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soul - ache - ideas, sounds and images between the already and the not-yet

the worth of a life (thoughts on loving mercy and the death penalty)



My mom called me on my cell-phone. She sounded concerned, but steady. 

"I'm okay, we're all okay. I don't know if it's on the news or anything yet, but there's been some kind of a shooting here at the courthouse. [our bailiff] has us secured in the Judge's chambers, but we don't really know what's happened."

I didn't really know what to think. Truthfully, Mom had called two or three times before when there had been a "suspicious bag" on the courthouse steps, or other various threats. I knew there were enough random acts of violence in Atlanta that I honestly figured it was a jealous spouse, or someone who had probably opened fire in a courtroom, but probably hadn't wounded anyone.

Then I turned the news on. Details slowly started to come out. It became clear they were looking for a man named Brian Nichols, that me may/may not be in the Underground parking deck. Mom got home at 9:30 that night, after her vehicle was checked, along with countless others. There was an ensuing manhunt, kidnapping and stand-off, which was well-chronicled and featured on Oprah.

In total, he killed 4 people--3 of them in the courthouse, and one federal agent who could just have easily been a random stranger, as he was serving in no official capacity. Then there were kidnapping charges in the stand-off. 

Nichols was sentenced this past Saturday, and it's taken me awhile to pull all my thoughts together and write this. I remember last week listening to NPR as they said that the jury was deadlocked 9-3 in favor of giving him the death penalty. They requested a controversial piece of evidence in which Nichols voice could be heard during a prison phone-call. WABE played the clip and I heard his voice saying "Yeah, I'm glad I did it. If I had it to do over again, I'd stop on the third floor and kill some other (expletive)"

I've been to Mom's office two, maybe three times. I couldn't remember what floor it was on. For a moment I thought "Oh my God! Are they on the third floor?" And I realized in that moment, whether she was or wasn't, it didn't matter. This was a man saying he would kill indiscriminately, which  meant, in no uncertain terms, that my mother, my father, my wife, my dog, my whoever--was a fair target.

And in that moment, thought met with practice. I am against capital punishment. I could say more about this, and why I believe it to be not only a tenable position, but the only appropriate Christian position, but I don't think that's the point here. The reality is for a split-second, I didn't want to be against it. I thought "If this guy killed my mom, I'd want him dead."

I knew I couldn't stay there. I knew blood-lust wouldn't make it any better, and I am well aware of the stories of victim's families who say that no matter the lethal injection, electric chair or firing squad, the nightmares and fear are still there. Loss and trauma always leaves a ghost that doesn't fade with the death of the perpetrator. I had to mentally go through the process within myself as if it had been her, and not Judge Barnes, and the court reporter, and the deputy and the federal agent.

My mom and I do not agree on this issue. We both mourned Saturday morning when it was announced that the jury was deadlocked and that Nichols would serve almost 800 years in prison, 400 of them without the chance of parole. She mourned for the community she is a part of, which was, and still is, traumatized. Mine came a little later.

I was at the computer Saturday morning checking e-mail when I heard the top-of-the-hour headlines. The audio was crystal clear, coming from the wife of the murdered agent. "I am very disappointed. He was shown mercy but he did not show mercy." And I grieved.

I heard there are those trying to change the Georgia laws on death penalty to require a majority ruling instead of a unanimous one. And i grieved.

Jen keeps telling me something she learned earlier in the year when preparing to speak to our youth from Micah 6:8. The text says "love mercy." Not "show mercy", or "practice mercy", but "love mercy."

I want to love mercy, but I sincerely believe I can't do that by calling for the death of another human being.

I want to preserve life, but that means all life, not just unborn babies.

I want to show mercy because I've been shown mercy.

I don't want what I deserve, so I can't want what I feel another deserves.

I would want him dead if he killed my mom, but I couldn't do that and still love mercy.

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Filed under  //   death penalty   justice   mercy   sanctity of life  
Posted December 17, 2008
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mary's song (or "mary holy, mary, lowly")

And Mary said: 
   "My soul glorifies the Lord 
    47and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, 
 48for he has been mindful 
      of the humble state of his servant. 
   From now on all generations will call me blessed, 
    49for the Mighty One has done great things for me— 
      holy is his name. 
 50His mercy extends to those who fear him, 
      from generation to generation. 
 51He has performed mighty deeds with his arm; 
      he has scattered those who are proud in their inmost thoughts. 
 52He has brought down rulers from their thrones 
      but has lifted up the humble. 
 53He has filled the hungry with good things 
      but has sent the rich away empty. 

Somewhere over the years I lost sight of the "humble nature" of Mary, the servant Mother of Jesus. Maybe it's the Magnificat, or all the Renaissance pictures with a haloed middle-aged mom holding a cherubic, well-mannered baby God/boy.

I knew it was pink candle Sunday this past third Sunday of Advent. I knew the Magnificat would be the reading and I knew what it said...until verse 53.

