Chapter 9 Out of this World, So to Speak

The morning was misty and miserable and heavy. Here it was mid-December, yet somehow it seemed all wrong. It felt more like the dark side of October, perhaps; after the leaves had fallen.

Just beyond and encircling me were trees and bare bushes and together they resembled death or some skeletal assembly. A few degrees colder, I thought, and a blanket of snow would christen this scene holy and pure. But the sun, even as it hid, regrettably left just enough warmth in its wake to render everything gray and clammy.

And oppressive.

I sat with my legs crossed in the middle of this haphazard circle and soon droplets of moisture were forming on my eyelashes. If I blinked, fake tears rolled down as random, miniature streams on my cheeks, breaching this stoic countenance of mine. It was still—so eerily still—like some code of silence had befallen this plot of land.

It was there that I was once again held captive by something dark and heinous, a serpent bent on removing this mustard seed as it rummaged to find fertile soil in me, way down in the depths of me. Sneering and hissing his lies, I trusted him, of course, as he constricted slowly to purvey a subtle, presumed and foregone conclusion that I am just a body; merely a man.

And because of that, my shell and my smile were always meant to be up against yours—and his and hers. Their skin, their ways; their charm and their warm disposition competing with this frigid display of a man. Or, on random days, vice versa.

You’re cute or maybe not; you’re shy or you’re brash. Pause for a moment while I size you up.

This one here is rich, that one not so much. He’s plain but she’s beautiful. Good thing he’s smart. He’s so damn smart and he always knows what’s next, ahead of everyone else and people like him make me feel stupid. Maybe you too.

Over there, look, she’s so stylish. And athletic. Put her over there in that section. With the other stylish and athletic ones.

Still another screams out: “Not me, I’m an artist, and I’ll paint and dance circles and weave my poetry in and around you.”

Defining me, defining you.

You can’t put on a pound, as hard as you try.

Try as I might, I’ll never lose this weight.

Let me carry a tune to you in this bucket for it will never reach my lips. You sing like an angel, and, well, I can’t.

When you look at a baby, it's just that: a body you can look at and touch. But the person who takes shape within is formed by something you can't see and touch - the Spirit - and becomes a living spirit. So don't be so surprised when I tell you that you have to be 'born from above' - out of this world, so to speak.

I strained my eyes to see and my ears to hear because the stillness was broken ever so slightly by this Word, and the low resonance of a distant cello was gliding over the hair on my arms.

Could it be that these talents and grand exteriors of ours must pale and die first? What skeletal assembly are we? Must we re-think what it means to be re-born, to be christened holy and pure?

I wondered, for there, just beneath entangled brown branches (the very ones holding me prisoner), I could see a lion and he somehow knew peace; in fact, a helpless lamb had just nestled its head into his mane. And next to this I saw a refugee clothed in stunning beauty and he was seated before a table of bounty. And near him, an orphan found love and security and hope. And a home. The sick and the lame and the last and the least were smiling at me from the fringe. All humanity previously cursed began to emerge and they were my equal there, by the light, and a bouquet of green and vivid color began to warm the edges of this cold, gray center.

If this is another world, albeit from my imagination, must I find it as a source of new life?

Knowing my refusal still, he cleared through the trees and he wanted to thrash me out of this cross legged, closed-off posture of humanity into some type of heavenly reality, because I just wasn't getting it.

You're not listening. Let me say it again. Unless a person submits to this original creation - the 'wind hovering over the water' creation, the invisible moving the visible, a baptism into a new life - it's not possible to enter God's kingdom.

It doesn’t even make sense to me, this spirit or wind, nor should I be expected to understand his terms, right? But there his Kingdom was, just beyond, invisible but yet oh so visible to me, and it was breathtaking in its simplicity.

And yes, I wanted to enter it.

Yet, I hesitated, for this body of mine is solid and I can touch it. But wait—it's not as good as his. My mind is nothing like hers. They’ve got it all together and so do you, while we're at it.

If I tell you things that are plain as the hand before your face and you don't believe me, what use is there in telling you of things you can't see, the things of God?

And every time it would begin to make sense, I could hear them disagreeing again, as if I was a child, and they were arguing and they thought I wasn’t listening. But I was. This personified evil, unrelenting, gave little ground as he whispered and taunted; how attractive, to rely on my wit, my charm, my privilege. My body.

Such that it is.

This is the crisis we're in: God-light streamed into the world, but men and women everywhere ran for the darkness. They went for the darkness because they were not really interested in pleasing God.

The day grew even darker then, midday no less, as if it had given up completely. The limbs and the thicket started to close in.

You know well enough how the wind blows this way and that. You hear it rustling through the trees, but you have no idea where it comes from or where it's headed next. That's the way it is with everyone 'born from above' by the wind of God, the Spirit of God.

I did hear it picking up then, and the cello began to deepen—not some discord, no, but of stroke and cadence.

This is how much God loved the world: He gave his Son, his one and only Son. And this is why: so that no one need be destroyed; by believing in him, anyone can have a whole and lasting life.

I do believe, I do! Out loud I shouted it.

His retreat was clumsy but swift, that of a snake wounded. And my body relaxed all at once. Branches and bushes previously entwined released their knots and more radiance overcame the gray. The lion stood and the lamb stretched lazily beneath him; and together they knew nothing of this world. And there I could imagine that peace prevailed and light persevered and there was no death, no hunger; nothing of the kind.

And it started to snow.

Passages in italics taken from The Gospel of John, Chapter 3 (The Message)

My Shameless Plea

Hey, it's that time of year. Gift giving and receiving and that sort of thing.

I hate doing this--you know, the whole salesman pitch (read this if you doubt me) BUT, if you should happen to need a last minute gift, please consider ordering a copy of So I Go Now (notice that convenient Amazon link nestled nicely to your right).

