I happened upon a blog the other day where the author’s theme was, I’ll sum it up, “Lent, and celebrations like it, are the reason for American Christianity’s ineffectiveness.”  I found all sorts of things I wanted to say to the blogger, none of which I will share.  Instead I wrote the briefest story about the man, and am offering it to you today…

So It Goes…

“A construct of man,” wailed the man, who would have none of it.  Now, here I must pause to state the obvious in case you, dear reader, have missed it already: the wailing man, wailing about other men was himself, in fact a man.  This man would not move to the dancing music that played all about him.  Others danced according to the music that was piped, hammered and strummed in seemingly endless fashion from one end of the earth to the other.

Rather he damned the dancers for their dancing, deeming them “followers of pithy traditions.”  But the dancers heard him not as they called for him to join them in their movements.

The man could not hear their invitation, his ears having been frozen by the words that raced from him icy mouth, located much too close to his ears.  He was the sort of fellow who refused a winter’s cap and disbelieved those who propped themselves up as weathermen.  For the man, “Seasons were but a state-of-mind.”

The dancers clapped.

The man sat on his hands.

They wept.

He mocked them.

They rejoiced.

Ignored.

As Vonnegut said, “So it goes.”  As the man forfeited his option to participate.  His corpse was the rightest corpse in the morgue on the day of his passing.

The dancers wept.

For the man did never join

their ever-changing parade.

“Raca,” screamed the man from the here-after, “foolish dancers, I’ve proven thee all wrong.  It seems I was right this whole time, as I (how he did emphasize his “I’s”) am the only man present now.”  He was right.  He would never have to dance.  And finally the god-forsaken music was shut down.  He was right and alone.

In the dark of one Good Friday

All the dancers paused

With quietest invitation

Whispered from their tongues

Begging the world to cease from dancing

And for its heads to bow.

The music rests but for a second

resuming just after now.

I have but one tiny slice of advice to offer, a moral, if you will.  The music starts and it rests.  Starts.  Rests.  Careful that you pay attention.  The brightest crescendo comes to a close.  The fool sings alone through crescendo’s wake.

Have a meaningful, grace-filled Good Friday, my friends.

It’s Thursday.  Maundy Thursday.  Maundy is from a Latin word meaning “mandate.”  Something about the celebration of this particular day is mandatory.

The footwashing. 

The Eucharist.

If the doctrines of Christianity hold true, we must accept that God himself washed the feet of his followers and that God himself served bread and wine to these same followers.  Even the guy he knew was going to greet him with a deadly kiss.  Even the guy who would spend the rest of the thin, night hours lying about his status as a follower of this God-made-flesh.

Mandatory.

God himself… God incarnate… the God-Man… makes imitation mandatory.  That part is not surprising.  All gods mandate likeness.  This God makes non-imitation forgivable and that is what sets him apart from the “would-be’s.”

He hears the cries of Hosanna – Save us now, Son of David… Save us now, King of Israel!  And he responded.  In the way only a God who was familiar with human suffering could “save us now.”  Liberating humanity from itself.  Liberating me from me through mandating two things on a Thursday evening, “Remember what you are going to experience over the next days, and and in your remembering, serve one another.”

A far-off god would never be so silly as to entrust men with now-clean feet to walk about the world serving bread and wine.  But a God who became a man, who knew these men, even the one who would turn him over, even the one who would cower before a girl in order to deny this God, he might understand the power of liberation.  A God who would invade history from outside history might save us all from “me,” from the false comfort of becoming our own god.

The first sin wasn’t taking a piece of fruit; it was striving for equality with God.  That is the importance of the flesh cloak taken up by God himself.  In the flesh he understood humanity’s grand brokenness, the “me-ness” central to human depravity.  He demonstrated life in a foreign manner.  He did not consider equality with God something to be grasped.

Wait.

He was God.  Even in his bodily form, still God.

And yet…

He taught humanity to live apart from the constant striving of one seeking god-status.  Apart from the cover-up that sets me just a fair shake higher, nearer God than you.  Hearing the Hosannas, he responded.

Save us now, God-made-flesh.

Recently I was having lunch with a couple of friends.  Conveniently, it was cold, so I was able to keep my cell phone in my coat pocket.  I say “conveniently” because my phone weighs about 3 pounds and is about the size of an encyclopedia.  Unfortunately it rang.  When I had wedged it out of my coat pocket and rested it upon my shoulder, one of my kinder friends (he happens to be a bit extroverted, by that I mean he requires constant public attention, a trait for which I love the man) blurts out into the restaurant, “What in the hell is that?”

I was talking on the phone while he was riding my slice of technology like a show pony.  I couldn’t even counter him, as I was attempting to be businesslike until I had hit the “end” button.  This button occasionally works, by-the-by.  “It’s a cellular telephone,” I reply, as I beat the thing on the table to end my call.  “You may have heard of them.  All the stars are carrying them nowadays.”