"He has filled the hungry with good things, but has sent the rich away empty."

Suddenly it all came crashing back like a train. When I was young I heard this song by Ken Medema called "Hush Missus Teenage Mary". It was like a splatter of paint thinner across all those frou-frou Renaissance pictures. The only thing left was the tight embrace of a mother, with a look of thirteen-year-old fear.

I remember being somewhere a few years ago and watching the thirteen year-old daughter of a couple hold their newly adopted child, a small African-American baby girl who was out cold. The girl held her tightly in her her arms and something in my brain tagged that mental picture "Madonna and Child."

Thirteen year old girls are in love with the Jonas Brothers. They giggle and talk about boys. Mary was probably thirteen, sixteen at the oldest. 

She wasn't best, first, or prettiest. She wasn't the progeny of political power, there was no great dowry to be had. She was just a girl, and probably one scared out of her mind.

But she knew enough of the story to know that's the kind of people God uses. Freaks and frightened teenagers, the downcast, oppressed, mistreated, abused. Sometime he even makes them carry the God-Man in their belly. 

And we call her "blessed." We don't call her the names the other thirteen-year old girls were calling her. We don't call her Joseph's Better-Half or JC's mom. 

We call her Mary.

We call her the Mother of God.

We call her Blessed.

We call her Joy.

Hush Missus Teenage Mary by Ken Medema  
(download)

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Filed under  //   advent   justice   mary   teenagers   the poor  
Posted December 16, 2008
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from exclusion to embrace (a story in three Acts during Advent)

prelude:


one:

She was just lying there. Between the Fulton County Courthouse and the Cathedral. Half on a giant concrete planter, the latter half on a makeshift ottoman of old blankets, clothes, bags and a shipping dolly.


I watched as one of our college students pulled a pair of gloves over her arthritic fingers. That's when I really stopped and looked at her. There were hats and hand-warmers, candy-bars and cookies to be passed out to the other people on the street, but when I saw her try again and again to open a water bottle, I asked her if I could help. Her top layer of protection--an old wool trenchcoat, covered by an ugly gray packing blanket--was spattered with shelter stew one of the other guys-turned-care-givers had brought to her. Her eyes looked barely human--dark as midnight, with noexpectation of dawn. She couldn't talk, but nodded in approval. She nursed the water bottle like an infant--her lips solidly around it, refusing to let so much as a drop go the way of the stew stains she wore. And I didn't know what to do. She nodded in approval and placed the water by her side. I put the cap back on it loosely and headed down the street to pass out the rest of our supplies.

We met other people along the way, but none stood out like her. I couldn't quit seeing her eyes, equal parts fear and resignation. By the time the ringleader of our distribution efforts pulled the Volvo-wagon up to the curb, I knew one of those big blankets had her name on it. I ran across the street to where the car was parked illegally. I knew she had to have something to give her some more warmth--that old packing blanket wasn't enough. Forgetting to look to see the cars coming I ran back across, realizing I had grabbed the biggest blanket left, but being struck by the irony of the wires running through. There's little place for electric blankets on the street.

I saw those eyes again, and I wondered what kind of monster I might look like to a woman lying helpless on a tree planter. I told her I brought her another blanket and she nodded gracefully. "My feet" she muttered. I folded a corner underneath her to the makeshift pallet. I spread the top out only to realize how little good it would do. I folded it under as best I could while she shifted her weight to help tuck herself in. Suddenly I was struck by the fact that in attempting to warm this woman, I had no option but to embrace her. Not a handshake or a pat on the back, but a full-on, "only for loved ones" embrace.

And I thought I was going to lose it. 

I don't know what kind of shape she's in. I felt powerless, impotent--all the things you feel when you just don't know what to do but you'd swear there's got to be more. There were people there to help her, I knew that--but it wasn't just their task--it felt like my task. And I can't quit thinking about her. 

two:

The young guy in the coat and jeans had a convincing story. A woman at the shelter a few blocks over was trying to get back to Virginia after coming to Atlanta for work, only to be scammed. All she needed was gas money. I was skeptical, but when he rolled up in an old Mustang with Virginia Plates, loaded to the gills with shopping bags and clothes, my skepticism lifted like a morning fog. She got out with a thick Colombian accent, matching the story he told us a half-hour before. She said all she needed was gas money and directions. She knew how to get home from I-64 East, that it took about 10 hours to get there, but that was it. We did some quick math and figured out 2-3 tanks of gas should get her there. 

I started thinking where the nearest gas station was, and whether or not I had the church credit-card on me. The other adult with us pulled out his wallet. While I was still trying to think how to get to the BP on Spring Street, he had counted off five twenties to hand to her. He put it in her hand and she nearly missed it. In a frenzy of tears and excitement, she grabbed him--the kind of big bear hug only a mother can give. She swore she would send it back when she could. She said she was alone and didn't know anyone in Atlanta, but she had a base there. I pulled out the cell-phone GPS and put "Virginia Beach, VA". She wrote the directions on the back of his executive business card. We went on to grab some lunch, wondering how far she would get--if she could make it home, if the directions were good, if that guy would try and take advantage of her or the money. There was no guarantee, but it felt right.

