. This is my command: Love one another the way I loved you. This is the very best way to love. Put your life on the line for your friends. You are my friends when you do the things I command you. I'm no longer calling you servants because servants don't understand what their master is thinking and planning. No, I've named you friends because I've let you in on everything I've heard from the Father.

16"You didn't choose me, remember; I chose you, and put you in the world to bear fruit, fruit that won't spoil. As fruit bearers, whatever you ask the Father in relation to me, he gives you.

17"But remember the root command: Love one another.

As we came together for the first time some months ago, perhaps our Divine Narrator began weaving together the stories of our Academy antics like words on the page of an animated book. Maybe those words slowly erupted into little black rainclouds and honeytrees, until the book faded away entirely and gave way to a blustery animated Academy world. Maybe we’ve found ourselves in this blustery new animated world, and perhaps like for Christopher Robin and Winnie the Poo, our friendships make us real.

As I first encountered unquestioning acceptance from the people with whom I share my life, I met Jesus in a new way. I realized—their friendships make me safe.

We see Jesus in each other, and Jesus has called us friend. If we are to follow his way, to bear the fruit of love in our lives, then we must reflect the face of Jesus to the world.

Now, I’m not a preacher. Perhaps I should have offered this caveat to you before I started this wild ride a few moments ago. But as I prepared for this moment, and as I thought of what I could possibly tell you all—I realized that through the beautiful mystery of this community, I can draw from your deep wells of wisdom and experience. And somehow, I can become “greater than.” Isn’t the same true for the elements before us?

Since I’m not a preacher, I don’t say these words over the elements. But I do so love the Communion liturgy that says, “Pour out your Holy Spirit on us gathered here, and on these gifts of bread and wine. Make them be for us the body and blood of Christ, so that we might be for the world the body of Christ, redeemed by his blood.” In the same way, may we provide each other, and provide people everywhere with access to Jesus, so they might say—“their friendship made me real. Made me safe. Made me well.”

Circles in Time

2010-04-06T17:38:00.003-04:00

I am growing more and more convinced, especially of late, that time must come to us in circles rather than in lines. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no astrophysicist. Stephen Hawking probably could tell you much more on that subject than I have ever known about the intricacies of space and time—and likely more than I care to know, for that matter. Perhaps you are beginning to ask questions about my qualifications or maybe even my sanity. Let me put your mind at ease and tell you how I arrived at my cosmic conclusion. I’m a Southerner, and this part of my identity seems to permeate to my very depths. The land, the food, the music, the stories and people—all these flow through me like the mighty Mississippi winds its way through my homeland’s loamy soil.

Sometimes when walking on a sun-dappled path or meandering down a country road, I tend to disappear. I could just as easily be walking on the periphery of an antebellum garden party or on my way to meet a steamship down by the river. When I lived in Washington DC, I often would go to the National Museum of Art to relish masterpieces by Monet, Renoir, van Gogh, and Degas. My real treat, however, entailed stopping in the rotunda to see the burst of azaleas that bloomed there every spring. One look took me far from the bustle of subway trains, honking car horns, and posturing politicos. The sight of those azaleas transported me to Easter Sunday morning in Monroeville, Alabama—complete with new pants for church, a slightly sick stomach from too much Easter candy, and fighting with my brothers as my mother tried (in vain) to take a picture of us in front of the azaleas and still make it to Sunday School on time.

If I bite into a sumptuous dessert, suddenly I’m sitting at my Granddaddy TJ’s kitchen table years ago and biting into a piece of his chocolate pie. Granddaddy’s not making pies in this world anymore, but if I follow his recipe I swear I can almost smell his Old Spice aftershave and hear him say, “Now Matthoo…” In a similar way, a good devilled egg always takes me back to those formal Sunday dinners at Mrs. Etta’s house. I couldn’t have been older than about six or seven, but I remember biting into those salty, creamy bits of goodness and sitting up extra straight in her slightly musty but exceedingly proper parlor. The marble-topped tables, velvet-covered furniture, and imposing draperies seemed to whisper dinner conversations from another world.

And the music? Well, I could write for years and never scratch the surface of that topic. Sitting down at a grand piano never fails to transport me to Mrs. Saranne’s house. What a magic place that was! I can still hear the clacking of her laquered fingernails up and down that keyboard. Chopin preludes take me back—given just a few more years, I know she would have had me playing them. My lessons with her are just as productive now as they were then. They just occur in another dimension, in my own soul. (And yet even now, all these years later, I still cannot bring myself to write on my music in pen. She did tend to live on the edge like that.)

More even than the land, the food, and the music, the South’s stories and people are the cosmic movers that send me reeling through time. I grew up literally in the shadow of the Old Courthouse in Monroeville, Alabama. Back then, we really could hear the bell in the clock tower strike on the hour. I first read “Ms. Nelle’s” book, To Kill a Mockingbird, before I could begin to understand its angst. While in middle school, I memorized passages from the book, put on a pair of overalls, and played the role of “Jem” in my town’s springtime performance. With my friends Kelli and Stewart alternating in the role of “Scout,” we sat in the balcony overlooking the courtroom where trials such as Tom Robinson’s surely took place. I did my algebra homework while I listened to Atticus and Mr. Gilmer fight for Tom Robinson’s life. No wonder I made better grades in literature than in algebra! While we read Mockingbird in my eighth grade English class, I watched the events of that incendiary trial play out every Tuesday night during practice. We were amateurs, for sure, but dichotomies such as art and life, the now and the not yet, yesterday and today, real and imagined—early on in my life these distinctions began to blur.

I reread the book every few years, and each time I read it, the magic of Ms. Nelle’s words take me in and out of time and in and out of reality in new ways. While working in community mental health in rural Kentucky, I listened to a recording of Sissy Spacek reading Mockingbird. The distinctive lilt in her voice pricked my conscience at least to try to follow Atticus’ advice to consider life from the other’s shoes—or maybe even from inside their skin. This sounded like a noble pursuit over the speakers in my car. As I pulled the car into a potholed driveway and walked into a house surely only inhabitable by Ewells, Atticus’ words proved more of a challenge.

Last week I had a new experience with this timeless story—maybe it would be better described as a “time-full” story—too bad Webster doesn’t consider that an actual word. It seems to me that the best stories of the South are not timeless at all—instead, they encompass every time and all times. One evening last week I went with a friend to see a community theater production of To Kill a Mockingbird. To be honest, my expectations were not very high. Having read the book in the very town that nurtured its author during her formative years and having experienced with work with actors (amateur though they were) who could just as easily have been characters in the novel, I expected to watch the play with detached amusement. Not so!

From Miss Maudie’s opening lines to Scout’s closing, “Good evening, Mr. Arthur,” I cried. My tears soaked through the barbeque-smeared napkin left in my pocket from dinner, through my friend’s stash of Kleenex, through both my shirtsleeves, and even onto one of my socks. (I’m pretty bendy from my weekly yoga class. What can I say?) The theatergoers seated around me must have thought of me as Boo Radley’s cellmate out on a day pass. This time the themes of acceptance, equality, and justice did not so much pluck my heartstrings. No, this time the faces of Ms. Nelle’s characters—or more accurately the faces of my friends and cast mates—spoke to me from years gone by, and I scarce could contain my tears or my laughter.

As Calpurnia, the Finch’s cook and maid who reared the children after their mother’s death, swatted and fussed at Jem and Scout, I thought of Ms. Lena, our Cal. While the actress playing in last week’s cast fit Ms. Nelle’s description of “all angles and corners” to a tee, some folks might have thought our Calpurnia miscast. Sweet, good-natured Ms. Lena had not seen an angle or corner on her figure in years. A retired home economics teacher, she was all curves and hugs and stories, and I loved her. She died several years ago, and in that moment I missed her deeply.

Then there was Reverend Macmillan, or “Mr. Mort,” our Atticus. In his seventies when he played my Mockingbird dad, sometimes we laughed and called him “Granddaddy Atticus.” Despite his advanced age, he lived the role in a way that last week’s Atticus could never hope to achieve. Mr. Mort, a retired Presbyterian minister, lived and worked in Alabama during the Civil Rights era. Surely like Atticus, he could have said of Mockingbird, “…this is no ideal to me. It is a living, breathing reality.” I had not seen Mr. Mort in years when I heard of his death. When I heard, I could almost hear Mr. Crook, our Reverend Sykes, say, “Scout, stand up. Stand up. Your father is passing.”

I laughed as I watched their Miss Maudie attempt in vain to mask her Minnesota accent. My Miss Maudie, now a U.S. Circuit Court Judge, was then a lawyer in town whose riotous laugh could undo the entire cast with a mere giggle. When I worked at her law office during high school, I learned to appreciate the beauty of a good story—and a well-placed expletive! Yep, I loved every minute of it—except for the moment on Valentine’s Day when I wrecked my car while taking her children home from elementary school. Oops.

