So I Go Now Vol. III ~ The Word Got Out

Chapter 44 Oil Slicks and Leaky Radiator Puddles

2011-05-17T18:01:00.000-07:00

I go to a church these days where the parking lot is free of oil slicks and leaky radiator puddles. It’s fairly pristine, like the cars and the SUV’s that fill it on Sunday mornings. The families are very pretty as they walk together and enter the front doors, and I watch them with a chip on my shoulder, because even though my family is pretty, they’re not as pretty as, say, that one.

And the one over there.

Inside, we sit, and white elbows come close to touching each other in the pews, but not quite, so as to avoid the invasion of personal space. And we move to the middle to let in late comers, and we greet them at the appropriate time, when told to do so, forcing some social interaction that is awkward and not at all what I signed up for. Someone tells me to turn to the person next to me, you know, to tell him that I’m glad he’s here.But I’m not, so I don’t say it. I never say what I’m told to say. I do mumble a hello, and flash my best fake smile, but the person is always looking past me, to the next person, you know, the one that he or she will shake hands with after me, so I think it’s just a waste of germ exchange.

Some more white elbows attached to white bodies and white faces are on stage and they smile and clap, trying to get me to clap; and others too, maybe to rouse all of us out of our slumber. They encourage me to worship, and I’m in the sea of beauty and fashion, and I’m sad, though I can’t explain why.

Yeah, I probably can.

This church is very nice, and safe, and I sound resentful, but I’m not. I’m just observant. The teaching pastor is very knowledgeable and he’s taught me quite a few new and interesting things about this and that. All in all, he must be doing something right because this church is blessed on every corner. And their corners are perfect in fact, and tidy, really, and they’re much like many others around the country; some of great influence, some just of local sway, with pastors of national renown or their own city prominence, filling pulpits to reach the many, or just a few; and what does it matter, because I’m here too: a sheep to its shearer is dumb, or maybe I’ve trudged my way here, reluctantly, this Sunday and the next, so my kids can be with their friends from school.

But I still feel dumb.

It’s a long story, but you should know that we live in a suburb. Our kids go to a school in said suburb, and now we attend a church in the very same, uh, suburb.

So church will be comfortable and predictable for this season, with those perfect corners and neat edges and hopefully what I don’t teach at home about Jesus will still seep into my children’s subconscious as they go to Sunday school and youth group; as a part of a gang or clique, as they go on trips and attend ice cream socials and snow retreats with other white kids who text each other and pull out their iPods and gadgets and gizmos.

But, then, I don’t know, because the Jesus I know and love had an insane and unexplainable love and an inclination to touch the kind of people who wouldn’t be here: drunks, prostitutes, gamblers and lepers, the poorest kind of people, white sure, but with different colored skin too. The ones who don’t frequent suburbs, and if they do, we sometimes call the cops on them.

The Jesus I know longed to be about healing, and so he just did it. He spent time with the sick, because they needed the healing. He spent most of his time outside, always on the move, looking for them; maybe in parking lots with more oil slicks and radiator puddles.

Maybe they won’t learn about Jesus at all here, and I’m just drowning out the noise of it all. I could just be buying some time until it’s over and they’re indoctrinated into a rhythm of church as an institution, as if that’s what they should get, because we all need it; it’s where we learn the discipline of verse memorization and the order of the books of the Bible; the virtue of hand holding and the vices of petting. It’s where we meet the dork of a youth group leader, fresh from college, who loves to play dodgeball and call the boys “dude” and “champ” and tousle hair; the girls fall in love with him and his young wife rolls her eyes.

I'm learning as I go, but from what I can tell, church must be viewed as a lifelong rhythm, not just a building with seats to occupy. Certainly worship and wise teaching and leadership are crucial elements for our nourishment, but those who want the adventure must realize that it doesn’t make sense to just stay inside.

Maybe this church or any, really.

If a church or a pastor or a priest has taught us anything, it should be that this Jesus we serve and follow – he's out there, on the edge, practicing love and sacrifice for no other reason than because it’s right and is being received by the unlovely, the unsuspecting, the unwelcome, the underdog. This is a new life with a new purpose and yes, it’s often outside in the elements where it's rough and it’s dirty.

And it’s really not safe at all.

Chapter 43 I Shouldn't Have to Tell You

2010-11-09T16:19:00.000-08:00

I shouldn’t have to tell you again how much I love you, so this time I won’t.

But I will pull your older brother aside and tell him to keep a close eye on you at school.