I was sitting the youth room yesterday morning when his wife came in. "That lady ya'll helped called him this morning. She made it. She's back in Virginia! She said she'll be okay, some friends are helping her and she wants to send the money back a little at a time." 

And I realized that  I had been a skeptic. Skeptics don't embrace.

three:

From my office-cave I pecked away at the keyboard, blissfully unaware of the tall man with the scraggly beard who had made his way into the church office. After a little while I picked up a few details. He was trying to get home to Kansas as soon as possible to see his wife and mother. Traveler's Aid had promised to pay half the bus ticket if he could come up with the other half. Our secretary called one of the deacons who was coming to the church anyway to hang the greens for Advent. He graciously took a cup of coffee, but looked antsy sitting in the church office.

When they called me to help with the lights on the tree I saw him gingerly unwrapping one of the large golden cross ornaments. There was a certain care he showed it--like it was some incredibly fragile ornament that could shatter at any moment. Meanwhile, the rest of the senior-adult set were hustling and bustling--fluffing old garlands and filling the oil lamps. One of our fearless septuagenarians lovingly grabbed his arm and said "I need your height!"

They commenced to decorating the tree, widows and wives, gray-haired candy-stripers and one tall grizzled stranger. When the task-master senior climbed the rickety ladder to work on the top of the tree, he braced the ladder. When it gave a shudder, he lifted his arms, ready to catch her and break her fall. For a split second it looked like an embrace.

This morning an envelope arrived. In it was a check for $100 and a simple note. "Thank you for helping my son. I don't have all of it, but I wanted to send you something to pay you back for helping him out."

epilogue:
Short of Jesus, I don't know any writer more influential to Jen and I then Miroslav Volf . There's a hundred quotes I could put here, including "exclusion and embrace", the title and subject of his first book, but this binds them all together.

"There are two commands which persist in the Scriptures--to have no strange gods, and to love the stranger."

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Filed under  //   advent   embracing the other   foy vance   homeless  
Posted December 15, 2008
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on the costs of gifts, things and discipleship (or Wal-Mart, furniture, and the Dan Kimball discussion)

In the fullness of a weakened economy low prices are a good thing. There are segments on morning shows about how to save $3,000 dollars a year by buying store brand groceries. Then there's the debate over legal-yet-ethically-questionable ways to make some extra cash, from selling hair to being the human lab-rat.

This is a good thing for most consumers, as Black Friday numbers seem to suggest, but I'm still struggling with whether or not that's a good thing for humanity.

There are rumors that "low-price leader" Wal-Mart will sell a $99 version of the iPhone starting 4 days after Christmas. All industry people deny this claim and said only that "Wal-Mart will feature the 3G iPhone for $197", a savings of $2 over the $199 price the iPhone is universally sold for. Which raises a question--"Why buy something anywhere else if you can always get it cheaper at Wal-Mart?"

 

Rewind to last night as Jen and I are reviewing the financing for some furniture we purchased. I looked at the interest rate and thought "I could do better than that." There were other financing options with the store, and more than a few other possibilities. The company we were working with is a subsidiary of AIG and may be sold at any moment to another bank, threatening the jobs of the people we've worked with at that company for the last five years. When I thought about their service, and the kindness they have shown us, I wasn't that torn up about paying a little more.

I think part of the problem is that in a lot of ways our economic system is predicated on always getting the lowest bottom line with little moral regard for the way it impacts the lives of other people. The key phrase in the paragraphs above is "When I thought about it." The truth is, we thought about it. We thought about the furniture we were buying, whether it was extravagant, unnnecessary. We set-out to "right the wrongs" we'd learned from our poorly constructed current furniture. It took a lot of thought and a lot of talking. 

We were at the New Baptist Covenant back in January when Tony Campolo spoke. Tony says a lot of good things, and it's tempting to rattle off a list of "Campolo-isms" anytime you're talking about the poor, the Church and the world at large. A good friend of ours ducked out of the session, saying "I've heard him a few times and I know what he's gonna say so I thought I'd check out of that one." I understood the temptation, but I was glad we stuck around. You can view the sermon in its' entirety below, and, in our current shopping-day count-down, I'd encourage you to check it out if you've got the time, but for the purpose of this post, check in at the 15 minute mark and you'll hear what I'm talking about.



He says something that was incredibly simple but still a "hard lesson". "'You're saying we have to question everything we buy!' and I'm saying 'OF COURSE! If you're a follower of Jesus, YES!" And that means we have to think about it, long and hard--everything we do. We can't go on a spree. I'd even go so far as to tell you that I'm starting to catch myself looking at the tag of a shirt and wondering what that factory in China, India, Bangladesh or Mexico looks like--and that is a lousy thing to do in the middle of this season--particularly when I'd much rather pay the 70% off price.