In that darkened theater as Ms. Nelle’s Pulitzer plot unfolded before me, I laughed and cried as faces passed by my mind’s eye. Mr. A.B., our court reporter, died last year. His late wife, my beloved Ms. Saranne, lives on all these years later. I think she's become my muse. But Mr. A.B. was special to me in his own right—he sang for nearly thirty years in my dad’s choir at church and brought me candy every Wednesday night after choir practice. When I was an awkward thirteen year old with a cracking, creaking, changing voice that couldn't quite make up its mind whether I should sing boy soprano, adolescent tenor, or just sit there with my mouth shut, none other than Mr. A.B. gave me a glimmer of hope. He said, "Matthew, if you'll just keep right on singing through the break, you won't ever lose your voice. That voice'll deepen and you'll never miss a lick." Those were kind words to a would-be pubescent soloist with a four note range, you'd better believe it! Even at eighty years old, A.B.’s voice was so mellow, so lovely. I remember hearing him sing “My Tribute.” How, can I say thanks / for the things he has done for me…” I pray I have a voice like that when I'm eighty.
The truth is so much stranger than fiction. As I walked into The Beehive today (a local coffee shop/bookstore and my Monroeville writing spot), I was greeted by the owner’s mother-in-law, Ms. Pat, another of our “Miss Maudie’s.” She mentioned in passing that Charlie McCorvey, our Tom Robinson, died a few weeks ago. Mr. McCorvey was a reading teacher at the middle school, and he played the role with a quiet dignity that moved me to tears even as a kid. If I had known of his death last week as I watched the play, I surely would have had to leave the theater.

Sometimes fiction is all too real, and real life is all too surreal. The lines blur, and time is less of a forward march and more like so many currents in a river. The same water that carried Mark Twain down the Mississippi cycles through and somehow fills my parents’ pool. The same dirt that made up the floor of those sparse slave quarters now grows the tomato—that on a sandwich with white bread and real mayonnaise makes a perfect summer afternoon. I can’t explain it—and an explanation just might ruin the magic.

For now, I’ll join the chorus of voices. Maybe I’ll play tag with Scout and welcome Kelli’s new baby girl into the world when she makes her debut in a few weeks. Lord knows I've got stories to tell that precious little one--her Mama would kill me, though. And even now, I know I’d better obey Calpurnia or face my peril. In moments when I need a hug from Ms. Lena, I’ll have to wait till I cross that river and meet her on the other side. I pray justice for all the Tom Robinsons of the world, and I'll mourn the loss of Mr. McCorvey, who taught many of my friends to read. When I sing our songs, I’ll remember Mr. A.B. and Mrs. Saranne. And come to think of it, while I’ve never spoken with her at length, every time I hear a good story, maybe I’ll breathe a silent thanks to Ms. Nelle, and all those wise folks who chronicle our comings, our goings…and our circles in time.

Thoughts on the [I'll Do Anything To Avoid] Writing Life

2010-03-06T14:11:00.000-05:00

For the first time since I began this trippy adventure in July, last week I had no editing assignments to work on. After months of proofreading dissertations, transcribing sermons and HR videos, editing standardized tests and study guides, and even writing my first book proposal, my agenda was clear. I finally had time to work on my own projects. Oh, I had so many ideas! Fictional plotlines, personal essays, and random tidbits of prose show up all over my life on the back of dinner receipts, cocktail napkins, used envelopes—you name it. But oh no. When faced with actual opportunities to write these ideas into existence, I seem to find any number of diversions. Quite frankly, it’s getting ridiculous.

As the restful weekend rolled over into last Monday, I immediately thought, “What better way to plan my week of luscious writing productivity than to write a ‘To Do’ list?”

Sidebar: The word “productivity” immediately induces gags and shudders, since it was the primary buzzword in my previous life. My “productivity” (i.e. weekly average of Medicaid-billable client-contact therapy hours) was the ultimate measure of my loyalty as an employee and worth as a person, it seemed. Of course, supervisors meant well, but in the end it was all just a numbers game. The bosses couldn’t help it—they were cogs in the same wheel in which I was spinning. Still, just that momentary jaunt down memory lane sent me to the medicine cabinet for the bottle of Pepo-Bismol. Oddly enough, I don’t think I’ve used it since July—it’s probably out of date. Oh well. Gulp.

Aaah. I feel it’s cool, soothing calm coursing through my digestive system. But alas, I digress…

Anyway, I started my “To-Do” list: Call the Cone. Call sweet Nana. Write letters. Pay bills. Transfer counseling license from Kentucky to Tennessee. Mail books to Mom and Neen. List items on Ebay. Plan meals for the week. Grocery store. Go to the gym. Sync calendar and emails. Answer the 400 random emails lingering in my inbox. Answer all 50 of my forgotten Facebook messages. Return the last 10 calls on my phone that I’ve been avoiding.

From there, however, my list grew from mildly neurotic to full-on crazy. Ablaze in my manic, agenda item-checking glory, I added more and more bulleted points of banality. Alphabetize CDs. Organize library. Detail inside of car. Find missing Pampered Chef measuring cup (Really? REALLY? I’ve lived in 3 states in the past 10 months, and I’m really going to look for a missing glass measuring cup? Perish the thought!). Make a SPREADSHEET for my “To-Do” list. (For real. Have we met?) Organize photo files on computer. Clean out hard drive (I don’t really know what this even means.) Clean out closet. Go to goodwill. On and on and on.

No lie, by Thursday I was making a master list compiling all my other lists. A shopping list, a house list, a meals list, a writing list, a life list…Good grief. No wonder I didn’t get anything done last week.

I read about writing—Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones, J. Cameron’s The Artist’s Way (and everything else she writes), Writer’s Weekly, Writer’s Digest, Steven King’s On Writing… You name it. I listen to audio recordings from writing retreats and seminars. I think incessantly about plot construction, character development, secondary storylines, settings…you name it. In their own way, all these people seem ultimately to say, “Get your butt in the chair, shut the door, and start writing.” And this makes so much sense, doesn’t it?

Yet last week, I cooked, read, cleaned, organized, napped, and even went to the gym. I hate going to the gym. The only thing that sustains me through an hour on the elliptical machine is an extra long playlist of Amy Grant songs from the 1980s, and I still don’t feel particularly happy about it. Then I made a spreadsheet. Never in my life have I done such a thing. I’m not sure that I ever will again, to be honest. But now I have a neatly organized and existentially profitable record of the areas in my life that need my attention. I can add internet links for comparison shopping, highlight and/or strikethrough items upon completion, and reprioritize the list according to events of the day/week/month/year/moon cycle.

What I don’t have is anything to show for my week of [non]writing. Still, I suppose writing on “why I’m not writing” is a start—a circuitous start, to be sure—but a start, nonetheless. So…off I go into the wild blue yonder. That’s the beautiful thing about this crazy writing life. The muse seems always to be sitting in my office, patiently waiting for me to finish my tap dance, ready to hear what I have to say, ready to change the station. Then I’ll stop flailing and invite my muse to join me…maybe in a waltz. No tap this time, though. And definitely no spreadsheets.

Shall we dance?

Being and Doing

2010-02-20T23:27:00.001-05:00

I'm still unpacking my luggage--and my thoughts--from last week's session of the Academy for Spiritual Formation. For much of the week, we discussed the difficulties we experience trying to hold "being" and "doing" in some sort of symbiotic tension. Our world is full of word pictures that describe this balance.
Harmony vs. dissonance. Stillness vs. busyness. Silence vs. conversation. Introvert or extrovert. Type A or Type B. Yin and Yang. War and Peace. Mary and Martha. You get the picture.

All too often, we see these dual states as some sort of false dichotomy. Sometimes we celebrate one side of the equation and vilify its apparent opposite. As I sit with the tension, I'm reminded of the 1965 classic by the Byrds--"Turn, Turn, Turn [To Everything There Is a Season]." The writer of Ecclesiastes wrote the poignant text, but Pete Seeger set it to music and introduced it to a whole new crowd. (Does this mean that Seeger's music is inspired? Hmmm. Something to think about!)

This week I've thought alot about this delicate tension. I wrote these words as I pondered...

Stillness (with pacing)

Always thinking, “I’ve got to DO something…”
Maybe an org chart or a detailed action plan
I’ll add to my agenda.
But then I see another word—just a tiny helping verb.
Righteous fervor has its place, but just “to be” is fine, sometimes.

Let’s sit down—I want to look you in the face
and eventually give you and me some space.
I’ll hear you say, “be still, you’ll see.”

Want to argue? I’ll SAY something:
“There’s neither male nor female, Jew nor Greek, nor slave nor free.”
But I still wear the labels.
You know, I’ve heard their music charmed the nation,
but when they sing those words, I change the station.
I just don’t want to hear them saying, “Let it be…”
So I’ll sit down and give you and me some space
and I’ll hear you say, “be still, you’ll see.”
Maybe I can let it be.

So I’ll sit down and look Jesus in the face.
Yeah, just give him and me some space
to hear him say, “Follow me.”

Matthew Paul Turner's "Hear No Evil"

2010-02-18T22:12:00.002-05:00

Perhaps you’re like me, and your friends throw their heads back in riotous laughter as they peruse the contents of your CD collection or IPod. Maybe they stare quizzically as you regale them with impromptu concert medleys of random Amy Grant songs from the 1980s. (I have a life theory that ANY situation one might face can be perfectly summarized and/or celebrated by an Amy Grant song, but alas, I digress…) Maybe when someone talks about a particularly exciting new venture, you immediately belt out “Saddle up your hor-se-es / I got a trail to blaze…”

Maybe you’re like me, and you grew up in that unique American subculture, conservative Protestant evangelicalism. Even when I’m covered with glory-goose bumps from a particularly riveting Sandi Patty key change, I must admit I often mind myself shaking my head, or even laughing at some of our church-ian antics. If your mind is swirling with images of gospel tracts and Testamints right about now, and you’re just on the brink of rolling your eyes, then Matthew Paul Turner’s newest book, Hear No Evil, is your next must-read.

