Sweaters

I've been listening to a lot of Weezer lately, and now, through the wonders of Play Station and Guitar Hero, so is my teenage son. If you're not a Weezer fan, that's OK. I'm really just focusing here on one particular song, about sweaters, and because it's pretty dang cold out today, the sweater seems to fit.

So, from Weezer to sweaters, I somehow want to land on a particular topic, and that is, specifically, how we relate to those who are different from us. I happen to have some friends who are refugees (you may too), and what I'm finding these days is that as my relationships grow and mature, the differences between us, which once seemed so daunting .. well, they really aren't. Yeah, many of them are Muslim and I'm not. I get that. They get that. Doesn't seem to come up much, but when it does, I'm thinking we'll have a pretty healthy debate. Maybe they'll hear what I have to say, because I'm their friend. Or maybe they won't. Really, by that point in the game, after I've shared my side (you know, about Who it is I've chosen to follow), well, I've got to exit stage left anyway and let God do His transformational thing.

Because that's just how He does it, if He's gonna do it, methinks.

So, with all of that said, I thought I'd dust this old piece off and put in back up. Not much has changed since I first wrote this, and I still need to be reminded, daily, of why I wrote it in the first place.


My Handsome Sweater

If you want to destroy my sweater, pull this thread as I walk away.
Watch me unravel, I’ll soon be naked.
Lying on the floor, I’ve come undone.

Weezer


It occurs to me, right about now, as I’m listening to the angst-ridden lyrics of Weezer, that I too wear a sweater. Thankfully, mine is still intact, but it seems I take this for granted, when in fact I should count it all joy and be forever grateful, if only for the simple reason that I’ve been adorned with much splendor.

Still, I casually but confidently dither about in these garments of grandeur – the very regalia of the One who loves me. Certainly it’s a leap of epic proportions to jump from Weezer to God, I know, but you'll just have to trust me, and I promise to stitch it all up by the end.

You see, He, being in fact God, fills my lungs and suggests my pulse this day – and, come to think of it, yours as well – and He clothes us in such a fashion that we are quite beautiful to Him. So, to expand upon this darn of consciousness, Weezer got me to thinking that even as God weaves amazing and stunning beauty into His design, the stark reality is that we're always just one string pull away from becoming drastically and quite conclusively undone.

Indeed, I'm but a mere moment away from being discovered – naked and prostrate, lying face first on the floor next to a bundle of yarn that used to be my handsome sweater.

I say all of this because it seems, in my audacity, that I have ignored this notion, and I am perhaps not alone – especially in the Church – because we've reached a supreme level of self-sufficiency and superiority, and for lack of a better word, superciliousness.

Somehow, in some way, Weezer is enlightening me, and hopefully you, and revealing in no small way that we need to dispense with the misplaced and long-held presumption that God, in His infinite wisdom, saw fit to love us more than the next group of people. Certainly, He loves you and he loves me with a passionate, unrelenting and often unrequited love, but he loves you just as much as he loves me, and yes, he really does love that man or that woman or that group of individuals you’re pondering right now, which is certainly unthinkable, but it is ever true.

I have a hunch that in our circles, we don't give this much consideration. At least I don't, as I toss stares of judgment at the stylistically challenged and repeatedly render guilty verdicts in the fashion trials of my mind.

We go to great lengths to muster our own strength and we elbow our way to the front of the line and we endeavor quite smashingly to do it all on our own; we smugly assume that we're entitled to more favor in the eyes of our own private Creator, more favor than perhaps He would or should show for the next guy. We conclude that we're more pleasing to Him and more obedient, and with that affection and preference locked in for a lifetime, we set about to capably and confidently choose our own outfits and attempt to accomplish much through our garb and gear and accessorizing.

And this ability, this self-sufficiency, this cavalier independence, whether we like it or not, has its way with our denominational dress, our righteous and regal religious trimmings, our chic bias and our prideful and prejudicial panache.