It's tempting to stop at goods, stuff, property, consumerism, but this thinking thing has to be holistic in some sense, and that brings me to this ongoing conversation initiated in the Out of Ur blog by Dan Kimball , which is a part of Leadership magazine.

Kimball is essentially asking whether or not the "missional" model of church does any better job of making genuine disciples than the "megachurch" model. There are hundreds of entries in the blogosphere about this idea, with varying reactions. (I'd recommend Julie Clawson and Erika Haub's responses as a primer).

To those reading this who aren't church geeks, the lingo break-down goes thusly--Which church is closer to what Jesus was really about? Smaller, tight-knit churches that are radically committed to their community or larger, "attractional" churches that have money/buildings/resources to put on a show and call the people to them. I don't think it's overstating the situation to say it's the difference between going to your local neighborhood playground with the rusty seesaw versus making the pilgrimage to Six Flags, Carowinds, etc.

I've been struggling with knowing how to respond to this conversation, but I'm struck by two great realities:

As said on Julie Clawson's blog "What you call people with is what you're calling them to." Apparently that's an old maxim I missed somewhere, but I think it's brilliant, and there is a sense of that in both the missional and attractional.

The second reality is "Of course there's more 'disciples' in a mega-church!" And I don't mean just numerically. If you adjust for disciple "inflation," the missional model would still get crushed. My point is I don't think that's a bad thing.

Taking a missional approach will always be the harder road because while grace is free, we'd still prefer it cheap. It is (and always will be) easier to join a church or a movement that asks purely existential questions.

If your church is near a shopping mall, chances are you will not find Christ speaking to you through the beggars on the street.

If your church has trolleys to run people to their cars, chances are you will not find tired feet to wash in Jesus' name

If your church doesn't cause you to think about your lifestyle because everyone at your church shares your lifestyle, you have not encountered the fullness of God's kingdom.

The missional model forces something more to the surface. It takes the challenges of Jesus seriously and it makes us question everything. 

Questions aren't easy. Living in tension is not easy, but it's what we're called to as "disciples." 

So we join churches slower. 

We think before we build. 

We talk before we buy.

We (this is tough for me) listen before we talk. 

Not because we have it all figured out, but precisely because we don't.

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Filed under  //   costs   dan kimball   discipleship   missional   wal-mart  
Posted December 10, 2008
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on defining neighbor (or shoeboxes and Samaritans, literally and figuratively)

This weekend was a marathon of sorts, moving from one activity to another. Saturday night I joined 15 other folks from church and we made our way to the Operation Christmas Child Processing Center on the southside of Atlanta, strangely enough, about 2 miles from where Jen grew up.

For the uninitiated, Operation Christmas Child is a ministry of Samaritan's Purse , a non-profit ministry founded by Franklin Graham, the most aesthetically similar child to Billy Graham. The idea is to take an average size shoe-box, fill it up with Christmas knick-knacks and goodies to send to a child overseas who has never, or at least rarely, received a Christmas present. Millions of boxes are sent to Ghana, Bulgaria, and the other ends of the earth. Then they go to a drop-off point, and ultimately a distribution center, hence my whereabouts in the latter hours of Saturday evening.

The logistics behind the thing are mind-boggling, particularly since over 80% of the workforce is volunteer labor. A lady across from me was from Arkansas, her church making the trip to work just two shifts at the center before making the 10-hour trek back home.

We were in the pre-sort line, where we supposed to examine the content of each box and look for a card or check that might contain the requested donation of $7 per box shipping fee, then rubber-band the box and artfully stack it on a palette of other boxes of like and un-like size. (This feat alone is impressive, and given the way myself and a fellow church-member were stacking, I instantly understood the whole Tower of Babel fascination--I was sad when they wouldn't let us make it more than 6 feet tall.)

It was not our job to remove "inappropriate items" though I wish it had been. There was no shortage of oddities, from a plastic American flag to toy soldiers and an action figure Jesus. I drew solace in knowing there was another well-oiled assembly line of volunteers ready to complete the task. After the first flashlight I saw, I immediately got excited---what if someone put a hand-crank LED flashlight in the box? That could do some real good for the child and his family? Which instantly sent me into a Willy Wonka Workshop of sustainability--flashlights and water purification tablets, seeds and-wait, no seeds through customs...I would have to think about this. Sewing kits? Shoes and sandals? The possibilities seemed endless, though I'm sure the kids would still prefer a few dollar-store toys and a coloring book or two.