In this book, Turner tells of his formative years spent in a conservative, fundamentalist family and church. He describes his life journey through the medium that likely has affected him more than any other influence—music. Like few other authors I’ve read, Turner’s clever wit offers a spot-on critique of the narrowness and even silliness he encountered in some Christian circles. Still, somehow he delivers his hilarious observations with a greater-than-normal measure of grace and kindness. In Hear No Evil, I saw images from my own life as I laughed and winced my way through Turner’s precocious childhood and his all-too familiar Christian collage misadventures. He writes of his years working in the contemporary Christian music business, and I remember eagerly awaiting my monthly installment of Contemporary Christian Music magazine when I was in high school—the very years he worked as the magazine’s editor. I found myself thinking, “Hey, I remember that article!” No doubt I devoured every word.

Full of belly laughs and even a few tears, Turner’s Hear No Evil also speaks volumes about grace, acceptance, and the love about which so many of those infectious Christian pop songs harmonize. Matthew Paul Turner possesses the rare gift to celebrate all the good things about the Christian community while simultaneously calling us to greater humility and thoughtfulness. And just like a great Amy Grant song, his words rolled across my brain with such delicious rhythm and rhyme that I didn’t even realize how deeply this delightful romp was forming, challenging, and shining a light in my soul.

Maybe none of this sounds even remotely familiar to you. Perhaps playing rock music backwards to hear its dark message was never a part of your formative years. If that’s the case, take heart. Be thankful for your lack of therapy bills, and read Matthew Paul Turner’s Hear No Evil, anyway. You’ll have a new understanding of your alien-friends with strange CD collections. You just might gain some insight into people in your life you never thought you’d figure out. And maybe—just maybe—you’ll experience the divine love, laughter, and acceptance that Turner has woven through his pages of pure, unadulterated verbal lusciousness.

Hear No Evil is what would happen if David Sedaris, Augusten Burroughs, Anne LaMott, and Amy Grant’s discography had a collective love child... You’ll want to pinch its cute little cheeks. Trust me.

This book was provided for review by the WaterBrook Multnomah Publishing Group.

Get your copy here: http://www.randomhouse.com/catalog/display.pperl?isbn=9781400074723

Matthew Paul Turner's "Hear No Evil" Giveaway TONIGHT!

2010-02-18T22:07:00.000-05:00

In just a few minutes, I'll be posting my first EVER blog book review and giveaway. The first follower to comment on the review wins a copy of Matthew Paul Turner's newest book, Hear No Evil. If you don't win it, go buy it ASAP. It's a great read!

God's Delight, "The Sound of Music," and blackberries...

2010-02-18T00:51:00.001-05:00

The songs playing in my head at any given moment run the gamut of genres, tempos, and seasons of life. A few days ago, I found myself paying attention to the moment’s soundtrack, and I was surprised by the melody I heard—a song from a 1970s era Cynthia Clawson album. If I close my eyes and quiet my mind, I can hear it: “Sometimes the light surprises the Christian when he sings…” These rare moments of holy astonishment have formed me. Sometimes alone in the presence of the Holy, sometimes among a crowd of worshippers, I’ve found myself surprised by the light in all sorts of places. Whether in a stately cathedral or a serene sun-dappled garden, such holy moments find me living peaceably in my own skin, embodying my faith, and breathing deeply of the nearness of God. I’m singing the song even now in my head, and I’m reminded of a time when I felt surprised by the light many years ago.

For weeks, I had been planning my first solitude retreat. I reserved a room at the Abbey of Gethsemani near Bardstown, Kentucky, the place where Thomas Merton had lived, prayed, and written for so long. I felt sure I would experience God in such a holy place! I arrived at the abbey for my 5 day, non-directed silent retreat with my journal, my Bible, a mid-90s Baptist Hymnal, and a lo-o-o-o-o-ng agenga.

Backpack in hand, I passed through an iron gate in a formidable stone wall, and I looked up to find two words carved in a staunch, gothic-looking font. “GOD ALONE.” I thought, “Yeah. Isn’t that the truth?!”

I stood there and swallowed the lump in my throat, feeling like Fraulein Maria from "The Sound of Music" as she approached the von Trapp mansion. Gone was my galloping gusto that had me singing, “I have confidence in confidence alone!” And just like the wayward novitiate, I found myself staring up at the wall and muttering a nervous, “Oh, help!”

A few hours later, I had settled into a patch of soft grass in a small garden, and a sculpture carved into the garden wall caught my eye. Upon closer look, I saw that the sculpture was followed by another sculpture several yards down the wall. And then another sculpture…then another…and another. They all depicted a scene in the Jesus’ biblical passion narrative.

I know, I know, it’s probably pretty obvious now, isn’t it? But this Baptist kid had never heard of the “Stations of the Cross.” I thought I had discovered some kind of Catholic devotional and artistic coincidence, I guess. Suddenly my mind flashed to the verses of “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross.” (Wow, I was feeling clever!) Determined to follow the rules for this silent retreat, I’m sure I sang the words in my head rather than out loud. Ever a choral nerd/junkie, I probably modulated to a minor key for the second verse: “See from his head, his hands, his feet; sorrow and love flow mingled down…”

My agenda had officially kicked in. I picked up my trusty hymnal, probably to make sure I wasn’t missing a word or forgetting a verse. I began meditating my way around the garden with these curious little sculptures and through the words of that hymn that I so loved. I just KNEW I had hit upon some great idea—some new devotional ritual that would magically force God’s hand and make him listen to me...and answer my questions. Still, as I would get into the flow of this experience, a nagging, fleeting thought would zoom through my brain like some kind of maniacal bird. I couldn’t seem to focus on my song. I couldn’t quiet my thoughts.

Gently, at first, I redirected myself. “Matthew, stick to the task. Pay attention. Take every thought captive…” Yet that still, small voice kept whispering. With mounting frustration, I eventually threw down my hymnal in disgust.

Okay—confession time. My hymnal throwing might have been accompanied by an expletive or two, but I’m just saying. Probably not that surprising, either.

I sat down in the grass in a huff, fielding a barrage of self-directed shoulds and oughts. After all—here I was at this amazing place. I had this beautiful opportunity. I should be able to focus! Why couldn’t I transcend the random thoughts in my head?

Then, by some grace, or magic, or maybe just sheer frustration, I gave up and thought, “Okay. What was so important?”

Then I heard that quiet voice once more. “Child, I delight in you.”

I felt almost like Jesus was whispering in my ear with quiet, steady reassurance. “Child, I delight in you.”

I began walking through the stations again, listening to God’s song this time rather than gritting my teeth and singing my own.

Jesus is condemned to death.

          And he says, “Child, I delight in you.”

Jesus is given his cross.

          “Child, I delight in you.”

Jesus falls the first time.

          “Child, I delight in you.”

Jesus sees his mother.

          Again, he says, “Child, I delight in you.”

Simon carries the cross.

          “Child, I delight in you.”

Veronica wipes the face of Jesus.

          “Child, I delight in you.”

Jesus falls the second time.

          Still, ”Child, I delight in you.”

Jesus meets the women of Jerusalem.

          “Child, I delight in you.”

Jesus falls the third time.

          “Child, I delight in you.”

Jesus is stripped of his garments.

          Even now, “Child, I delight in you.”

Jesus is nailed to the cross.

          “Child, I delight in you.”

Jesus’ body is removed from the cross.

          “Child, I delight in you.”

Jesus is laid in the tomb.

          Even in his death, Jesus says, “Child, I delight in you.”

* * *

Later in my week at the Abbey of Gethsemani, between strange little church services with odd sounding, mysterious names like “Lauds,” “Compline,” and “Terce,” I found myself praying in another garden. (Just what is it about gardens that seem to offer such fertile ground for experiencing God?)

In a small clearing in the woods, I saw a statue of Jesus, alone and weeping in the garden. I remembered the assurances I felt several days before when I heard him whisper, “Child, I delight in you.”

As I prayed there, truth be told, I reveled in Jesus’ delight that I had experienced in such a visceral way over the previous days. I don’t remember the words or thoughts occupying my mind as I moved to the final statue. I do remember having to crouch low, bending my way through the woodsy underbrush into the next clearing, where I saw him—the risen Christ. There, right on his face, I saw his delight. I could almost hear the music of his laughter.

I’ve often resonated with the line from an old hymn that says, “Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it / Prone to leave the God I love.” Even in the holiest of moments, I tend to find myself doodling, whispering, and giggling. Funny how God uses even these wandering moments to teach me his song. First he had taught me his delight in spite of my tight-lipped determination.

As I knelt at the resurrected Jesus’ feet, I placed my hands on the nail marks in his feet. Without even realizing what I was doing, I had been picking and eating blackberries as I wandered and rambled through the woods that day. As I moved my fingers away, I saw sticky, bright-red fingerprints on his feet. Then I looked at my blackberry-stained fingers, in awe of the depth of his delight. He went to such lengths and widths, heights and depths, to show his delight for humanity. Oh, that I might live up to the name, “Christ-follower.” Overwhelmed by my responsibility to bear his wounds in the world, I felt so thankful for his delight—and I continue to feel this deep sense of gratefulness even all these years later. As I sat at Jesus’ feet in the garden, I found myself praying words from the Communion liturgy:

“Pour out your Holy Spirit on us gathered here, and on these gifts of bread and wine. Make them be for us the body and blood of Christ, that we may be for the world the body of Christ, redeemed by his blood.”