The friends that I was dining with were attempting to make me lust by letting me watch The Dark Knight on their cool, sleek iPhones.  And, “Check out this video on YouTube.”  Now their little ploy to fuel my desire for a phone that I can actually lift was working quite well.  I probably deserve one.  Right?

My phone used to have the word “Cingular” on it, until ear grease and hair product finally ate it away.  It used to be silver, but now it is grey and even white in some spots, a little bit like a wireless leopard.  It used to have a brilliant blue screen which boasted of it’s capacity to run Windows.  The screen is currently a translucent cornflower blue.  Sometimes, if you call me, it rings.  Other times it just makes a lamenting noise to indicate that I have voicemail.  This is my phone’s way of quoting Monty Python – “I’m not dead yet!”

I prefer to think of my antique phone as simply “practicing lent.”  It has given up many of it’s feature, but it’s 50/50 incoming ring ratio is about right for my telephone tastes any ways.

Of course if I paid more attention to TV, I’d know better than to carry this piece of garbage around.  Phones are the new cars, as far as advertising goes.  Remember when vehicles were purposed to matriculate humans from one place to a desired destination?  When the VW Beetle was reintroduced, do you remember what it had a space for on the dashboard?  It had a freaking flower vase.  “This car comes with a garden.”  We all know how necessary it is to travel with living produce!

Likewise, phones were once a way to contact friends without using a stamp.  Now one must have a buttonless phone; either an iPhone, or its look-alike, or a tiny little sliding deal about the size of a Pez dispenser, minus the cool cartoon head.  These phones must take brilliant photos and allow the owner to bring his or her personal movie theater onto an airplane.  Listen, phone manufacturers, when your devices can make popcorn with extra butter, I’ll bite!

Well, Madison Avenue, I’ll have none of it!  I’ll ring up people on my old cell phone until all the incoming voices sound like the falling-duck ringtone (2 years ago this ringtone sounded like a roaring guitar).

Fortunately for us, we are more than consumers and stimulators of the slumping economy.  We are more than purveyors of changing technology.  There is a Proverb that states: “A good man leaves an inheritance for his children’s children, but the sinner’s (the Hebrew here implies, “those who practice envy while watching movies on another man’s iPhone) wealth is laid up for the righteous.”  Here’s the Lenten Cell Phone Theological Moment: You don’t need a phone that doubles as a back-massager.  Period.  And feel free to ignore incoming calls that might tell you otherwise.

For more on “stuff we need” watch, The Story of Stuff.

god in times of economic crises…

(Idealistic Satire warning…)

Let’s start in the beginning.  In the beginning God created the heavens and the Earth, and then he said it was good.  Throughout history, all cultures have had some kind of god.  Farmers farmed.  Hunters hunted.  Gatherers gathered.  The success of or failure of these endeavors were largely pinned on a god or a collection of thereof.  A good crop equaled a happy god.  Bad hunts revealed the anger of god.  Here’s an easy way to think about it: “The success of my work is not entirely in my hands.  I do my part, but someone else is ultimately responsible for my well-being.”

Someone then thought, “I’m going to go have a look at the god or God or goddess (whatever the case may be).  I’m going to build a very high tower to peer into his bedroom.  Wanna help?”  This sounded like a neat idea, so naturally, there was much community support for the project.  Unfortunately these efforts were confused.  It was as if people were speaking other languages, and the community effort lost traction.

When the tower idea went south there was no proof of god.  Without proof of this god, someone had to step in to speak for him.  Sometimes world leaders communicated their godliness, there were sons of Ra and sons of Zeus and many other sons of many other gods (AKA: governments).

Other people were so frustrated they just said in their hearts, “There is no God.”  These people were thought wise.  Ultimately they became responsible for themselves.  And they developed intricate systems of accountability, too complicated for most to understand.  But they wore the finest suits of linen so they seemed quite credible (AKA: corporations).

Now both the god-substitutes and the god-free needed some leverage to grow their team.  They talked about getting the right people on the bus.  Naturally signs were hung on all the buses, bidding all to come.  The subs for god wrote long written documents to advance their campaigns.  The other group simply abbreviated the names of their organizations, chose a symbol (perhaps a lion or a bull) and a very powerful color to represent them. (AKA: advertising)

Those who chose to believe in the sons of god, the god-subs, studied their documents with precision so they could win arguments against other people who believed in other sons of other gods who were clearly not real.  Sometimes there was bloodshed in these arguments, unfortunate, but necessary.