About halfway through our shift (8ish) we were all told to stop what we were doing and hold a box. They said to think about the child receiving that box and to pray silently over it. Then the lady with the microphone told a disturbing story. She said there was a Russian boy named Arthur who received a shoe-box and was part of the "Shoe-box Club" that the national ministry had set-up as an after-school program. Arthur stayed for the club one afternoon, but went to a small school in Beslan in North Ossetia when it was seized by Chechen rebels. Arthur was among the 186 children killed in the massacre in 2004. She went on to say he had recently completed a page at the Shoe-box Club saying he knew Jesus and he knew he would live with Jesus in heaven.
She finished the story and, in the midst of a 250,000 square foot warehouse you could hear a pin drop. Sensing the awkwardness of the moment, she said something like "Arthur's in heaven with Jesus" then uttered the interrogative "Amen?", inspiring a round of half-hearted clapping before calling on another volunteer director to pray.

It was quiet because for a second the weight of it all came down to one child. There was an unease as people's theologies tried to catch up with their souls. Everyone tried to resist the implications a broken theology--the eternal fates of the other 185 children who may or may not have been in Shoe-box Club and who may or may-not have written about their faith. And I don't think a single person, in that moment, expected any of those other unnamed children to be anywhere other than where Arthur is. Which was ironic, in a way, because it seems to undermine the nature of the evangelistic arm of the shoe-box. It was never uttered, but the brokenness of humanity and of our own theology was suddenly laid bare in a point of connection with another human being known only by his first name and the sense that maybe we don't have it all figured out. And that God must know the names of those other children too.

I had forgotten until recently that Jesus offers the story of the Good Samaritan as a response to a question. The question is "Who is my neighbor?" to which Jesus responds "A man was going from Jerusalem to Jericho..." For the preacher, the temptation is to use the Samaritan as a paper-doll of our own bigotry, to be adorned with whatever dress, means or lifestyle we malign. In my last post I referenced Martin Luther King's words on the topic. 

Good Samaritan by Martin Luther King, Jr.   
(download)


(whole sermon here)

The real answer that Jesus gives is "everyone is your neighbor." When the Pharisees and the legalists ask "To whom should we show this love you speak about?" Jesus says "Humanity."

As people created in God's image, on our best day, we know in the core of our being that we are connected to something greater. We know that the tragic death of Arthur comes from a culture of conflict and war that we are connected to, so we grieve. We can empathize with anyone, in any situation, regardless of language and cultural barriers. 

This is God's gift to us--that we might know and care for one another in the same way the Creator of all things cares for us. And we could lose it in this busy season if we're not careful.

Beneath the honking horns and angry eyes,
the furrowed brow and the up-turned smile,
may we see the spark of our Creator
who first loved us for love of neighbor.

 

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Filed under  //   compassion   martin luther king jr.   neighbor   samaritans  
Posted December 8, 2008
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on faith, consistency, and the price of oil (or "Choose [the American] Life")

***disclaimer: I am aware that on my best days I am a walking factory of contradictions and hypocrisy. That being said, i think when we're made aware of something, we have a responsibility to respond out of that wisdom. To modify Maya Angelou's words a bit, "When we know better we (ought to) do better." I'm still trying, as i think most of us are.***


I whipped my black SUV into the parking space with less than stellar results. I actually had gone too far past the space, so I had to turn a one-point turn into a three-pointer. It was on second point that I saw the car to my right.

   
Click here to download:
on_faith_consistency_and_the_p.zip (53 KB)


It was a Land Rover LR3, the replacement of the Discovery, and, once upon a time, my dream car. Running between $48,000-$52,000 it's above my pay grade, but it's still pretty to look at. What got my attention though were conflicting messages holding court on the back of this vehicle.

The license plate clearly says "Choose Life", a program in the State of Georgia which encourages adoption over abortion, which is something that I, as someone preparing to be a foster-to-adopt parent, think is a good thing. 

Then there's this bluish sticker in the lower left corner that read simply "Drill Here, Drill Now, Pay Less."

That's quite a sticker to have on a $50,000 vehicle that gets 17 miles per gallon on the highway, but 12 to get to the Pier 1 Imports we were parked in front of. 

Oil is under attack these days, and the failures of Detroit have been well-publicized in the last week or so. I don't know the owner of this vehicle, so much more conjecture is a dangerous thing, but I think the driver of that Land Rover passionately believes in the vitality of every human life. What I'm not sure about is whether or not they've thought it through.

Believing in the sanctity of human life is one thing, but asking whether or not there's blood in your tank is a whole 'nother deal. I don't mean just the raging debate over "the War", I mean any war/conflict/oppression. Historians have said that entire conflict in the Near East can be summed up in two words--religion and oil. And anywhere the oil industry has gone, conflict has followed close behind. It happened in Nigeria and in Venezuela.
While Daniel Day-Lewis' character Daniel Plainview in There Will Be Blood was fictional, the screenplay was based on Upton Sinclair's novel Oil! and differs only in the names of characters.

But it's not just our dependency, as the bumper sticker decries, it's our excess. It's the fact that the person with the Land Rover is outraged because they're spending $4 a gallon-over 30 cents a mile-to fill up something that does far more than move you from point A to point B.