Finally, I could finish the song I had started earlier that week.

“Were the whole realm of nature mine / that were a present far too small! / Love so amazing, so divine / demands my soul, my life, my all!”

Forty Days of Blogging...

2010-02-18T00:45:00.000-05:00

Hi Friends~
(All three of you who read this blog. Ha!) I'm approaching Lent this year from a new angle. Instead of arming myself with an armload of things I'm giving up, I'm going in a new direction. Inspired by words from a friend last week, I'm going to "add in to crowd out." One of the practices I'm going to add in is journalling/blogging. We'll see what rolls out. I'll write blog post six days a week until Easter. Some of them will be about faith. Some might be thoughts on life. Laughs. Who knows. First post of the season coming up in a few minutes!
-mge

Naked in Church...

2009-12-22T01:44:00.003-05:00

Right here at the outset, let me clarify something for anyone reading these words. I detest mathematics of all sorts. My completely imbalanced system of intelligence affords me great mental acuity when dealing with words and phrases, but this very same brain leaves me sweating and crying with the mere mention of anything even slightly numeric. Nonetheless, I’ll beginning this (much overdue) blog posting with some calculations because I need to present you with some data.
When I say that I have spent much of my life in church, it's no joke. My dad has been a minister all my life, and we averaged 3 services a week for the 18 years I lived with my parents. So...3 services a week times 40 weeks a year (SUCH a conservative estimate, and I haven't been a conservative in years!) times 18 years equals...2160 church services. When you factor in Sunday School, choir, youth group, prayer meeting, etc, I'm going to round it off at 2500 hours before the age of 18.

Now thirty years old, sometimes I feel like I’m using up more lives than a cat with an identity crisis. In my various lives, I've worked in four different churches and attended several others. (Incidentally, my new church in Nashville is a wonderful place beyond my wildest imaginings. But I digress.) All this math is beginning to give me a migraine, but I'm guessing I've accumulated AT LEAST another 2500 church hours since 18. Again, a way conservative estimate...7 day work weeks, lock-ins, committee meetings, choir practices, and more. If you're not a church person, these things sound ridiculous—and well, they probably are—but no matter. Welcome to life on my home planet.

All those hours. All those experiences. All those different churches. Baptist. Methodist. Charismatic. Episcopal. Catholic. African Methodist Episcopal. Independent. Fundamentalist. Liberal. Mega. Moderate. Mini. I thought surely I had experienced it all.

I've cried at funerals and crooned at weddings. I’ve celebrated baptisms and observed communion.

Over the course of this life, I’ve sung in talent shows. I’ve accompanied children’s choir, and on a very few occasions, I’ve played the organ (albeit not very well!). Once I nearly slung a handbell into the front row of the congregation during a particularly rough passage. I’ve even performed the rare—and ill-advised—liturgical dance. (Perish the thought!)

I’ve prayed for miracles and recited liturgies. I’ve taught Bible studies, fed refugees, and fasted. I’ve rocked babies, talked to little old ladies, and even had a panic attack in the bathroom stall after a particularly difficult confrontation with a group of rowdy teenagers. I’ve eaten hundreds of meals—some of the best fried chicken in the world.

I’ve smoked cigarettes behind the Sanctuary during Easter pageant practice (decked out in my full ancient Palestine Jesus costume). I've laughed at bumbling preachers who say things like "sexual excription" (what?) when they mean to say "Scriptural exception." That was quite a sermon! I have laughed so hard that my stomach ached, and I have cried so hard that my eyes were bloodshot for days afterward. All these memories...All these experiences, and yet now there's something new.

At my dad's church in south Alabama, every Christmas the Sanctuary Choir presents "The Living Christmas Tree." My brothers and I call it "The Monroeville Christmas Spectacular." It really is an incredible worship experience the likes of which the town has never seen, but behind the scenes it can be a comedy of errors. Imagine 55 adults—some of whom are in no way petite—crammed into 18-inch crawl spaces surrounded by oversized ornaments and white-hot tiny twinkling lights. All the while during this Yuletide feat of physics, the choir looks like a human vocal puppet show while singing various pieces from memory, their faces shining with religious and devotional fervor. Quite a tall order, wouldn’t you agree?

This year I was all set to join the Spectacular, "robed and ready," as we choristers sometimes say. I had practiced my solo—“Sweet Little Jesus Boy”—for the last time, taken a valium, and I was ready to go. I had painstakingly diagrammed out the lyrics, agonizing over each dialectical affectation, trying to eliminate any racially offensive pronunciations in the old spiritual. I had reviewed every note and turn of phrase, hoping to emote the mystery and beauty of that long ago morning “when the cry of a baby pierced the universe.” In good voice, I was ready for a perfect night.

About an hour before the evening performance, the cast ate a light meal together. While chatting with a friend on a strict no-carb diet, I noticed that she held a plate of picked-over mayonnaise bread. Apparently this friend was observing some sort of no-carb diet, and had disassembled her sandwiches in favor of a pre-performance ham feast. At this point the age-old march of time seemed to slow as I reached across to pluck a piece of the mayonnaisey goodness from her plate—and managed to knock a large glass of ice water from my friend’s hand right onto my lap.

Imagine my chilly Christmas delight when I felt said ice water soaking right through my pants all the way to my Calvin Kleins. Brrrr. What's the soloist to do? I certainly had no time to go home and change clothes. I quickly grabbed a calf-length choir robe from a nearby hanger and headed to the nursery suite—and the church’s only clothes dryer.

I zipped the robe over my wet concert attire with plans to sneak in the empty nursery, drop trou, read Dr. Seuss, and vocalize while I waited for the dryer to buzz. This was not to be. Upon arrival at the nursery, I stopped in front of the dryer, poised to remove my pants. Only then did I glance across the hall to see a familiar stern-faced nursery worker. She was wearing the standard nursery lady denim jumper, looking very much like she had not moved from that spot for several generations. I summoned all my reserves of holly-jolly gaity, spouted a quick explanation, and darted to the restroom to remove my pants. I tried not to notice my icky feelings at standing pants-less in a church nursery restroom complete with mini toilets and cutesy cartoons testifying the love of Jesus and the importance of washing one’s hands. I emerged from the restroom, pants in hand, and threw them in the dryer—all under Mrs. Nursery’s hawk-like gaze. I have long been one to at least attempt an escape from such awkward situations, so clothed only in a thin veneer of off-white synthetic fabric, I departed the nursery in search for somewhere else to lurk until I could don my trousers once again.

The next twenty minutes were a totally foreign experience. Other-worldly sensations wafted around parts of me that have never felt a breeze, because I can promise you one thing. I may have experienced lots of life underneath that steeple, but in no way have I ever been naked in church.

Stay tuned for "Naked in Church, Part Two: The Brush of Angels' Wings"

Of Crock Pots and Cornbread

2009-10-25T01:15:00.003-04:00

In the spirit of all things new, all things green, all things eco-friendly, person-friendly, and healthful, I decided I would opt for something economical, filling, and autumnal for dinner last night. I had soaked dried beans the previous night—I read online that such soaking would remove the “gassy compounds” (yes, that is a direct quote). I was thinking ahead big time, so I had the gasless beans cooking in the crock pot all day.

Now mind you, I could not find my own personal crock pot. It's probably still in a box, dispersed somewhere within a three-state radius following my recent change of venue. I, however, was a man on a mission. Not to be deterred by misplaced crockery, I found a semi-suitable stand-in. Alas, I realized that my aunt has a crock pot. Or I should likely say my late grandmother (may she ever rest in peace) HAD a crock pot. This fossil of an appliance is probably forty years old, at least. I mean, it’s the only one I ever remember seeing, and I'm 30. It looks like something in which she would have cooked cabbage when the country was conserving meat for the war effort and supporting our boys on yonder shore.

Anyway, one of the beautiful things about a crock pot is that you can toss in just about any conglomeration of food items, add a little water, turn it on, leave it, and go on about your day. This was a huge help for my Thursday, because I had errands to run, had to go to the gym, and I have a huge editing project to finish by Monday. I worked at home for a little while, the crock pot ever under the watchful corner of my eye, just making sure it wasn't going to create a nuclear bean mushroom cloud in the kitchen—just what I need as an extended-stay, voluntarily jobless, writer bohemian houseguest. Right?

Luckily there were no disasters. I finally plucked up my courage and decided to go out for a few hours. I went to the bank, the store, the gym—all the while praying that the God of All Comfort (and apparently the God of All Crock Pots) would protect Mama Banks' crock pot for His glory—and so it wouldn't blow up the house. As I navigated my way all over town, I swerved all over the road praying for what I feared would be a legume disaster of monumental proportions. As I fell into a rhythmic pace on the treadmill at the gym, my every footfall was punctuated by heartfelt prayers and manic, list-making worries and contingency plans. Just in case…

When I finally got back to the house I ran to the kitchen, half afraid of what I would find. My fingers were crossed. I was holding my breath...Whew! The crock pot was SEARING hot on the outside, but there had been no calamities. My worries were over.