All of the proceeds (and I mean ALL of the proceeds) go to support The Reclamation Project, which is really a very worthy place for your money to go.

I promise.

My timing is probably not so good since my buddy RWK is coming out with his very own book, but hey, you can buy both of 'em! And the proceeds from the sale of Today at the Mission go to support a very worthy cause as well. You can buy his here.

It's a feel good gift giving thing all around.

Merry Christmas everyone! Thanks for letting me put my shameless plea out there.

The Power to Transform, Redux

With the holidays bearing down hard, it seems there's little time to write. This piece (from last year at this time) seems to reflect my current state, so I'm whipping it back up for another run.

Not much has changed anyway, except that Tucker is now enamored with a deflated football.


The Power to Transform

I wrestled this past weekend with extension cords and Christmas lights and the indoor and outdoor trees that would hold them. I helped unpack villages and hung ornaments and I listened to the right kind of holiday mood music while everything was made just so. I even set up a Nativity scene, on a counter, with a little tiny porcelain baby; one that, I suppose, was overshadowed and perhaps drowned out by the whole exercise.

So it was somewhat surreal, as you can imagine, while sitting outside on the front step, detangling yet another strand of lights (that I should have put away nicely the year before), to see him ride up, ever so strident and sudden, and low to the ground--helmet less and out of place, again, right here on my cul-de-sac. I dropped my clump of lights and ran to him, and embraced him, for it had been a while.

You might know the feeling.

The fragrance of him had turned to all of my favorite outdoor winter smells, of evergreen and frost and northern winds, and it was obviously a cold day, so I offered him some hot chocolate, and he accepted.

“This is a bit awkward,” I said to him, “that you’re showing up as I’m hanging all of these lights and ornaments on all of these bushes and a huge tree in my living room, life size and then some, and all I’ve got of you is nestled in a miniature Nativity scene.”

I said that maybe it should be the other way around, you know: a life size Nativity scene, and a miniature tree.

He smiled, and inspected my half-lit trees and he told me that he really does like the lights, and the color, and he especially likes the music, which makes sense given the whole inspirational art thing. I assumed that he was particularly fond of the old carols, as if there’s somehow more purity there.

He walked around the house with me, into the backyard, where I had accomplished the lighting of three huge evergreens. He played with Tucker and threw him the old ragged soccer ball that he loves to chase. He talked some more, mostly about how this season makes him feel, how love is encouraged and welcomed and how it has the power to transform, if only for a moment. If only for a month or two.

And speaking of love, he loves to tell a good story, above all one that fits the moment, as you probably know, and so he sat down with me and I could see his breath as he launched into one about Christmas trees and how he rides by quite a few of those hastily constructed, pre-cut tree lots and really, there’s not much you can do to beautify them; especially late at night, the trees just huddle together in darkness, dying a little, waiting for something, anything.

“But then,” he continued, “a family comes along out of nowhere and selects one, carries it out of the darkness, pays for it, calls it their own, brings it home and actually takes it inside their house, right into the center of their living room and they put lights on it and ornaments and garland. And they water it and care for it and they make it quite beautiful.”

He let that hang there, but he said it with such a passion that I got a little choked up. I suppose I had never really thought about it that way, but then I came to my senses and swallowed the lump down deep because he was just talking about a stupid tree.

Still, I assume he wanted me to see a picture, and so I let my imagination stroll down that lane and I considered that some people are dead or dying, huddled in the darkness, waiting for something, anything, and we should go and get them. And bring them into our house. And prolong their lives, I guess.

Of course this seasonal metaphor couldn’t last because it was colliding with too many other practical things, and fearing that I might be left sitting all alone with unanswered questions that were based upon my all too rational thoughts on a cold Saturday with a hopelessly tangled mess of lights in front of me, I asked:

“Yeah, but what about January 2nd, when it’s all over and its needles have fallen off and we strip the dead tree of its ornaments and throw it out on the curb and pretty soon it ends up in a wood chipper and becomes mulch by spring time? Huh? What about that?”

Once again, he looked me deep in the eyes and he paused for a moment, too long really, the kind that made me squirm a bit. Even Tucker seemed uncomfortable and he whimpered a little.

He explained that he doesn’t go about telling faulty stories, and maybe it’s my imagination that’s a bit tangled.

Chapter 8 As He Guides Us Through

There's a very busy intersection near my home which is generally passable during the summer months, but when the school year starts, it becomes a royal quagmire, due in no small part to the high school, junior high and two middle schools just down the way. Between parents and teachers and driving teenagers, there are so many stinkin’ cars in the morning that mere traffic lights are unable to prevent the inevitable bottleneck that ensues.

So, starting in late August, a local sheriff gets up very early, presumably leaves his warm bed and ventures out into the middle of this crazy intersection to direct traffic. He parks his squad car nearby, disables the useless lights and then, with great posture in the center of it all, he starts his motions and his pointing. Within moments the traffic is under control and it’s just natural to defer to him and trust him as he guides us through. When it’s light enough, he uses his hands, but on dark winter mornings, he has those bright orange glow sticks and he looks like that guy who waves in big planes at the airport.

The sheriff ultimately does this traffic dance for about an hour or so every school morning, and, as can be expected, the conditions are usually not so favorable. The weather can be brutal, but even more amazing is his ability to stand firm and un-phased in the midst of cars and trucks and school buses speeding past him, each one coming within inches of hitting him as he adeptly navigates us through.

Quite frankly, I'm not sure how he does it—so many vehicles are coming at him at once, each with the option of going straight, left or right, from two lanes in four directions. It's dizzying to comprehend let alone do.