I think more than that, it's the fact that there's nothing apparently wrong with this. There's no balance to it--pregnant teens should choose life, but that doesn't apply to the future generations who will inherit the scorched Earth. This isn't even to mention the island countries of the world who will be killed not by tsunamis or acts of nature, but by malnutrition and insufficient sources of clean drinking water. 

So yes, choose life, but which one? The un-born baby? The inmate on death-row? The third-world fisherman? Your great-great grandchild? The oil-man cut down by an AK-47? One life cannot be worth more than another, if all are made in God's image.

If we choose life--the deep, abundant life of the Spirit, then we have to let it change our habits and desires. Not, as Martin Luther King said, for fear of what will happen to us, but for fear of what will happen to our neighbor.

 

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Filed under  //   environment   faith   oil  
Posted December 5, 2008
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ch-ch-ch-changes (or observing the middle-schooler in its natural habitat)

This time yesterday I was pulling my stuff together to share the morning devotion at Palmer Middle School's Fellowship of Christian Students. I was running a little late and had to swing by the church to print off some transparencies. One of our youth was helping me out by leading a few worship songs. He called me at 8, the time we were supposed to get started. "Man, it's crazy. They're so small--I don't remember being this small."


There were 30 or so of them--in full adolescent glory. There was a group of somewhat hyperactive boys who barely looked like they were in fourth grade, much less sixth. An older group of 8th grade girls, who would otherwise be indistinguishable from early high-schoolers. I don't know if it's for the Bible Study or the free donuts, but either way they were there at 8 AM, an hour before school started, which is impressive for any teenager.

I just watched them and tried to imagine what was happening with each of them. I thought about how each of them were music stars or science stars, fashionistas and homemakers, builders and bankers. There was so much potential within them and they were blissfully unaware of it.

Most all of the changes that happen during this time get blamed on puberty and it's accompanying hormones, but if you watch a pack of them for any length of time, it's pretty clear that's like saying "Adulthood's all about your job." or "High school's only about getting your driver's license." It's true, but it's an incomplete picture.

Major faith transitions are happening and you can see it in their faces. There's questions, skepticism, the continuous nod of approval. The synapses are firing at a million miles a minute. The apathy that sets in in your second semester of high school is nowhere to be found. They're still kid-like enough to dream.

Most people say "middle-schooler" in a tone of voice normally reserved for the ankle-biting "terrible two's", including me. But, as I sat there and talked about the wide swath of disciples that followed Jesus, with all those different backgrounds and stories, I saw it reflected in the eyes of a bunch of 12-14 year olds. The kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.

 

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Filed under  //   changes   middle-schoolers   potential  
Posted December 5, 2008
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please just save me from this darkness (or "Anthony, Luther, and me")


When I was a kid my favorite movie was The Never-ending Story. The enemy in that movie wasn't a sadistic villain or a nefarious force. It was a brooding, stormy blackness simply called "the Nothing."

It's no secret that counselors and therapists are busier from Christmas through the winter months. There's all sorts of theories about the influences of the weather and seasons, not to mention the sobering reality of one less table setting at Christmas dinner, or the "multiple Christmases" to be celebrated amongst once-in-tact families. Somewhere between the trips to the mall and the tree-trimming, our emotions have a way of catching up to us. 

Last night I heard a friend speaking to a group of college students. He talked about the joy of Christmas, but shared stories from his childhood of how Christmas was a time of great emotional pain and darkness. I have to confess that hearing those words made me stare into the long, dark, night of my soul. It has a way of never leaving you--always lurking just beneath the surface. Even if you've gotten good counseling, moved on, put it behind you, it still comes back in cold, shadowy form, creeping up like a fog. If you've ever felt it, you know what I mean. It never completely leaves you.

I remember sitting in a church history class in seminary as we talked about St. Anthony, one of the "Desert Fathers" of the Church. He fled the vices of the city to live in the desert, alone and in communion with God, but he found the voices did not stop calling. His bouts with the demons were so famous that Athanasius, the fiery apologist who presided at the First Ecumenical Council, penned The Life of Anthony  making it one of the first Christian biographies. Anthony is immortalized by medieval artisans, from Schongauer's depiction above to the archetypal Hieronymus Bosch. These devils are the things of nightmares, but they represent the pain, the torture, the temptation, the seduction, the malaise, the miasma of darkness and isolation. 

Luther was afflicted with many of the same thoughts, frequently referring to the Anfechtung , a word that means (we think) trials or tribulations. The renowned poet and spiritual writer Kathleen Norris' latest work speaks to some of the same feelings, using the ancient Greek term acedia , which loosely translates as listlessness tending towards apathy. It is distinguishable from depression, though I think only in the way a blue-jay is from a cardinal--they are members of the same family and with generally the same role and purpose.