I guess I that’s when I began feeling a bit cocky, because I found myself thinking, "Well I'm better at this than I thought. Antiquated equipment? I’m good, thanks. Short on time? I can kick Rachael Ray to the curb. Forget about her—I can make a twenty minute meal." In retrospect, I was getting a bit too big for my—well, apron. So what did I do? I decided to make cornbread.
Now you should know that I've never actually MADE cornbread before. Still, how hard can it be? Every mother and grandmother in America since the days of Ma Ingalls in "Little House on the Prairie" has been making cornbread for years. I'd like to think I'm a reasonably intelligent person. I mean, I’ll be paying for advanced degrees for the rest of my born days. What’s a little cornmeal and buttermilk up against the likes of me? So I got out the red and white cookbook and found a recipe.

Easy! This'll be a piece of cake! Well, it was a piece of something, alright—but one could hardly call it cake.

I mixed up the batter—a fragrant butter yellow. I found an old iron skillet, greased it to a gleaming black shine, poured the batter right in, and popped it all in the hot oven. I set the oven’s timer and then went back to work writing for the twenty minutes or so until my crusty, golden-brown award-winning cornbread made its debut on the culinary stage.

I knew I only had a few minutes to work, and so with my Monday deadline looming in my mind I quickly settled in at my computer. I must have really been in the zone, or dancing with my muse, or something, because I didn't notice when the curious acrid smell began wafting through the house. Nor did I take note when wisps of smoke started to curl around every corner. It wasn't until the smoke alarm started its blood-curdling bleeps that I was startled back to reality.

I ran into the kitchen to find smoke POURING from the oven. It seems I was so proud of my cornbread batter that I filled that skillet right to the very top. I mean, who would want to waste any of that crispy goodness?! I never thought about the cornbread needing to rise...After all, YEAST makes bread rise, and I hadn't put any yeast in that batter. There would be no rising.

But oh, was there ever a rising! The batter uprising peeked in triumph over the rim of that old skillet and cascaded right onto the sizzling 400 degree oven floor only to be turned instantly into rock-hard cornbread coal crumbles.
I immediately turned off the oven and began opening all the windows and the doors, cursing under every breath and wiping sweat from my brow. I wrestled with curtains and attempted to coerce the ultra-home-invasion proof, outer-space door locks to open. Fanning billows of lung-shriveling smoke through the open doors like some sort of bewitched, evil cheerleader, I’m sure I made quite an impression on my new neighbors. I can just hear their conversation now…“Judith, just what is our neighborhood coming to after all these years? It’s an outrage, really. I’m calling the homeowners association right now!”

think the cornbread debacle—despite being all smoke and no fire—would have given pause to my unswerving dedication to preparing the meal. Correct? No—perish the thought. From the epicenter of a cloud of toxic corn smoke, I finished that pan of cornbread on top of the stove. And it was lovely, thank you very much.

Now I just need to go and wash the char marks off my face, and I feel a lingering corn kernel drying in my hair. Despite my rallying success with the cornbread completion, I was in NO mood to clean the cursed oven after the nonsense I’d unjustly suffered. Besides, I had windows to close, fans to switch off, and about 400 scented candles to extinguish. So I spent a sleepless night dreading the next day—one I would likely spend chipping away at the lava-hardened corn deposits on the oven floor.

Twenty four hours later…

Okay, let me just say that a new oven is a wonderful, blessed, beatific thing. Let me also say that at my apartment in Kentucky, the oven I've used for the last several years likely was installed at the Tandy Square apartments during the Gerald Ford administration. It may have been a time of grief and subsequent healing for our Watergate-marred political landscape, but I’ll tell you one thing—it wasn’t a particularly innovative time for any of the home appliances, particularly the oven.

After rifling through records and warranties for every tool, gadget, and appliance reminiscent of the days of shag carpeting and beehive hairdo's from the time of my forefathers and foremothers onward, I finally found the operating manual for the new oven. Of course we now live in a multi-cultural wonderland, so the manual itself was written in Russian, Spanish, Japanese, Swedish, and Zulu. I finally found the English pages and flipped through them until I found instructions on the self-cleaning feature.

Mind you, I was dreading the inevitable noxious fumes I would encounter today. I was prepared to buy a can of Easy-Off and don the hazardous materials kit from my recent sojourn as a counselor in the community mental health system. But the oven manual made no mention of toxic aerosol foams, corrosive chemical compounds, or nuclear waste particles for use in cleaning the oven. Nope. All I had to do was take out the oven racks (which can be washed in the sink), wipe out the calamity cornbread charcoal briquettes from the oven floor, and press a button on the stove. One button! Alas, it's cleaning itself even at this moment—no muss, no fuss, no fumes, no foams, no trials and/or tribulations.

So here I sit working on my friend’s book project when I thought I would be tarted up like Tillie Slopwash all day, complete with Carol Burnett's mop and bucket. Ahhhh. It may be cloudy outside, but in my soul the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and the appliances can almost take care of themselves. Life is good.

Tonight there will be delectable chicken chili on the stove, but there will be no cornbread. I'll leave the dreaded pone to Ma Ingalls and the rest of the pioneers. None for me. Thanks.

it's a new day, people...

2009-10-24T20:24:00.000-04:00

hello to all four of you who ever read these words. just giving you a heads up. i've just undergone a change of venue. new town, new job, new scene. and it seems that life is--well, it's a bit breezier these days. less about marching to the beat of the corporate drum and more about finding a new path. singing a new song. laughing really loud. you get the picture.

i think the name still fits, though--isn't it all just a tender humiliation, anyway? every day serves as a little reminder that it's just not all about me, after all. my lesson of late is to lighten up, live a little, and just see what happens.

i hope you'll join me. stay tuned.

new thoughts...new words...

2009-08-09T20:37:00.003-04:00

Plastic Makes Perfect?

Sanitizers, additives, diet fads, sedatives…
a far cry from the mud and spit
and dust and sweat and green
out of which You formed my being.

Instead, I use my nylon string
and brightly-colored poly-cotton blends
to cover up a multitude of sins.
How quickly I forget that it is blood—
not soap—that sets me free.

Maybe You’d be better served
if instead of spinning techno-pop
I sang a dirge, or whistled with the whippoorwill
or joined a joyous anthem orchestrated
with the sound of cicada wings.

Seems that all my manic efforts to stay clean
encase me in a shell of polyethylene.
I guess that I just try to shut out my own humanity.

But you were birthed not in a day-glo bright obstetrics wing
but in the fog of sheep’s breath and camel drool…
and baptized in the river—not a chlorinated swimming pool.

Let me not fear a little river mud or dog slobber…
or even a steaming pile of manure.
After all, every spring you recreate new life from compost.
Who am I, this plastic man, that I should boast?

Farewell to Debby Downer!

2009-05-26T00:52:00.003-04:00

Its late and I'm tired, so this will be short. No more somber blog postings for awhile. I've spent the last several days among dear friends who feel more like family. Thankfulness seems to be the theme of the day as I sit back and enjoy the bliss of living. Life is good, and change is brewing. I don't know exactly what awaits in the coming days, but I'm feeling optimistic. (My first thought was, "I'm feelin' groovy," but that might be a bit much this late at night. Hmm)Gray skies are about to clear up, folks. More to come, I promise!

happier words to come, i promise...

2009-05-25T22:00:00.005-04:00

I've got quite a backlog of journal entries, jottings, and thoughts to catch up here. Several months ago I wrote the following words during a particularly meloncholy day...

Step by stride and side by strife,
grief draws near as part of life.
So much uncertain, yet this I know-
that deep within I find my home.

Step by stride and side by strife,
grief follows close as part of life.
So much uncertain, yet still I know
within the flow I find my home...

It seems I'm back after a long, long winter...and the next to come remains to be seen.

2009-05-24T15:16:00.004-04:00

I've recently started writing again after almost a year. It's about time, right? I can't remember where I came across the phrase "why the chimes rang," but I remember thinking the words were beautiful. I love that even the smallest upturn on the end of the phrase can change the entire meaning from an observation to a question. Then a free verse thought process began to take shape...

Why the chimes rang?
Pealing songs of exultation
ringing celebrations of
new birth, new life, and
new music of glad souls?

Or do bells ring for grieving throngs,
for the yearning and the longing of
lost loves, lost friends, and lost lives
marking time and counting death's dark toll?

Why, the chimes rang!
Whether joy or lamentation
births the ringing doesn't matter
when hearts are singing
whether weeping, laughing, weeping,
the music has a sweetness all its own.

Musings on Creative Living...

2008-04-14T15:02:00.004-04:00

Creativity is quite an odd concept. Along with flashes of excitement, I often find myself on the receiving end of quizzical looks from others around me. And chances are, if you're reading this blog, then at sometime or another you've probably wondered, "What is this guy thinking?" But believe it or not, I'm slowly coming to a place in my life where I can enjoy and celebrate the gift of of living--quirks and all. As I thought about all this a few days ago, I found myself writing the following journal entry. What follows probably doesn't qualify as standard prose, and it likely doesn't have any identifiable rhyme scheme, either. So somewhere on the fuzzy frontier, right on the edge of fact and fiction, just between poetry and prose, here are my thoughts. For whatever they are worth...