Every morning, though, there he is. I happen to be one who turns left, and when I do, my face is quite near to his for just a split second, and I smile. Not a big cheesy smile, but one with pursed lips and perhaps a slight nod to say “thanks for your sacrifice.” And he smiles back. Now I know he’s probably being paid for this thankless job, but I can’t imagine it’s much, and really, it can’t be worth getting nearly tagged every morning by a bunch of distracted drivers who are putting on their make-up or fiddling with their electric shavers as they juggle their cell phones and yell at their kids for forgetting to do their homework.

Not that I would ever do that.

And, then, as if those people aren’t bad enough, there’s a woman who always ends up behind me and she has a mean ol’ German shepherd that barks incessantly and lunges out from the back seat window and I swear one of these days that dog is gonna bite the nice sheriff or maybe swipe one of his glow sticks.

Anyhow, getting to my point, I suppose by now you've learned that I like to write about these little scenarios that I stumble across every day, the very ones you might also, so that collectively we’ll be reminded of a very real and living Savior.

Perhaps even One who ventures out into the middle of our busy intersections.

You see, life itself can become a royal quagmire for me, and it’s even more so now in the midst of this crazy holiday season. Sometimes I can't tell whether I'm coming or going and the mere traffic lights I’ve placed in my daily existence to somehow control the chaos—well, they're just not doing the trick and I'm kidding myself if I think they are.

And yet, this crazy holiday season is perhaps the best time to visualize an intersection turned bottleneck; one that was quite noticeable to a Father who sent His son to stand firm in the middle of these not so favorable conditions and forego himself for me and for you. This very Word knew that we weren’t quite cutting it on our own and so he left his rather warm existence and he got up and out, disabling our previously held notions of control. And he lives and dances in our midst every day—taking near hits, standing firm and un-phased as he endures lunges and taunts and jeers from unseen evil on our behalf, all to help us adeptly navigate this life, distracted as we are.

Perhaps it should be rather natural for us to thank him for his sacrifice. And trust him and defer to him each day as he guides us through.

I guess I say all of this so that the next time we collectively pass a sheriff or police officer or a crossing guard who is standing in the balance for us, making our commute just a little bit easier—maybe a smile will come when we think how close a certain Someone really is and how he took a thankless job on our behalf.

And who knows? We might just see a Harley parked nearby.

A Brief Interlude

I have a friend who writes for the Ossian Journal, a small paper from a town just south of Fort Wayne. She contributes under a column entitled "A View from the Cross-Road" and through it, she regularly has the opportunity to share her faith. I'm always intrigued by this, because for all of the joys that I experienced growing up in New Jersey (the Boss, the beach, the bagels), let me just say for the record--this sort of thing would never fly there. Got to love Indiana.

I'm always touched by what Peggy writes, but something about this latest piece really resonated with me. Perhaps I sensed she was speaking for me, or, maybe the simplicity of it all just hit me like a ton of bricks. Either way, I felt it was worth repeating here, as a brief interlude away from my wandering, rambling chapters.

I hope it blesses you as it did me.

A View From The Cross-Road
by Peggy Barnell

These Things I Know

The Christmas holiday always seems to put me in a reflective state of mind. In the middle of the hustle and bustle that comes with the season, there is for me, the desire to slow down and take stock, to assess the direction my life is headed and the person I have become. It's a natural thing, I think, as one year draws to a close and another begins. And it's a time to appreciate the basics that we sometimes take for granted - like family and friends and God's presence in our lives.

As I look back on twenty years of being a Christ-follower, I am thankful for the truths that He has illuminated for me, and for the tender mercy He has shown to me through the years. My hope is to never stop growing and maturing. But for the moment, I pause to consider a few of the things I have learned on my journey thus far.

I know that typically it is much easier to see God at work in our lives in hindsight, than it is to recognize His hand in our present circumstances. And He is too good to be interested in anything less than the entire and eternal perspective of our lives.

I know the Jesus of the bible is real. Life is no picnic. Following Jesus is sometimes difficult and painful, at other times it is pure joy - but it works for me, as well as for countless others. And I would not trade His presence in my life with anything else I could wish for.

I know God loves all people. He is not white or black or red or Baptist or Catholic or Republican or Democrat, or even American. We all study God through the eyes of our individual intellect, heritage and circumstance, but He is bigger than any of those factors. At times when I have believed I may have a little piece of God figured out, He rocks my world and reminds me in the process that He will blow the walls out of any boxed-in thinking that I might try to confine Him with.

I know Christmas is not merely a warm, fuzzy fable. The babe in the manger did not stay a baby. He grew into a strong man whose perfect life became the way for us to know God - and whose death and resurrection paved the way for our future in heaven.

I know that in nearly every situation, I have a choice in how I respond. And I know God is faithful to me even when I fail Him. I am so thankful for the mercy and patience He has shown to me throughout my life. I know that without Him, I would be lost.

Wishing you and yours a Merry Christmas and a blessed New Year. I pray that you know the peace that Jesus brings.

Isaiah 9: 6-7 For a child has been born - for us! The gift of a son - for us! He'll take over the running of the world. His name will be Amazing Counselor, Strong God, Eternal Father, Prince of Wholeness. His ruling authority will grow, and there'll be no limits to the wholeness he brings.

Chapter 7 Some Evaporating Filthy Puddle of a Mess ~ Part 2

Thankfully, I didn’t need to wallow in it for long. As these fiends were making merry, I cried out to Him in desperation. Then, all at once, the doors of this compromised bastion flew open from each side, the front and the back.

Now I don’t recall it being a windy morning, yet something quite unusual rushed by me in a fierce gust and it easily picked up the remaining filth on the theater’s floor. Gone was my little experiment, for everything was swept clean, even the filthy puddle.

Yet, but for this fresh wind, no one was present in the wake of it.

As I held my breath for a revealing, I was suddenly deafened by some ethereal shout. Still alone, I wondered if even this rock cried out.