(There are clinical levels to all of these things and I am not meaning to suggest that those things should go unseen. If that's you, or someone comes to mind as you read this, please, get help now. Send me an e-mail, we'll track somebody down who can help-you can't do it alone.)

Make This Go On Forever by Snow Patrol  
(download)


I've always struggled with how to push back the darkness when it comes. There is a genuine sense that it would be best to just lay there and let the nothing-ness cover you. I think that's why the words of a Snow Patrol song always come back to me. It's not perfect, but it conveys a lot of the feelings that precede the acedic night of the soul. Even in the midst of the listlessness there's a sense that there was something real--"the final word of the final sentence you ever spoke to me was love"

And then, from the depths, a lilting piano with these words...

And I don't know where to look
 My words just break and melt
Please just save me from this darkness

I can't think of anything truer. We want to believe there's something that can pull us out. 

And that is when the Christ of presence comes. Not in deep existential tones or dramatic whirlwinds, but most often in the presence of another human being reaching out in love.

The writer Anne Lamott says "The most powerful sermon is two words, 'me too'." There is nothing in the world like another human being waiting with us in the darkness.

I was reminded of this yesterday as I read a poem a member of our church had written. I think her words more clearly articulate this idea than this whole post.

here
by Jonnia Smith

here
in your darkness
i will wait
with you

i will hold
your hand
and remind you
of the light
in reverent whispers

i will wipe
your tears
and softly sing
the lilting notes
of hope

here
in your darkness
i will wait
with you

it
does not
own you
it
never
did

 

 

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Filed under  //   anne lamott   church history   darkness   music  
Posted December 3, 2008
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on nostalgia and growth (after a hardcore screamo concert)

I was already having flashbacks.

It started with forgoing the adult bliss of the Starbucks four-dollar latte for the infinitely less expensive $1.29 Quik-Trip french vanilla cappuccino. I thought about it again when I crossed the crowded parking lot in a drizzling mist of rain, cappuccino in hand, my fleece pull-over keeping me warm on a cold post-Thanksgiving night. By the time I paid the admission fee, got my hand marked with the ubiquitous black Sharpie, it was down-right scary. 

The steel gym was slowly crowding with young teenagers, full of angst and bravado. You get the feeling looking at them that they think they could save the world, and for a minute you start to believe they could. The first band warmed up, and gave you the impression things might start on time. Those hopes were dashed when the waifish female singer said "I think that's good, thanks." to the flustered sound guy. The youth of America (or at least suburbia) kept filing in, each one with tighter jeans, snarkier t-shirts, more patterned neck wear than the last. 

One of our college students who showed up said "Dang, these kids are so much cooler than we were in high school. Every one of them looks like they just walked out of Urban Outfitters." I told him it reminded me of that Simpsons episode where Homer goes to Lollapalooza to get shot in the stomach with cannonballs. After the guest-star Smashing Pumpkins finish a song one guy says to another "Man, that song was good." His friend says "Seriously? or are you being ironic?" to which the friend replies "I don't even know anymore." Between the attempts at individuality, there was a sort of haze to this group, equal parts apathy, antipathy and purpose. Everyone seemed so existential. And that was the last straw.

I had been here before, and I was suddenly acutely aware of it. A flood of memories came back, mostly of traversing to tiny venues in old strip malls to see bands of a friend I knew, or a friend of a friend I knew, or the boyfriend of some girl I had once liked, but had asked me to come, so I did. Between the freezing gym, smell of french vanilla gas-station-a-chino, bad sound systems and screaming lead singers, I realized I had come full circle. I had done this same thing 14, 13, 12 years ago.

I, too, had been existential once. I had looked at the prospects of college, settling down, getting a job with benefits, starting a family. I had stared down the American dream and it looked like a great Abyss. My options were clear, either resign myself to malaise or commit to the reality of something much larger, much more significant.

I left memory lane when the keyboard player started talking. He said something like "We're all looking for something, for some purpose, something that says life is worth living. We've found that in the person of Jesus, and we'd be glad to talk to you about it." I was impressed. It was existential, appropriate, and above all, genuine. He kept talking about how heaven was good and hell was bad--really bad, in fact, and how he didn't want any of his friends to go there. He seemed to have a sense that he was saying too much, so he finished with a simple "If you're wondering about any of that, just come talk to one of us--we'd love to talk to you."

At light speed I was out of nostalgia mode, and back to minister mode--thinking how it started so good, but if he'd just left out the burning in eternal fire in the pit of hell stuff. I was thinking what I teach--that yes, eternity is indeed our divine exit strategy, but Jesus seemed far more concerned about the living of these days, and our faithfulness to him then. 

I said "Goodnight" to the parents of our youth who are in the band. She asked me how it sounded. "You couldn't really hear the vocals where we were standing." she said. I actually laughed. Out Loud. Because again I was instantly in the way back machine. I stopped laughing long enough to say "Yeah, you never hear vocals at these kinds of concerts!" I kept thinking about how familiar it all felt, but by the time we got to the Chinese restaurant, we were thinking and talking about what the guy had said--about what that message says about our faith and about our Jesus.