I once was told that
I think too much.
But how could I ever
wish to quell
the rushing waters
of my soul?

Somewhere turning in the torrents,
amid the cacophony,
I still love the word,
"ramshackle" ...

And "amethyst" feels all purple-ly:
cold and bright,
illumined from within
as I utter its syllables,
clinking like a royal goblet
as I taste its goodness on my tongue.

Just saying the word "home"
slows my pace
my pulse
my breathing
like a friend's embrace
or like the earthy, velvet froth
of a steaming mug of hot chocolate.
(In an oversized mug,
thank you very much).

My Muse

2007-07-02T22:08:00.000-04:00

I'm one of those quirky creative types. And if you're reading my blog, chances are good that you know this truth about me. Often when I'm writing, I think of the old idea of "the muse," that creative spark or special catalyst that sometimes sets sail in my soul. As I mentioned in my last posting, I've been thinking alot about "home" lately. And as I've thought about my years in that little town, I can't help thinking about an incredible lady who shined her bright light in my life. Here's a piece I wrote several months ago while thinking of her...

As I meet children through my work, through church, or in my community, I hope for their sake that somewhere in their little lives they might find a living, breathing guardian angel like mine. If only they could be so lucky to find a muse--a safe place wherein lives the keeper of the magic of childhood. My dear, sweet, beautiful friend died many years ago, but her music, her laughter, and her magic lives with me still.

Our time together was full of beautiful moments, moments in which the music of life and the peace of divine love seemed to emanate from her rambling house on that quiet, shady street in south Alabama. Moments of music, moments of beauty, moments of teaching, moments of laughter, and moments of simply "being" were hallmarks of our time together and were so formative in my young life. These are moments of eternity for me, times when I realize that she is ever a part of my life.

Each time I sit at a piano and lose myself in a Chopin prelude, compose a simple melody, or even belt out a passionate torch song while driving my car in city traffic, I smile and thank God for the music that my angel friend gave to me. I tasted the early thrill of performance on a makeshift carpeted stage during our no-pressure, high-energy annual recitals. We played and sang, danced and laughed, living out the music of childhood without pretense and without shame.

Somehow I find myself returning to this bliss in which unabashed creativity is my friend once again. Through the music that she offered to me, I can release angst and tension, express my innermost yearnings, and even worship my Creator. I remember many times when I grew convinced of her magic as she intuited the condition of my inner world just from the way in which I played her shiny, black grand piano. There surely were many days when I remember piano lessons and practice sessions ending with her quiet reassurances..."Matthew, why don't we hear this next week. Instead, let's go and get a Coke. Tell me about your week..."

As Lou Gehrig's disease began to slowly rob her body of the freedom to move, swallow, blink, and breathe, I wrote a song for her. I composed the song while under her tutelage, but the task of actually transcribing the notes and measures seemed too daunting at the time. As her illness progressed, however, I found my muse once again. I painstakingly wrote my song, "Saranne's Song," on manuscript paper and played it for her during a visit, as tears of grief and thankfulness coursed down my face.

I am reminded of another song, a song that my dad wrote in her honor and sang (and wept) at her funeral. "I sing with the angels when I praise His name / I sing with the saints in heaven / And they know / I must give back the music / That He has given to me / I cannot silence the sounds of praise that are ringing in my heart."

My dear friend gave back the music even as her own song--and her own life--was stilled. The magical songs of acceptance, creativity, faith, and joy that she sang over me, over generations of students, over her church, and over my family continually reverberate, and the music is effortless and sweet. Oh, that I might continue this song...

Notes on a Small Southern Town

2007-07-02T21:53:00.001-04:00

I've been thinking about "home" in recent days, and I found an old journal entry that I wrote about my hometown. Here's to you, Monroeville...

It could be any town, really. My hometown is but one of many Southern gems, much like an aging Southern socialite who still dresses to the nines, teases up her ever-thinning hair to extraordinary heights, and pulls moth-ball scented furs from the cedar chest every fall at the first glimmer of frost. To be sure, wrinkles and crows feet are making their presence known on her proud face, but this lady still walks proudly upright on perilously high-heeled shoes, all the while resting on the laurels of countless Garden Club "Yard of the Month" awards, decades of dinner parties beyond compare, and car loads full of fresh-faced grandchildren spread throughout the South. Perhaps the lady is a bit past her prime, but life is still sweet and good.

My home town is really no different. In the past two decades, this delightful little burg has bid farewell to life-giving (not to mention revenue generating) industry, weathered scandals in local politics and public office, wept over tragedies--both man-made and preternaturally apportioned, and has even passed a much-debated town referendum allowing the sale of alcoholic beverages within the city limits, as long as the liquor stays far enough away from the churches and the schools. As for me, I say, "Bring on the cocktails." But that's another matter entirely.

Despite these storms, and despite and many more private anguishes tucked away behind immaculate white picket fences and meticulously manicured privet hedges, time marches onward. All the while, my town seems to age like fine wine.

New work in progress...

2007-05-19T15:24:00.001-04:00

What about the yesterdays
filled with memories
and smiling faces?
Still, I was trapped
like a pacing animal
at the zoo.

What about today?
Meloncholia and minutae
drown me in deep waters.
Yet as I live and breathe,
I am free.
Doors swing open
unfettered.
But I am lonely.

Maya Angelou...paging Maya Angelou Pt. 2

2007-05-04T14:24:00.000-04:00

I think I've finished it. Let me know what you think...but only if its nice. Ha!

Let me live

While I am living, let me live...
and dance and sleep, and laugh and dream.

And in winter's numbing arctic,
to breathe the fog, to feel the cold,
and know its sting.
While I am living, let me live...
And make snow angels,
white and fresh with icy gleam.

During summer's sultry sweetness
I want to sweat from toil
and yet be clean.
While I am living, let me live...
May salty seaside breezes
shield the sun and make me sing.

As the year turns into autumn,
flowing sap and shortened days
will quiet me with fallen leaves.
While I am living, let me live!
Smell fireside smoke
and celebrate the Earth, with harvest bring.

New birth blossoms with the spring.
With soil beneath my feet,
I cry the rain and drink the green.
While I am living, let me live...
I will embrace the All of being
and lay the bounty before my King.

While I am living, let me live...
While I am living, let me live...
Let me live.

Notes from a Bathroom Stall

2007-01-04T01:13:00.000-05:00

Inspiration comes from interesting places, I guess. I was riveted by words I read a few days ago. Oddly enough, I found these words scrawled on the stall door of a Starbucks bathroom in Milwaukee, Wisconsin...Two different hands, at two different times, perhaps writing from vastly different backgrounds and situations. I don't know the writers' purpose, but I found their words beautiful: "Love is a really long lesson to learn." and "...seeing as how anyone can." These words began to take shape in my mind. Here is the resulting work in progress...

Love is a really long lesson to learn,
seeing as how anyone can.
Toiling with bitter gall
and pointing crooked fingers at my fellow man.
Hate burns cruel and hot,
exhausts its ire,
and snuffs out like a flash in the pan.

Love lessons are slow to emerge
when deep hatred turns inward and stings.
How can I love others, in turn,
when life comes apart at the seams?
Hate glitters, frozen blight,
but melts when warmed.
And thus births peace, the fruit of love,
the very stuff of dreams.

The essence of journey--and process--is love,
giving and gracing and arms open wide.
Yet when love's fruit too often lies dormant,
self-loathing creeps out from inside.
Don't despair the process. Live and breathe.
Journey-friends light the God-ward path
and love's lessons take root in spite of the striving.

(Still in process...hopefully more to come...)

Journey Friends and Worshippers

2007-01-01T21:22:00.000-05:00

Ah, the poetry bug strikes again. In honor of friends from my journey. Enjoy, my fellow journey-friends and worshippers...

The way is marked by journey-friends and worshippers
crawling, dancing, concentric circle-selves.
Time marked not by hours, but encounters
when worlds of learners and sojourners intersect.
Ends are unpredictable, for all the undulations.
So hope, and play, and live, predicting only changes.

Journey, then, and worship!
Seek and celebrate the questions.
Journey, friends, and worship!
Sing and shout your adoration.
Journey onward, through the darkness;
cry and wail with desolation.
Meander, if you will--and flourish.
Hear the music of what happens.

Live on, journey-friends and worshippers.
Remember, from your journey comes your worship.
Celebrate your heartbeat,
and celebrate the One whose love makes you alive.

Kindness

2006-09-16T20:30:00.000-04:00

Several months ago, I read "Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith" by Anne LaMott. She suggested four rules for living--Be kind, pray to Jesus, take deep breaths, and stop grabbing. What a beautiful thought. I really need to be friends with her. Anyway, I am in the process of writing down some thoughts on her rules. Here's the first installment.

BE KIND

"Be ye kind to one another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another..." Likely many of us learned these words as children. We recited them in a variety of languages and in myriad settings in virtually every far corner of the world. For some, these words were early Bible verses or catechisms we memorized for candy, stickers, or some other oft-coveted childhood trinket. Still, surely this command is not strictly particular to the Christian faith. Many, if not most people who share this living, breathing planet, would extol the wisdom of these words. BE KIND.