Soon I heard those snickering bastards in the corners and they too were overcome; cockiness turned to whimpering—garbled cries of retreat and shame and weakness.

And then He walked in, the very One who grows neither weary nor jaded. I was overwhelmed by His Divinity—He approached me as a victor over these downward slopes and doubts, and certainly these demons. I stood dumbfounded, not knowing if I should run to Him or let Him continue His business on my behalf.

I made a wise choice to stay put. I watched as the very glare and blaze of Him seemed to inhabit every nook and cranny of this old porn palace. Feeble cries from the minions turned to horrid shrieks and pathetic mercy pleadings.

And then silence.

I fell to my knees as He turned toward me for truly He was and is the bright and morning star. In this form, as can be expected, all I could do was worship Him.

Glory in the highest!

Then, transforming into the man I've come to know, he lifted me to face him. It was over now and suddenly peaceful. He spoke calmly.

It just so happens, Jeff, that I am the final Word.

This Jesus of my day and my imagination cradled my face with his left hand, and with his right he firmly grasped my shoulder.

They know I am not one to be trifled with, but these snakes and scorpions will not relent against you nor against anyone who chooses to follow me. This is hazardous work, but it becomes infinitely more hazardous when you don’t realize and draw upon the Authority given you over this pervasive evil. You need to get that concept and never let it go.

I know this. I just need constant reminders. Maybe you do too. I need to feel it and imagine it and understand it—that with each battle and subsequent victory, Satan falls as a bolt of lightning from the sky, just like that ancient promise, which, I suppose, isn’t so ancient after all.

He could tell I was drifting. Tighter still he squeezed my shoulder.

Make sure the ones you serve are looking at a reflection of me when they look at you and not just you alone, for I will never fail them and my light will not dim. I will not become complacent nor indifferent. I will not grow cynical. I will not boast, for I know nothing of haughtiness. My passion will not falter nor dry up, for the source I draw upon is a living water. I will carry any and all burdens.

God, I needed this.

He turned to go, out the side door, out into some reality I should claim and know. He said one last thing, though, as he walked away.

There is a pristine path. Show them the trail I’ve blazed and let me do the rest.

Chapter 6 Some Evaporating Filthy Puddle of a Mess ~ Part 1

The space in the Rialto’s main theater is open and imposing, fully gray and altogether dirty, with dust accumulating in layers on the floor.

It’s Tuesday morning and I’m in the back, standing in the dark with my friend Joe. I put the cooler from Saturday’s work day on the floor and I open the little valve that lets the melted ice drain. The water rushes and surges out quickly because the floor has a gradual but steady downward slope, like most theaters do.

The work lights start to flicker on and we’re looking at the stream forming and pretty soon I announce that watching it has become the highlight of my day, even with the day still young. The course and rhythm of it is mesmerizing because it’s wandering the whole length of the concrete floor and there’s just enough light to reflect off of it as it forms tributaries and offshoots and meanders its way toward the vacant stage. With a clear mind of its own, it resembles quicksilver or some type of mercury experiment. Gliding like a snake and picking up dirt, it takes the path of least resistance in the grime and the stillness of the morning.

Before long, the cooler is empty, but this new creek in the middle of the theater’s floor still finds life as the end tries to catch up with the beginning, ultimately pooling near the bottom. And slowly the stream will dry, as time moves on, dwindling down to just a makeshift miniature pond. There it will evaporate by the Rialto's sunken pit, the very one where a man used to play a pipe organ in the days of Calvin Coolidge, before moving pictures had sound.

We eventually turn to go because the show is over now, and it’s just a filthy puddle really, even though it did render, at the very least, a clean path in its wake.

Truth be told, despite this highlight of my day, I feel like I’m in a bad place, my very own sunken pit, so this cooler-water-turned-old-porn-theater-creek may be serendipitous. You see, even this morning I wanted to venture into the open and imposing space of that big old theater and rush and surge at unseen demons that relentlessly taunt me. Their pressure seems almost unbearable these days, resulting in my gradual but steady downward slope toward indifference. And perhaps like what I've observed this morning, their hissing deception assures me that, while there may be a clean path in the wake I leave, ultimately, at the end of it, I’m just some evaporating filthy puddle of a mess.

So, my usual response is to fight back, on my own, swinging with fists of fury, as I’m wont to do, because I’m only human. I’m fully capable of picking a fight.

Show yourself! I’ll scream out to them. Cowards!

But my challenges and my goading won’t bring them into the light. They have no valor, nor the wherewithal to face me like a man. These minions are vile, sniveling, lying bastards who reek of brimstone.

And they much prefer to hide in the shadows.

From there they jeer and I guess I listen that maybe this faith and its required by-product of service and love has no choice but to reduce me and perhaps you into some dwindling, meandering conduits, some hapless victims of what we pick up and carry on behalf of needy others, reflecting not enough light as our passion dries up.

Then, they'll get me to boast. And rationalize. At the same time.

Look at everything I’ve done! When is it ever enough? Can I be done now?

As soon as it’s out there, they’ve won. Not only am I complacent toward what’s next, but I’m haughty and more than willing to point you instead to the trail I've blazed, the clean floor as evidence of what I’ve washed away.

The problem is, you're looking at me now. The pristine path I've highlighted for you leads right to me and you’re staring at me. But please don’t, because they've convinced me that I’m forever tainted, cynical and jaded to the core, some stagnant pool that's evidently been filled from a distant, empty source.

I hear them snickering in the corners now, apparently celebrating the highlight of their day.

Chapter 5 It Gets Me Every Time

"After all, I'm just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her."

Notting Hill, 1999

It just so happens that I love certain movie moments, perhaps even more than the movie itself. I’m a sucker for powerful, heartfelt scenes and even though I’ve seen a movie a dozen times, I’ll watch it again and again simply to get there.