Those without a god, the god-free, compared numbers with decimal points in them down to 1/1000 of a percent.  But the colors were brilliant!  The competition made people feel alive, but some of the losers were killed during the competition.  Death is a sad side-effect losers sometimes exhibit.  No matter, they did not believe in god, nor afterlife anyhow.  The majority of the deceased were not the ones with the suits.  They were people who were trying to buy a suit.

For all their squabbling, the sons of god and the godless both still needed the support of their fans.  Both groups experimented with different motivators.  They tried candy.  They tried happiness.  They tried fashion.  All worked with varying degrees of success.  Both groups soon discovered the most consistent motivator was fear.

So the two major groups subdivided according to what best frightened their opponents.  The sons of god had radio shows and news networks and a list of things to talk about.  There were also lists of things to call people who followed another kind of god other than the one they followed.  The best names were one’s used by discredited sons of god from Germany and the former USSR.  The names made people quite fearful of one another.

The godless resorted to even cheaper tactics, telling their followers they needed more stuff or they might not survive in this dog-eat-dog world.  So they sent out cards with play-money in them so their followers could get more of the things they were told they needed to survive.  If they did not use the play-money, they would not get a linen suit.  At least not at an acceptable pace.

Following one significant clash of the sons of god, lots of people were dead, even more were hungry.  The godless suggested to the sons of god, that they hang out a little bit to try to figure this out.  This made lots of people happy.  The godless and the sons of god started sneaking around together and making out at movies.  Some thought it was pretty disgusting, but others found it pretty interesting.  They had a very needy baby, who demanded all kinds of stuff, playing one parent against the other (AKA: lobbyist and special interests).

Now there was a small and insignificant group who didn’t accept the theories and literature of the god-substitutes or the god-free.  It seemed this group did not have any fear.  They didn’t fear other people regardless of what they looked like or what god they followed.  It didn’t matter too much to this group that they didn’t have all the best stuff that was “necessary to survive.”

This third group was extraordinarily nice to each other, and quite often to their enemies.  Though they had not perfected either of these ideals, they kept working at it.  Everyone else thought they were suckers, and that they’d definitely finish last.  But the third group wasn’t playing.  Now sometimes they said hurtful things like, “That guy isn’t really a son of god at all.”  And, “We kind think your bus ads are deceptive.”  They also sometimes asserted that the fornication between the god-substitutes and the god-free was wrong, and that their baby was super ugly.  Even though they had opinions, they refused to play the game.

Group three was asked for their coat, they gave their shirts too.  A god-substitute whacked one of them on the head; he turned to the god-free and offered him a whack too.  Sometimes they took other people’s shoes and walked around in them, frequently for distances of 2 or more miles.  They kept insisting that there was a bigger god who was hidden by the fancy systems of the other two groups, who had been forgotten since the tower building project sputtered to an end.  Most of the time they insisted this in a friendly, personal and engaging manner, though some of them advertised on buses, before coming to their senses.

Turns out both the god-substitutes and the god-free were right.  The third group lost the game and their opportunity to acquire the whole world.  Some God, however, has been collecting their souls.  Rumor has it, the third group gets to keep their own souls.  Currently, the god-substitute group is debating whether or not this is true.  Meanwhile the god-free group is busy collecting all of the late-third group’s belongings for market.

As I do not currently have an official job, the idea of  being “too busy” is both fantasy and reality.  I mean, I’m plenty busy; I have a couple little jobs, lots of responsibilities and some ideas that I’m pursuing.  Having no job is a very interesting experience.  It makes everything seem like work.  This surely isn’t something that I imagined to be true before I landed on the downside of our economic situation.  So I guess I am saying that I wish I were busier in a certain respect.

On the other hand, being without a job forces one to find out who they really are.  You cannot hide behind a title.  It was easy to describe the purpose of my life when I was being paid to pastor people.  Ryan = pastor.  I think men probably wrestle with this “identity = job” thing more so than women, but I may be wrong.

Here’s what I’ve learned through this time: Ryan = pastor, it’s true.  Not because I have a job, but the thing that I can’t stop doing is moving people toward the cross.  Pastor is probably the wrong word.  Most of them are warm and fuzzy.  I’m kind of prickly.  Most pastors attempt to make people feel better about themselves, while I find that method often ineffective.  I’ll attempt to explain.

There is a certain false safety that exists when we attempt to move ourselves toward God.  It feels good, but that idea begins with self as the key component.  God, at Jesus’ baptism in Mark’s Gospel, is described as “tearing” (schizo – Greek) through the heavens.  God interrupts.  Someone described it as all heaven breaking loose.  Rather than beginning with self, we must start with a bigger, truer, longer existing reality, who happens to be here whether we like it or not.  Thereby God is the key component, who simply extends an opportunity for humans to be grateful.  We call this gratefulness – worship.

A motivational poster says, “Character is who you are when no one’s looking.”  It could say, “when no one is paying you.”  As the “too busy” week comes to a close, I hope you’ve discovered something about the nature of God and how you relate to him apart from your accomplishments.