As children, our command to be kind suggested a utopian existence, complete with the harmonious sharing of cookies and toys, and the restraint required to refrain from cruelty toward outcasts on the playground. While such acts of kindness may now seem small, to a six year old the simple act of sharing a cookie or inviting the fat kid to play kickball can profoundly brighten a little life.

Sometimes in our childhoods, we lived up to the challenge to be kind. I can still look back and remember those times I acted as a playground advocate for the lonely or forgotten. Yet there are other memories as well. I sometimes sigh and shake my head at my "if only..." memories. "If only I had said..." or "If only I hadn't laughed..." or "If only I had offered to..." If only I had allowed myself the grace to be, to welcome, and to experience more fully the beauty of kindness.

You might ask, "What have I, a responsible adult, a tax-paying citizen, and even a dedicated Christian, to do with antiquated childhood notions such as sharing my toys or befriending the weird kid?" Before we close the door on kindness, in light of our polite handshakes and sizable charitable contributions, perhaps we should pause...and consider...

Are we really that far removed from our childhood playgrounds? To be sure, now our playgrounds are exponentially larger than before. Now our capacity to brighten a life, or darken a life, for that matter, is more weighty than ever before. The wealth that we possess and others need is no longer built on an empire of chewing gum, extra desserts, or the coolest new toy. Now we hold reserves of profound assets. On a national scale, we have innumerable natural resources when compared with our neighbors across the world. We have the means by which to treat an epidemic that is steadily killing an entire continent.

Our wealth is not merely on a national level; rather, we also possess almost unprecedented storehouses of personal wealth. In spite of our bulging purses and wallets, we still disregard the agony of the world's poor with statements such as, "People are just milking the system," or "People just need to pull themselves up by their bootstraps." Unfortunately, the boots of the world's poor are full of holes, and a blizzard is blowing in. All the while, our nation's middle and upper classes (still disproportionately white, I suggest), sit in well-built, warm homes. In our castles, amid our personal kingdoms, we hold the keys to the cobbler's store. The doors are locked, the lights are out, and the poor still trudge through the snow in worn out boots.

So many people continued to be battled by the system year after year. Should we not extend kindness and grace to people? In adult world, the stakes are higher than on the playground. Now the objects of our scorn are not merely chubby kids with glasses. No, now we alienate and criminalize whole people groups. Even in mainstream Christianity, through the years in our own backhanded ways, we have managed to belittle and marginalize women, people of color, gays and lesbians, non-Westerners, people with disabilities, and many, many more. And now in Bush's America, even more groups are being ignored, disregarded, or worse, actively treated with discrimination. Illegal immigrants, "enemy combatants," liberals, lovers of peace, Democrats, Muslims...the list goes on and on. The label "terrorist" is bandied about much like the oft-mentioned but still unseen "weapons of mass destruction," with which the current administration has propogated what I suggest is a false and immoral war.

I do not suggest that wrongs should go unpunished, although I cannot support war or capital punishment waged upon persons created in the image of our God, the God of life. Nor do I suggest that those with resources should liquidate all their assets and commence to live in a cardboard box. (However, did Jesus not say, "Sell everything you have and give it to the poor?" This thought frightens me to my very bones.) I am suggesting, however, that we venture out of our isolated sanctuaries and back onto our long-forgotten childhood playgrounds and prepare to share our bubblegum.

Sermon from 4/23/06

2006-04-23T21:14:00.000-04:00

I preached tonight at my home church, First Baptist Church of Monroeville, Alabama. I've never done that before, but it was a good experience--even if I am glad its over! Here it is, for what its worth!

The status of the human race as a people acquainted with brokenness was established early in the story of God’s work among his people. We could look all the way back to the fall in Genesis to see a humanity touched by suffering, separated from God and from each other by anger, and darkened by sin. Even our very understanding of history is often seen through lenses of war and cruel regimes. The words of a popular worship song describe our current situation in the world like this: “And though these are days of great trials, of famine and darkness and sword; Still we are a voice in the desert crying, ‘Prepare ye the way of the Lord.’” Could it be? Could it be that we are that voice? Friends, we are that voice, to a world in need of reconciliation with God.

As I began preparing to speak to you all tonight, after I wiped the sweat from my palms and stopped shaking, of course, I realized that I have many of you to thank for my first observation from the text. Years of learning English grammar, of diagramming sentences, and learning to read and write in some of your classrooms helped me take notice of interesting wording here. In verse 1 of Romans 5, the first word, “therefore,” should alert us to look backward in order to understand the context of this passage. We could begin with chapter five—“Therefore, since we have been justified through faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have gained access by faith into his grace in which we now stand.”

This could be our starting point. However, I would suggest that verse 25 of the preceding chapter might help us more fully to understand. Verse 25 reads, “He was delivered over to death for our sins and was raised to life for our justifications.” Teachers, you can take out your red pen and correct me after the service, but I think of the word “therefore” in this way. Verse 25 offers a complete thought, as does verse 1 of chapter 5. “Therefore” seems to indicate that these verses belong together. Just imagine a semicolon linking these two sentences together. Are you impressed? I guess I do remember something from high school English, after all.

Firmly rooted in a proper understanding of our position as an Easter people whose identity is rooted in the death, burial, and resurrection of Jesus, this verse offers us a fitting place to begin, especially in these days of Eastertide as we celebrate our risen Lord! In recent years I have begun to appreciate more deeply the sacred rhythms of the church calendar, that way of living out the story of God that connects us with the saints of the ages and the church of old. The season of Advent, when the incarnate Christ was born on earth; the Lenten season, when we remember our sins and realize our deep need for reconciliation with God; the glory of Easter morning, when our funeral dirge ceases and we join together in celebration of the resurrection. The year cycles around to Pentecost Sunday in early fall, and then from Pentecost until the beginning of Advent we celebrate the days of Kingdomtide—the coming of the Kingdom of God, preparation for our celebration of the Incarnation—God becoming man in order to reconcile us with himself. I share this with you in order to establish that Jesus is central throughout the church year.

In a similar way, verse 25 of Romans 4 establishes the death, burial, and resurrection of Jesus as the pivotal event upon which any understanding of tonight’s passage rests. With this truth in mind, we can more fully understand Romans 5. Listen again as I read these two verses. “25 He was delivered over to death for our sins and was raised to life for our justification. 1Therefore, since we have been justified through faith, we[a]have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, 2through whom we have gained access by faith into this grace in which we now stand.”

It is only through the sacrificial life, death, and resurrection of Jesus that we can be reconciled with God. Through faith, we can know peace with God. We can approach God as “Abba” Father—because the sacrifice of Jesus paid our sin-debt. What a joy to know that we can be redeemed. Romans describes our joy this way—“we rejoice in the hope of the glory of God.” Our redemption and reconciliation with God hinges on the “therefore” we read earlier. God performs the initial act in this drama. His action allows for our response.

If the resurrection only served to reconcile us with God, this would surely be enough. How else can we know a redeemed life? How else can we know God? How else can we live in God’s delight rather than his wrath? This is the only way—the redemptive work of Jesus. But the joy of a reconciled life does not stop here, friends. Reconciliation can infiltrate every corner of our lives.

“We rejoice in the hope of the glory of God.” Throughout Scripture we can see a tedious balance of what some have called the “now,” and the “not yet.” We are a part of the Kingdom of God today, carrying out God’s work in his world—in the ever present “now.” At the same time, we await the coming of the Kingdom—the day when Scripture says, “every knee shall bow and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.”—the “not yet.”

I don’t know about you, but the “now” and the “not yet” seems to describe pretty accurately the dilemma in which we live and the precipice upon which sometimes walk. Our rejoicing today is a mere hope of the coming Kingdom. In this way, our joy—our rejoicing—can become a kind of symbol, signifying that object of our joy—the glory of God.

As we live in the now of God’s Kingdom and anticipate the “not yet” of the Kingdom to come, once again, the story of God’s work with his people helps us know what to expect. We can expect to taste the bitterness of suffering, to feel the sting of death. Many of you know this kind of life, many of you have experienced this kind of life, and many of you have walked with my family and with me through these kinds of experiences. While suffering is likely not our first choice, verses 3 and 4 seem to suggest a pathway to hope, a process by which we can grow to “rejoice in the hope of the glory of God.” Oftentimes my prayer has been, “any other way but this way, Lord.” Still, the path unfolds as Scripture describes: “but we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; 4perseverance, character; and character, hope. 5And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us.”

Listen again to this series of words. Suffering produces perseverance. Perseverance produces character. Character produces hope. Hope does not disappoint. So simple, really—and yet so very many people are unable to make it to the last sentences in this series—Character produces hope. And, hope does not disappoint.

I would suggest that not only are we reconciled to God through the work of Christ—we can also be reconciled to ourselves. As we learn to persevere through suffering in order to build character and then be able to rejoice in the hope of the glory of God, we can live as people reconciled with themselves. I’m not sure about you, but for me this often seems more of a “not yet” reality than a “now” reality. But it surely is true—as we rejoice in the hope of the glory of God, things in our lives will change. My life has changed. Your lives have changed—we have experienced the work of the Spirit in our journey together. We no longer have to be wracked by the weight of addictions, or defeated by illness, paralyzed by fear, or immobilized by depression. Am I suggesting that as Christians we do not experience such states of being? Of course not. Far from it—instead, I am suggesting that these states of suffering may indeed bring about perseverance, and perseverance character, and character hope, which does not disappoint.