Of course, the more moments for me, the better the movie. As if some part is greater than the whole. Or the sum of it. Or something like that.

So, with that said, Notting Hill rises and falls, I believe, on one particular moment where Julia Roberts’ character delivers that now famous line in a quiet book store to Hugh Grant’s love sick puppy of a character.

And it gets me every time.

This is likely everyone’s favorite scene in the movie, but for those of you who haven’t seen it, Roberts plays a beautiful American celebrity opposite Grant's quite normal and ordinary guy who lives a quiet life in London’s Notting Hill district. So, understandably, their on and off love affair throughout the film is mired in much messiness; to include, but not be limited to, some controversy, the ultimate cost of fame, exposure at the wrong time and the wrong place, and last, but certainly not least, a touch of scandal.

As I was watching this movie (again) last night, I was struck by the simplicity of this well-crafted, Hollywood movie moment. Here is a woman with all of the benefits of money, beauty and fame, yet with every bit of vulnerability she can muster, she admits that all she really wants is some average, run of the mill guy to love her.

This isn’t some new concept, and I know it's just a movie, but we’ve heard it time and time again. Everything, it would seem, is reduced to love.

I got to thinking (I realize this is a dangerous thing) and I imagined myself in Hugh Grant’s shoes, receiving that proposal from the lovely Ms. Roberts. Yet, for some odd reason, as lovely as she is, I envisioned myself right there with none other than Jesus himself, and he was simply asking me to love him.

Before you stop and think that’s too much of a leap for you, just give me a minute to work it out.

You see, what we think will make us happy and full and known and successful fails so completely when held up against the standard of giving and receiving love—love being a word which I believe in the verb and the noun is embodied in the risen Jesus, who just so happens to be very much alive in the here and now. So, setting aside the controversy and the exposure and the scandal of this religion that Jesus has become mired in, we have to ask ourselves: what is everything—or more appropriately—what is Jesus reduced to?

If it helps you to stick with our movie moment, then here goes: If all of a sudden you found yourself standing before this living Word in a quiet room, what do you think he’d say to you?

Well, of course it's OK for everyone to have their own thoughts on that, but we also know that Jesus said quite simply when we love the least of these, we are loving him. That's not up for argument. And the least of these can presumably take many forms, for example:

A refugee.

An AIDS victim.

A beggar.

A single mom.

A cancer patient.

A homeless man, woman or child.

But I think it's alright to take it a step further and realize that those who are the least are not always the typical down-and-outers. There are also those who are marginalized through a certain poverty that arises from an absence of love; those who are overlooked, or ignored, as a certain translation renders. They are somehow missing real love in their life, some void that Jesus would never think twice about filling up.

A prisoner.

A thief.

A prostitute.

A pastor who has compromised his reputation.

A bully.

A politician.

The list could go on and on because at the core of it, an absence of love toward any individual is what Jesus came to fix. That part to me, well, it’s really not rocket science. And so we must find those in our lives who desperately need love and therefore, sometimes unwittingly, stand in the balance for him until he returns— those very people who quite beautifully provide a face and a pulse and real skin and a body to receive and know love.

There they will stand, in a quiet room, with every bit of vulnerability they can muster, and they'll say:

After all, I’m just a human, standing in front of you, asking you to love me.

Everything boils down to love.

Oh sure, there will be some controversy, some cost of fame, maybe exposure at the wrong time and the wrong place. And last, but certainly not least, if you plan on loving these people, watch out for a touch of scandal. We all know that love can certainly be scandalous. But no matter how you get there, it’s always a powerful and heartfelt moment.

And it gets me every time.

Then the King will say, 'I'm telling the solemn truth: Whenever you did one of these things to someone overlooked or ignored, that was me - you did it to me.' (Matthew 25:40 The Message)

Chapter 4 Before He Gives You Legs

The air is thick in your room and it feels like you might still be asleep, maybe in some continuation of a nightmare, because you can't get out of bed. You can't move, period.

No, unfortunately, your eyes are open and you're very much awake and this thing holding you back is quite real; it pins you to the sheets and molds you into some contour of an existence you’ve always known.

Just like yesterday, and the day before, there are some who know what it is that cripples you, and so, they'll force your hand. Perhaps a call will do it this morning—a rousing, perky promise that the sun will shine today and it will pierce through every doubt that shrinks your body and your perception.

Day in and day out you hear from these companions and they remind you simply to live and to muddle through it. And they tell you they'll help you see it through to the other side.

But still, you know that the love of friends is merely a soothing balm—one that fills your cracked and bleeding skin; yet, all too quickly, it fades away.

True healing is always out of reach.

All the same, this morning, they come again. Hands attached to deliberate arms wedge in on every corner to find a grip of you. You’d fight them off if you had the strength, but it’s no use. Sure, they understand why you’re hesitant. Too many empty, unfulfilled promises have come and gone.

Still, they lift you up and out of bed, for this particular day bears a promise unlike any other. Soon your perspective is quite different as you’re carried outdoors. They've heard of unspeakable healing, and, knowing what's best for you, you're now being delivered with a steady purpose toward something.

Your friends look down at you and they smile in unison, for they know this is it.

Finally.

The journey starts to get a little bumpy and oddly enough, you’re being lifted up even higher as the voices around you start to intensify. You’re in a crowd of people and some others join in to boost you over a ledge. All you can see is open sky and bright blue. There’s talk of what to do next and some strange noises and maneuvering and all of a sudden you’re being lowered into a room. Some heated discussion is taking place there—you can hear it as you enter—but your mere presence hushes the crowd. You feel awkward, intrusive, and out of place. At this point, though, despite the embarrassment, you're willing to try anything because, really, what have you got to lose?