Sorry for the personal nature of this post.  I thought it might help someone out there in reader land.  I will post on this week’s topic later in the day.

Grace.

There are some daylilies jamming their way through the final layer of the Earth’s crust in my backyard.  I once heard some advice that asked me to – “Consider them.”  So I did.

These are some of the things I was told I must consider:

photo by Janet Powell at www.earthhealing.info

1. How they grow…
2. What they do for a living…
3. How fancy they are…
4. How they burn…

From what I can tell, they grow with very little maintenance, like weeds really.  My dog routinely urinates on them, which is not very helpful to the rest of the yard, yet these lilies don’t seem to mind too much.  I first notice them when they appear to be tiny, purple alien heads trying to gain a peak around my yard.  The purple thing turns white after a few days of spying, which later becomes a collection of tender green chutes.  Before long some of them have stems nearly as long as I am tall.  Alright, I’m impressed by “how they grow.”

However they serve no real purpose.  They are worthless freeloaders.  Jobless, they neither toil nor spin.  I’ve acquired a pinwheel via my 4 year-old daughter.  She is a magnificent collector of things with a wonderful capacity for inventorying her stuff should I accidentally “misplace” (see: discard) something she has collected.  This contraption spins its proverbial butt off; much more productive, I daresay, than the lazy lilies, which definitely do not spin.  Some claim a few of their ancestors sat for Georgia O’Keeffe, to which I replied, “Sat is not a job.”

Having considered them to a lesser extent last year, I know that soon they will become enormously fancy, more G-L-A-M-OR-OUS than, say, Fergie.  More flamboyant than the boys on Queer Eye.  Even more beautiful than Solomon, whom I contend, is an odd choice of simile.  He was supposed to be wise; and I’ve learned on TV that smart does not equal pretty. Their blooming season is a bit short for my taste.  I wish they’d stick around for another month.

I grabbed a few of the dried brown stocks from last year’s showing.  I wringed them into one lily-log and struck a match.  I wasn’t even done considering how they burn and my fire was nowhere to be found. I had to light some other things on fire just to finish my consideration.

Let’s recap: they’re tough little suckers that require no coddling.  They grow fast.  They die young.  Then they burn hot and fast.

Oh and somewhere in the middle of this process they demand your attention by their stunning display of the color orange.  The lesson is, you’re quite a bit more important than the flowers along the roadside, yet they are somehow clothed in beauty.  If you’re more valuable than a weed-like flower, I imagine you’ll be alright.  You’ll have some clothing to wear today.  Tomorrow – eh, I figure it can worry about itself.  (Matt 6)

Who do you say that I am?

“Who do you say that I am?”  It’s a great question.  This famous Biblical exchange between Jesus and Peter is cited as the birth of the church by some, the installation of the first Pope by others.  I don’t think Jesus was fishing for a compliment.  Regardless, Peter’s answer seems to excite Jesus’ sense of enthusiasm, like a teacher whose class has just advanced miraculously into the next area of study.

Though this question is asked by and about the Messiah, I wonder what might have happened had Peter answered and then asked back, “Okay, now who do you say that I am?”  Maybe Jesus offered just such a statement by calling him Cephas (rock or stone).

I don’t know why, but it seems the last thing I’ve done becomes who I am for the moment.  Anyone else?  Charitable donations make me equal to Mother Theresa, while some shred of falsehood, renders me an AIG executive, trying to cover up my payout.

I am what I do.  Or at least I think I am.  Descartes thought, therefore he was.  A carpenter saws therefore he is.  A housewife, cleans and cooks and disciplines, therefore she is.  A lobbyist bribes, a thief steals, a vacuum salesman sucks, therefore they are.  You get the idea.  So what’s the problem?  We are what we do, right?

But what if we’re more than a collection of our actions?  Being busy isn’t a horrible thing.  It is often quite healthy.  Too busy though, and we tend to forget who we ARE and instead define ourselves according to what we DO.  Of course the most fortunate of us do things that are an extension of who we are.  Even so, the temptation is to define one’s self by what they produce, rather than the reservoir of out of which that production flows.

You must own this book. Click the photo to order.

Philip Yancey quotes Brennan Manning talking about the Apostle John, he says, “If John were to be asked, ‘What’s your primary identity in life?’ he would not reply, ‘I am a disciple, an apostle, an evangelist author of one of the four gospels,’ but rather, ‘I am the one Jesus loves.’”

Of course being adisciple, apostle, evangelist and author is quite a collection of accomplishments.  But this collection of lesser titles hinge on the larger.  They are only true if the boldest  statement holds fast.  “I am loved by the God of the universe, therefore I am.”

In light of this reality all of the production, accolades and advancements fall quite silent.