Perhaps my favorite writer in Christendom is Henri Nouwen. He wrote of “the wounded healer.” Jesus, the ultimate wounded healer, is our example. It is only as we walk through our own brokenness, through our own suffering, through our own reconciliation with God and with ourselves, that we can offer the hope of the glory of God to others. Oh, that we would live with authenticity, as people on a journey, as people who hurt, as people who feel, as people who need and depend. It certainly has been true for me—as I have become more reconciled with myself—as I have begun to live a more authentic life, I have encountered Jesus in a fresh way. So many of you have taught me, by example, what it means to truly follow Jesus. My prayer is that you might know him more and more.

Several weeks ago, just as Spring was beginning to blossom, I wrote the following entry in my journal:

Signs of spring abound. Thanks be to God. All through the winter, my life seemed to be slowly forming a prayer. Less with words than with groans and musings, this prayer seems to be the cry of my heart not just in winter, but throughout all of my seasons...Help me to create sacred space in my life, Lord. Space to be quiet, to be honest, to be pensive and contemplative, to be creative, and to be connected with you. And not the nebulous, ethereal, unknowable divine "you," but YOU--Jesus Christ, God Incarnate. You, who knows what it is like to be me, to hurt my hurts, to wake my sleeps, to dream my dreams, and to sing my songs. You, who gave your life so I could live. You, whom I used to know, and so desperately want to know again.Please, Lord Jesus, fortify and feed me with your body and blood. Father, hold me. Spirit, walk beside me and cleanse me in your soothing, peaceful waters. May I truly see it well, so that I might bring others to that place, so they might also see. Amen.

I really do believe that each of us has been given a calling—a task for which God has uniquely fitted each one of us. As I continue to work out my faith with what Scripture describes as “fear and trembling,” but to which I would add “excessive sweating of the palms,” I am coming to realize more and more my place in God’s Kingdom, or I should say, at least may place in the “now” of God’s Kingdom. God has called me to work with people, especially families and children, to be more reconciled with themselves. As I enter client’s homes and engage in their unique worlds, my prayer is that somehow I might be able to help them reconcile with the horrific and yet formative events that have happened in their lives. Families splitting up, children hurting, poverty infecting every area of life like some kind of virus…My prayer is that I might be able to offer my clients some sort of hope. My prayer is that as they learn to hope, learn to live with themselves, that they might encounter God.

And at least for me, my work with children and families has helped me to know Jesus in such a deeper way. Several years ago, as I left home to work in a church far away from here, a kind, dear, wise friend gave me a journal, and told me to keep a record of my journey. I am so thankful for her gift of remembrance. Another friend told me of how she often chooses a word for each year to guide her thoughts and prayers as she walks with Jesus. I do love words, really. So I shamelessly stole this idea, and have lived in some beautiful words in recent years. Words like redemption, healing, wholeness, rest, peace, sacrifice…My word for this year is “incarnation.”

In the Christian calendar often we think about the incarnation during the season of Advent. God incarnate, Jesus Christ, coming to live and move among us so that we might know reconciliation with God and experience true, vital life. My prayer is that as I work with people beaten down by life, that I might somehow show Jesus to them as I listen, as I advocate, as I encourage, and as I just sit with them. That they might come to know Jesus in a more full way just for having been with me. I don’t know that I often end up at this destination, but my prayer really is that the Lord might make me be for the world, the body of Christ, redeemed by his blood.

The end of tonight’s passage reviews our status as people reconciled with God. “6You see, at just the right time, when we were still powerless, Christ died for the ungodly. 7Very rarely will anyone die for a righteous man, though for a good man someone might possibly dare to die. 8But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.
9Since we have now been justified by his blood, how much more shall we be saved from God's wrath through him! 10For if, when we were God's enemies, we were reconciled to him through the death of his Son, how much more, having been reconciled, shall we be saved through his life! 11Not only is this so, but we also rejoice in God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have now received reconciliation.”

So, we can rejoice. We can know peace and assurance because we have been reconciled to God. Not only this, but we can live authentic, creative, vital lives, acknowledging the presence of suffering and proclaiming the hope of the coming Kingdom of God. But take note—our journey of reconciliation does not stop here. We must live as ministers of reconciliation to the world, to our families, to our co-workers, to those whom we serve. How else can they experience hope? We are the vessels by which God makes himself known. We are Nouwen’s “wounded healers.” May we live reconciled with God, with ourselves, and with others. May you be, and may I be for the world the body of Christ, redeemed by his blood.

Amen

My Winter Prayer

2006-04-13T13:24:00.000-04:00

Signs of spring abound. Thanks be to God. All through the winter, my life seemed to be slowly forming a prayer. Less with words than with groans and musings, this prayer seems to be the cry of my heart not just in winter, but throughout all of my seasons...

Help me to create sacred space in my life, Lord. Space to be quiet, to be honest, to be pensive and contemplative, to be creative, and to be connected with you. And not the nebulous, ethereal, unknowable divine "you," but YOU--Jesus Christ, God Incarnate. You, who knows what it is like to be me, to hurt my hurts, to wake my sleeps, to dream my dreams, and to sing my songs. You, who gave your life so I could live. You, whom I used to know, and so desperately want to know again.

Please, Lord Jesus, fortify and feed me with your body and blood. Father, hold me. Spirit, walk beside me and cleanse me in your soothing, peaceful waters. May I truly see it well, so that I might bring others to that place, so they might also see.
Amen.

Stories, Songs, and People

2005-02-16T23:45:00.000-05:00

I'm taking a class in narrative counseling, and so much of it is ringing true for me, and for what I hope to embody as I relate to people in my life. The importance of story is becoming more and more clear to me. Last night in class the prof made this statement: "The story only receives life when it is shared." As he said that, I scribbled the following...I don't know why poetry ramblings seem to be churning out faster and more frequently than anything else. Maybe my brain is tired since classes have started up again. I've never thought of myself as a poet. Still, anyway, for whatever its worth, here's the latest...

Life is story.
The story of history.
A history of memory.
memory layers...
Layers of living
the hermeneutic of life.

Loving is listening.
Hearing the music.
Music of living
melody, harmony...
Weaving together
love songs of the soul.

Arms linked together.
"Together" brings healing.
Healing for people,
shattered, splintered...
Edges are sanded
and pathways unfold.

written in class on 2/25/05
mge

Jottings for the Lenten Journey

2005-02-14T20:01:00.000-05:00

Ash Wednesday was last week, and I found myself scribbling down these lines following a mid-day chapel service. Not really any identifiable rhyme scheme, probably not very well constructed.. Still, I love words...So, here it is...

A wailing din wafts down the hill,
and floats above muted mourners.
Their king is dead, in an old pine box.
Is the treasury cutting corners?

Like a beggar, thief, or vagabond--
the king is stripped of honor.
No lords or ladies dancing here.
They yell and point their fingers.

The rough-hewn coffin creaks and groans.
The purple robe is tattered.
The gutteral grief of the rag-tag crowd
becomes a roar--then scatters.

Like a dissonant dirge, their graveside song
burns as ears are passing
Walking toward the funeral pyre,
faces downcast and ashen.

Posturing, hiding death from view.
The living have a ghostly pallor.
They slouch--limply, sadly, sweating,
and weep for their king--the fallen.

If they could glimpse the coming days,
when the wailing din will cease.
Their Lenten dirge meets modulation--
to Easter joy, the harmony of dreams.

written 2/9/05

rainy day thoughts for a new year

2005-01-04T18:25:00.000-05:00

Hello again...I haven't posted in a while, but I'm back now. Life would certainly seem easier in the new year if I thought that the time for tender humiliations had passed, but I will probably encounter more. It's likely that you will, too. There is more than poetry floating around in my head, I promise. But for now, I'll share a journal entry from a few months back. I was looking at the past year in retrospect, thinking about the journey--what I've learned, what was good, what hurt, and what it was for. Anyway, here's another of my musings...

Be sure to bank your game in this harsh economy.
If you never know your name, you'll never know quite how to be.
Your life will be your shame, thinking, "No one here is one like me."
Don't waste an ounce of pain--it might have to be your offering.

--journal entry. 10-19-04

Marks of a God-ward Life

2004-12-16T23:35:00.000-05:00

Several weeks ago in class I heard a phrase that seems to perpetually spin in my mind now: "Tender Humiliations." Hence the name of my new blog. The topic at hand was considering the marks of a God-ward life--humility, compassion, wisdom--all of those things to which we aspire. Then the question emerged..."How does God bring about in us 'poverty of spirit'?" How are we formed more and more into his image? Sometimes I wish there was another way. But I'm finding more and more that I am pointed toward God through tender humiliations.
Rhyming couplets probably aren't the highest form of poetic expression, but here is what just bubbled to the surface last week during my last week of classes. Let me know what you think. There's more to come, I promise.

Whose woods are these? I thought I knew...
Is it who I am? Is it what I do?
The woods are dark--that light is dim.
And my chance for escape seems awfully grim.
I'm longing for lushness and fragrant grass,
but I'm shredding my feet on shattered glass.
Searching in vain for even a tent,
it seems my endurance is waning. I'm spent.
The woodsman said, "Healing is down by the river."
But night's just beginning and I'm starting to shiver.
I don't want a map--that's no pot of gold...
Just find me and give me a hand to hold.