The uncomfortable silence lasts only for a moment. Somehow you’re not at all out of place when you finally lock your eyes with his and he’s the One you were meant to see. His face is kind and there’s a knowing familiarity with everything that’s been paralyzing you.

Desperately now, even though you’ve suffered with this for a lifetime, you can’t wait another moment for him to touch you and heal you. You’d reach up to him if you could, but of course, you can't. This man with the beautiful eyes pauses and studies you as the crowd waits in anticipation. He draws in your friends to huddle over you. He tells them that he’s overwhelmed by their boldness in seeking him out and their perseverance in finding a way through perceived barriers.

Then he kneels down to you, very closely now, and he tells you your sins are forgiven.

Whoa! You’re a little overwhelmed by his boldness, and his way of doing things, the order of it all, for surely this was more about the healing of your body and this thing that cripples you, day in and day out. But, instead he’s going straight for the jugular and some sin that lives within, that lies beneath, with your friends and every other conceivable person bearing witness to it all. A murmur of whispers spreads through the crowd for surely this man is doing the unthinkable.

Silencing them, he tells you to get up and walk now. And so you do! Just like that, with your loyal companions beside you and tears are in their eyes for this day has been a long time coming.

Your muscles are weak from not being used, and so you’ll need some help getting get back home and with the simple living of a normal, healthy life. Still, you can’t keep from rejoicing, for you’ve been healed through and through. You and those who would carry you boldly came and sought the company of the One who keeps his promises and touches you and reconciles you to him first before he gives you legs and feet to walk again. You smile as you embark on this new day, for others are watching and wondering how they too might walk free from the existence they've always known.

And so, indeed, the sun will shine today. And just like your friends promised, it will pierce through every doubt that shrinks your body and your perception.

Because true healing is never out of reach.

What Kind of Christian Are You?

While I'm trying to figure out the next few chapters of this latest volume, I thought I'd post a re-edited old piece with a new twist, one that I recently had the privilege of submitting for an upcoming newsletter with The Porpoise Diving Life (by the way, if you haven't had a chance to check out Bill's site, give it a look--some very interesting stuff going on there).

Anyhow, I hope you like this.

Peace ~

Jeff


A Pocketful of Mumbles

I am just a poor boy, though my story's seldom told;
I have squandered my resistance for a pocketful of mumbles, such are promises.

All lies and jest; still a man hears what he wants to hear,
And disregards the rest.

When I left my home and my family, I was no more than a boy;
In the company of strangers, in the quiet of the railway station, Runnin' scared, laying low; Seeking out the poorer quarters, where the ragged people go,

Looking for the places only they would know.

Li la li...

(The Boxer - Simon and Garfunkel)

Let me start off by saying that I’m a big fan of Simon and Garfunkel. Something about their music has always been incredibly soothing to me, so their CDs were usually nearby—especially on long road trips. Because of this, I’ve hidden away some fond mini-van memories of my four children, each of whom eventually became fans in their own right. Their favorite song was The Boxer. When it would come on, they would wave their hands in unison, just like they were at a concert—tiny arms swaying with the most beautiful motion and accord during the “li la li’s.”

OK, sure, I modeled it for them initially, but pretty soon afterward it became second nature to them. I’d look in the rear view mirror and there they’d be, strapped in their car seats with fingertips in the air, moving silently in rhythm as the orchestration reached its crescendo.

Now, the lyrics to The Boxer, while compelling, are in my opinion mostly sad, so I’d often get choked up at the climactic end when there was a whole gaggle of li la li’s. Eight arms would be in the air, attached to little people with faces that smiled in sweet unison. It was an incredible picture—a point of inspiration—where everything was in harmony (if only for a moment) and it would overwhelm me as I fought back tears. Music had calmed the beasts of childhood, with all of its infantile disagreements and squabbles over minutia and imaginary lines.

I struggle to even describe it adequately, without sounding too cheesy.

But that very struggle, cheesy or not, got me to thinking about something else. Who we are as Christians begs for something similar. Perhaps something that would collectively inspire a sustained moment where, despite sad lyrics, our arms could sway, childlike, in beautiful accord—cajoling this present Bride into unison beyond the customs of our own design.

I don’t mean to get cynical here, but could it be that something or maybe even a certain Someone would motivate and thrust us above the fray of society’s usual expectations? Could it possibly be that this Jesus we’ve previously claimed to follow might redefine Christianity as we know it?

If so, then this could get dicey. And dangerous. Actually envisioning a group of people whom the gravest of skeptics associate with Jesus alone? Even if that was attainable, could we ever truly hope to undo preconceived notions? What about the perceptions of pious pulpits and the people who fill them? Yes, even those good intentioned souls who have represented us as they’ve stepped gingerly onto pedestals; those pedestals that slowly evolved, mysteriously, into wholly righteous platforms.

Is the damage irreparably done?

Calling ourselves Christians in this day and age is a daunting concept. Over time, it seems we’ve squandered our resistance for a pocketful of mumbles, believing this notion that even though Jesus delivered a simple, non-judgmental message of love and forgiveness, even though he walked with the poor and the marginalized of ancient days—well, for contemporary, moral and exclusive Christians such as us, he came merely to punch our ticket for Heaven.

Such are promises.

All lies and jest, it’s not so hard to see how a man could hear what he wants to hear and disregard the rest.

And so, I just have to ask the question: Why would any Christian who claims to follow Jesus not model and lead others to do what he did on a regular basis? If I’m not mistaken, he was known for laying low and for seeking out the poorer quarters, where the ragged people go. He could usually be found looking for the places only they would know.

This was a man who traveled dusty roads with sandaled feet, choosing not to walk lightly upon pampered, favored floors, but to press flesh to earth with its grit and grime, to conquer pre-conceived notions of a pristine existence.