But somehow we must repudiate the notion that these new trends we fashion and these styles we strut are exclusive reflections of God – the very One who, lest we forget, became a common, unadorned man, by choice, two thousand years ago, without pomp and circumstance. The very One who, right about now, in my imagination (and maybe yours), is seeking and loving all as he circles our respective towns as an unassuming Harley-riding peacemaker, wearing a leather vest that has some dried mud on the back of it, jeans that need a good wash, and boots that are beyond polishing.

Malign others for their inherent differences and their errancies if you must, but beware, for each of us bears the unfortunate but true unraveling point – that dangling, hanging string. We are, in fact, a mere stitch and pull away from being stripped naked on the floor, our destroyed sweater in a pile next to us, crying out to a Maker who sees mankind as His creation, a Stylist whose vogue is ever now; his love, ever true and unchanging.

Indeed, there must be acceptance and humility, a nimbleness and flexibility of spirit, a darning of a gentle mosaic manner, especially as a new kind of Church that serves not merely to tolerate, but to appreciate and integrate, for our world is increasingly made up of those who don't always fit into or match the clothing we pull from our collective closets.

And that, my friends, in a thimble, is what Weezer taught me today.

Hallie Update

For those of you who were following Hallie's story, and prayed so faithfully, here's an update via a note from my sister & family :-)

Hallie had her 1st Birthday this past week (1/31) and her 2 month transplant anniversary. She's still on restricted access to visitors due to her immunosuppressive medications, but we were able to have a small birthday party. She continues to gain weight (14 lbs 12 oz this week) and is on track with her visits to the transplant team.

Hallie is fighting a virus this week (which was expected), so is back on IV antibiotics for a while.

This birthday is a special anniversary for me. When we first received the diagnosis of her disease, biliary atresia, we of course read up on it. I can still vividly remember trying to understand all the medical descriptions but the part which needed no clarification was the part that said: the child "if untreated" would rarely live to be a year old. The miracle of her treatment and recovery are underscored by God's timing. If she was born in a different time or place she would probably never have celebrated this special birthday.

Thanks again for your prayers,

Jeff, Jodi, Kyle, Julie, Evie and of course Hallie.

Chapter 32 The Wine has Spilled Everywhere

There is a certain someone I know, and he lifts a glass to me. He greets me warmly, as a friend. This particular someone has been around for as long as I can remember, so, just for old time’s sake, I’ll have a drink with him.

Admittedly, the history we share is not a good one. His friendship is not something I want, yet, I still maintain it, partly because he won’t go away. I’m pretty sure he’ll never go away. He may leave town for a while, but then he comes back.

He always comes back.

I try to ward him off. I start by being subtle, but then I become quite rude about it. I’m standoffish, and I’m cold toward him. I reject him. I ask others to handle him on my behalf, and they do, for a time. When that doesn't seem to help, I verbally abuse him. I push him out of my life, and have done so more times than I care to remember, but he never gets the hint.

Weary from his constant invitations and pestering, I finally give in, and I do what he wants. I hang out with him. I listen to him. Really, I just listen to his lies. I know they’re lies, but I listen anyway because somehow he makes them seem so, well, inconsequential.

Then he makes me tell my own lies as a show of loyalty toward our so-called friendship.

The first glass of wine he pours for me is sweet. And so is the second. Usually, around the third or fourth, there’s a bitterness, but by this point I really don’t care. I'm coherent enough, though, to know that once again, he’s done it; somehow he’s gotten me to spend time with him, and through my haze he taunts me and laughs at me.

I brace myself, because I know what’s next. He usually finds something hard in the room, and then he hits me with it. Not once or twice, but many times. When I finally can’t take it anymore, I fall to the ground and he kicks me. He is still laughing at this point. The wine has spilled everywhere.

My eyes are swollen shut and with each breath my splintered ribs rub their shards of bone against my lungs. Something inside me has died, again; yet another piece of me.

I’m helpless now and he leaves me, alone and bloodied on the floor. He mutters something about not needing me or wanting me anymore, then he kicks me again and I black out.

Time passes and I mostly heal. I promise myself that the next time he comes around, I’ll be firm. Somehow though, when I see him again, I always seem to forget about the beatings until the last minute. But by then, it's too late.

He has a name, though it's not important that you know what it is. You probably know him anyway, but call him something else.

All I know is that, for me, I must cast out this demon.