I got in the car with a belly full full of General Tso's and my mind still whirring. I put the iPod on shuffle, believing (as I want to think most people do) that God/Spirit/Fate/Destiny works through the "shuffle all songs" algorithm in the iPod.  I scrolled past more than a few songs until it lighted on this one.

The Freshmen by The Verve Pipe  
(download)

"When I was young I knew everything..." And instantly, I was back. My Ford Explorer felt mysteriously like my beloved 1985 Jeep Cherokee, the smell of French Vanilla still in the air. I would have sworn for a moment I could even smell the "Woods" cologne I once bathed in during my high school years.

I thought about the song, how it spoke to the vanity of youth, but also the hope and despair. I though about what I thought about back in those days--what the future would hold, who I would marry, and whether or not I had just met her at the concert. I thought about where I would go to seminary, how big of a church would I work at, how soon would I pastor a church. And they came back like a flood. I thought about how if I had played keyboard, I would have said something very similar to what that kid had said.

And then I thought about how far I'd come. How the me at 16 wouldn't recognize the me at 30. How the teenage me wouldn't allow the 30 year old me into his church. How we would vote differently, act differently, speak differently, believe differently, care differently. I wanted to think I'd made a bunch of progress, but by my 16-year old definitions of success, I am a miserable failure. 

The truth is, I don't feel like a miserable failure. I'm not saying I'm an unmitigated success either--there was no dance of joy for age and wisdom.

Maya Angelou uses small words to convey big ideas. She says something like "when you know better, you do better." I feel a lot of that. 

I feel like I'm doing better, loving better, learning more and more how to act like Jesus would really act.

Two weeks ago Jen and I were at my alma mater, the McAfee School of Theology (not where the 16 year-old me would have planned on going to seminary, I might add).

Loyd Allen is a professor with a painful habit of diagnosing and speaking truth, regardless of whether or not you find it to be comfortable. He relayed a simple message on growth that I had forgotten, or more likely, ignored (the 16 year-old me's bravado still shows up at points).

He said most folks send people to seminary to get "more of the same." "They expect you to come back and regurgitate things you've learned that are really just another level of depth of that which you already know". This is something like looking at an acorn, planting it and expecting to get a 20 pound acorn instead of the one pound acorn. The acorn can't stay an acorn, it has to grow to become a tree--and that means all kind of branching and stretching into new territories and ideas. "But the people who sent you here", said the bow-tied professor, "they don't understand that. You will come back and say I'm becoming a tree and they'll say (at which point he points severely and takes a dramatic step forward) 'We sent you to become a bigger acorn. That is not what we sent you there for--You have changed!'"

Somewhere between the Verve Pipe and Loyd Allen it all made some sense. This "growth" business we talk about in the life of faith has precious little to do with information and everything to do living the incarnation.

So I am learning I don't know everything, but I know some things.

I am learning that I can still grow and stretch and have the courage to tell people that is real growth, not girth.

I am learning that I can love and be loved (with or without "Woods" cologne).

I am learning the 45-year old me may not know what to make of the 30-year old me.

I am learning that I am not the same now as I was then, by the sheer grace of God alone.

And I am learning that it wasn't so bad to be there then, because even my most glaring moments of bad belief, thought and practice are part of the process.

I am learning that as long as I am breathing, I am growing, and as long as I am growing there is still hope.

Thanks be to God.

   
Click here to download:
on_nostalgia_and_growth_after_.zip (206 KB)

 

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Filed under  //   faith   growth   music   nostalgia   rock concerts  
Posted December 2, 2008
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on world AIDS day (or the power of twelve)

$3.29--Tall Latte at Starbucks today, $.05 of which will go to the Global Fund for AIDS


$5 a month--subscribes you to redwire.com a new digital music magazine that will send you new music from Coldplay, Sheryl Crow and others. You can copy, download, burn it as much as you want. $2.50 goes to the Global Fund for AIDS.

$12 a month pays for the two anti-retro-viral (ARV's) drugs that will keep one person with AIDS alive for one month.

I spend $12 a month on toiletries--soap, shaving cream and shampoo.

Twelve bucks. And you're changing the world--one life touching one life.

If you can, do it. If you can't, get a cup of coffee, or get some good new music. Get five of your friends to do it and you'll help one person.

Do it because Jesus said our salvation is bound up in the way we care for one another.

Do it because Paul said we don't really live until we know others are standing.

Do it because there are 33,000,000,000 lives to save .

Do it because 2,000,000 of them are children .

Do it because 5,000 men, women and children will die today from HIV/AIDS.

Do it to save one life.

Get informed, Give generously, Grow in love.

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Filed under  //   AIDS   compassion   giving   justice  
Posted December 1, 2008
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