And so, our charge is much the same. We must learn—in fact we must train ourselves—as Christians to accept with grace our mission to redefine who we are. We must communicate that we’re not just about what’s happening on the inside of a church building where we typically gather. We must stop hiding behind agendas and platforms. Who we are is out there, where congregating brothers and sisters find incarnation at the street level.

If it helps you, then imagine it so.

Imagine not a long train on the Bride’s dress, laid nicely and quite perfectly on the scarlet runway by prim and proper bridesmaids who purse their lips and shush away latecomers as they shut the door. Envision instead an outdoor wedding and the billowing of a gown that swells and fills with a welcoming breeze; where the Bride has one arm strapped around the Groom's waist, and with the other, she throws the lacey veil and her bouquet to the wind, beckoning all to her arms—all to a celebration!

If we truly begin to get this, then we can model it for others. Pretty soon, it’ll become second nature to all of us as we move to the rhythm of what this Bride—made up of Christians—was always supposed to look like.

And if you look at it that way, it really is about us.

To be sure, the lyrics of life are sad at times but there’s a place where the music of missional living can calm the beasts of infantile disagreements. It is a place where followers of Jesus choose to get beyond squabbles over minutia and imaginary lines; it is right there where the orchestration of saints reaches a crescendo and swaying arms strive in unison to love and serve a dying world.

I don't know about you, but that, my friends, is the kind of Christian I want to be.

Li la li, La La La Li Li Li...

Chapter 3 Some Wee Little Man, Part 2

With this Jesus of my imagination now gone, I turned off all of the work lights but one. I climbed back up into my sycamore balcony to watch its solitary beam below me, seemingly alive from what I had just stirred up with my shuffling feet and bad attitude.

Leaning once again against the rusted railing, it struck me that this disease I was questioning is a malady he knows all too well, for a very real infection inhabited the souls of mankind, even as he watched; with a simple betrayal, just one deliberate concession ushered in a broad and sweeping invasion. Seeds of iniquity, with their capsuled capacity for malice were cast upon generational fields to germinate deep within the fertile soul of humanity, hastening our illness and our destruction, blanketing us in a veil of darkness.

But we know there was One who loved much too deeply to relinquish custody and so he entered this time and space—an Illumination who crushed evil’s head with his heel, forming light and fashioning it to bend and proportion toward shadowed corners. And there we were found, clinging to our fig leaves and memories of calculated defiance, our willful and wanton waywardness.

The sacrifice was epic, rendering the war decidedly won two thousand years ago—but battles continued, unrelenting, as if word didn’t quite reach the distant encampments in the nether world.

And so, all of us, each and every one, have been destined to stumble, to choose poorly, to limp for a lifetime, because the defeated will not go lightly.

So, as obvious casualties of these battles, will he still heal us? Will he cure us from this disease—physical, mental, and emotional? What of the bad effects of our bad lives, of those wretched decisions which have disfigured our beauty before him?

I believe he must, and he will, for such is the promise of grace, and such is our need to be purified before the Source of light. But this very light, by my much too metaphorical way of thinking, has invaded and found its shape and hope by illuminating the particles of our refusal, this dust suggesting the origins of our humanity. As if the One from whom all light flows simply acknowledged that this was how He would always go about it: our disobedience right there on display, magnified and highlighted in the beam of His radiation, giving outline and contour—our very grittiness creating a silhouette from which goodness and purity can emanate.

Even here, sitting upon this balcony, the swirling debris of this forgotten porn theater and its associated sickness designs a stage where light can penetrate and dance and find its identity, enlightening others toward the redemption found within these walls.

Perhaps light, without shape, becomes too broad, too expansive. It becomes some unidentifiable essence, some environment lacking true definition.

And so, in the wake of all that we are and all that we’ve done, do we somehow create a place for light to take form? To pierce some stirred up reminder of our creation? Could it be that the healing we thought would make us all better and good and right and moral, all clean and uncluttered to another's eyes, instead was meant to render us forever messy? To be reflected and worn as a badge of honor—to provide an elucidation for someone else, weary and broken like us, who is crawling toward it?

It is a mystery, no doubt, for this wee little man.

And now, maybe you too.

Chapter 2 Some Wee Little Man, Part 1

My feet were dangling over the ledge of the Rialto’s balcony. I rested my chin against the rusted railing, high above this old theater, its open space setting sentinel over sacrifice and hope. Some work lights remained on in the vacancy below, casting their eerie beams in the unsettled dust.

Our momentum with this stone behemoth is increasing and more volunteers than ever darken these doors, grasping a vision of what could be. Deep trenches are being dug in the alleyways for plumbing and electrical and long pipes of all types. Dry wall is being hung to conceal and rejuvenate, and we’re just a few short months away from the completion of Phase 1.

But, despite the anticipation, a cloud of faithlessness still hangs over me and taunts me, deep within this stuffy atmosphere filled with particles from the past.

So, there I was, alone, staring at the mystery of the rays of light below and the form and shape they take in the disturbance of dirt and filth, piercing some stirred up reminder of our own creation. And wouldn’t you know, perhaps sensing my musings, he walked in, just like that. I suppose he was fully aware that I was the only one left inside, and, of course, fully aware of the pity party I was throwing for myself.

I watched him from my perspective above, and I quietly studied his gait. He looked around, inspecting the progress with his hands on his hips. He gazed up at the starry blue dome above him, seemingly pleased—and then, like a father who knows where his children have been hiding all along, he spun around with a gleam in his eye and locked in on me.

All of a sudden, I felt like Zacchaeus, some wee little man with a wee little faith.

“Come on down, Jeff,” is all he said, laughing. It was more of an invitation than a command, but either way, I made my way down stairs and met him below.

“You’ve made a lot of progress here,” he said with a smile.

“Yes. We have amazing volunteers.”

