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.