There was an awkward pause, or at least it was awkward for me. I kicked around some of the wires on the floor and then he broke the silence.

“What exactly were you doing up there?”

He knew what I was doing up there. I was doubting, wanting desperately to see him, to get above some perceived crowd, the very ones who would move their way through this bastion in search of him too.

“I don’t know. Struggling with the enormity of it all, I suppose.”

Back to laughing, he chuckled and said casually, “You know I won’t call you to something that I don’t intend to finish.”

“Yes, you’ve said that.” How could he be so casual about something that was causing me so much stress?

“But, yet, you doubt?”

I shrugged him off. He gives me the choice to shrug him off. Like some petulant child, I wasn’t in the mood for his assurances. So I pressed him. I changed the subject toward something I was really thinking about, if you must know.

“I read something about you the other day, about how you healed people of their disease, physical and mental. But another translation said that you also healed them of their emotional disease.”

“Yes.”

“It said that word got around that you were healing everybody.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

Kind of a play on words, actually. The word got around that the Word was getting around.

So I walked around a bit myself, thinking. I made my way down to the stage and he stayed back near the rear of the theater. He hunched down and started drawing with an old stick in the debris on the floor, which I love, because, you know, I always picture him doing that anyway.

“It said that you healed people of the bad effects of their bad lives. What about that? Is that still true today?”

I didn’t have to shout it. Sound carries in this old place.

“What do you think?” he asked.

Always another question is what I think. He’s not skirting though, he never is. He’s probing.

So I dug in and fired back, repeating my question.

“Are you still healing people of the bad effects of their bad lives?”

I wonder if Zacchaeus asked the same question, in the conversation that wasn't recorded. He wasn't living such a good life. Anyhow, it came out more like a challenge, more like I was irritated with these claims.

So, he spun around again, this time circling my flank with his words, not looking up from the little picture he was drawing.

“From your perch upon the balcony, your eyes were fixed upon the beams of light.”

“Yeah, so?”

“You were looking for me, but what else did you see when you looked at the light? What gave it form?”

As usual, I just stared at him, perhaps not knowing how to respond, perhaps just choosing to stay irritated. He wasn’t going to wait around anyway, this Jesus of my imagination. He got up and slowly walked out the side door into the early evening.

And he left me alone with a mystery once more.

Chapter 1 My Shirt Won't Stay Tucked In

It’s early October, but when I awoke today the windows were open and there was an unseasonably benign breeze swirling around me, coupled with a soft and altogether beautiful fuchsine sky that filled the room. And both, quite frankly, belied the inner turmoil that I knew—I just knew—was right around the corner.

You see, today, much like yesterday, and most certainly tomorrow, my shirt won’t stay tucked in.

I usually start off in the morning all nice and neat, looking very proper, but then, all hell breaks loose. It's even more complicated when I wear an undershirt. The two of them, they just get all wrinkled and bunched up—you know, like they desperately want to escape.

I’m pretty sure I’ve never had this problem before. As far back as I can remember everything would stay tucked in. Or maybe I didn't notice I was coming un-tucked back then.

I don’t want word to get out about this, but I’m actually beginning to think there’s something wrong with me at this mid-point in my life. I see other men and their shirts are tucked in without any bits and pieces sneaking out. Women too, come to think of it. All day, as if it’s natural.

Maybe it's my technique. I could tighten my belt, I suppose. So tight, in fact, that nothing would ever come undone. Sure, I wouldn't be able to breathe or feel my lower extremities, especially when I sit down, but hey, my shirt tails would stay put.

Or, I could shop for my shirts at the Big-N-Tall shop. There'd be so much material to work with that I’d never need to worry about it. I’d just tuck the shirt way down to my knees and call it good. The people in the store would undoubtedly ask why someone who is only 5’10” is darkening the door of their store, but I could reply that I’m shopping for my extremely tall uncle. If they ask why I’m actually trying on shirts for my extremely tall uncle, I’ll just explain that we have the same coloring and I want to be absolutely certain that these textiles compliment our mutual visage.

Just using the word visage might convince them to leave me alone.

Of course, if I go this route, too much extra shirt tucked in down there would undoubtedly creep upward throughout the day and this might lead to other questions about whether I stuff my trousers.

But I’ll leave that subject alone.

I guess what I’m really trying to say, in a round about way, is that I want to spend my day un-tucked. I don’t think it’s too much to ask. Still, society and sometimes my dad and usually my boss and unfortunately business decorum as a whole, well, they all instruct me that this is simply unacceptable. At least in my world anyway.

My shirt must be tucked in.

Could this be significant and even representative of everything in my life? Take this faith of mine, for example—this Jesus following thing. You know and I know that it’s always been nice and tucked in, very proper indeed. But lately, all hell seems to be breaking loose.

Still, I look at you, and I get jealous because you seem to have it all together. Could it be that you don’t? Maybe what you thought was natural, what you thought your faith was is getting all bunched up and some kind of holy discontent is taking over and your whole way of going about Christianity is desperately looking for a way to escape.

No, couldn’t be. Push it down. Time to tighten that morality belt. Don't worry about it if you can't breathe. Start the day off right—keep it all in, for anything else would surely render us, shall we say, undone?

Certainly this Jesus we know and love, he would have his shirt pressed and tucked in, right? And so it makes perfect sense that you and I would go to great lengths to perfect our appearance, stuff down any of our ugliness and messiness, shove it well below the surface and call it good. We look great, damn it, nice and neat; we might even deceive others into believing we have it all together, even as we represent someone we’re not—as if our life and our morality and our very tidy essence should compliment some perceived visage of Jesus.

I think I know what this is all about. Somehow, today, much like yesterday, and most certainly tomorrow, the word got out; and the word was, that the Word didn’t care much about all of this stuff.

I’ve got to figure out a way to spend my day un-tucked.