I will take away texting if it helps you study. I will take everything away if it helps you study.

I will put my hand on your chest tonight, while you’re sleeping, to make sure you’re still breathing.

I will watch your practice from the sidelines as you get tackled harder than you’ve ever been tackled before.

I will stay on the sidelines this time and let you work it out on your own, even when I can tell you’re crying underneath your helmet.

I will tell you to put on your seatbelt. Again.

I will plunge the toilet. Again.

I will tell you to wash your hands. I will tell you to brush your teeth. I will tell you to not run and fight with your siblings while the toothbrush is still in your mouth.

I will leave the door open a crack when you go down into the basement with your girlfriend.

I will never let your sister go in the basement with a boyfriend.

I shouldn’t have to tell you again how much I love you, so this time I won’t.

But I will tell you to get a job the next time (and every time) you ask for money.

I will get up in the morning and go to my job again.

I will take better care of myself.

I will assign you chores and you will do them or you will not eat.

I will let you have a sleepover with all of your hungry friends. Again.

I will play Old Maid with you and make sure I end up with the Old Maid. Again.

I will be the audience for your made-up dance routines and watch as you twirl everything in the house that resembles a baton.

I will make you look your coach or your teacher in the eye when you’re being disciplined. I will make sure you know that I know that most of the time you deserve it.

I will grab you when you walk by and I’ll hold you close into my chest and I’ll breathe in the smell of your hair on the top of your head while you’re still shorter than me, just one more time, while I still can.

I will pray that you end up a lot more like Jesus and a lot less like some Christians.

I shouldn’t have to tell you again how much I love you, so this time I won’t.

But I will remind you again and again that we’re a family and we always stick together.

I will allow you to fiercely protect your siblings.

I will let you fight your siblings periodically so that you actually know how to fiercely protect your siblings.

I will turn off the TV and take away your cell phones and anything else electronic and we will play Scrabble.

I will take you to a noun called church, but teach you how to be verb called Church.

I will only allow two kids on the trampoline at one time. I will now dismantle the trampoline because you're not listening to me.

I will tell your mother how much I love her and then I’ll kiss and hug her in front of you again and again and again.

I will drive you to school again.

I will drive you to practice again.

I will drive you to get your favorite sub again.

I will not pick up after you again.

I will try hard to remember again what life was like when I was your age.

I shouldn’t have to tell you how much I love you, but just this last time I will. Again.

Chapter 42 James, Who Speaks Many Languages

2010-09-29T18:17:00.000-07:00

This country of mine is fortunate, as am I to live in it. I say this for the obvious reason, which is freedom, but really, it’s an old freedom. It was bought long ago with a price that I’m able to recite, but with a sown sacrifice that I’m not sure I’m worthy to reap. I don’t respect it enough. My ancestors gave something of themselves – maybe even their lives – for an idea, and I enjoy it with my soft hands and nonchalance.

For me, freedom just is. I wake up free, I breathe free and I live free, just like I always have.

When it’s the expected moment, sure, I pledge to our flag and sing our national anthem. On the Fourth of July, I light fireworks and celebrate our independence. On Memorial Day and Veterans Day, I strive to honor the men and women who sacrificed their lives long ago for our freedom, as well as those who have done so in recent decades for freedom in other countries.

But really, if I’m being honest, I just pay it lip service.

Freedom has always been here, in between America’s shores, for centuries now. Those of an older, fading generation have a better appreciation of what it might have felt like to lose that. They can recall the air raids and the uncertain fear of a creeping global power and ideology; one that could have invaded and brought destruction and imprisonment. For them, freedom was redeemed with lost sons and revered with a patriotic fervor which hit very close to home. But, unfortunately, those people are aging and dying – and with them, real memories. Memories now captured in textbooks and in documentaries on cable.

And so, to spend some time with a friend like James, freedom finds new life. It is fresh, reborn even. It has a voice. It breathes. It is all at once relevant and touchable.

James is a Burmese refugee (legally recognized by the United Nations High Commission for Refugees, or UNHCR), who now lives in Fort Wayne, Indiana. In his apartment hangs a small American flag; it means something to him, I suspect, for he recalls little of a life of true freedom. In fact, he’s a living breathing acronym to freedom, for he’s lived most of his life in one refugee camp and then another. He’s borne witness to attacks on villages and the stripping of dignity at the hands of brutal, ruthless men; the senseless extinguishing of once vibrant, free lives.

Men, women and children.

Horrifically, for James and his country, a power and ideology did in fact invade. A military junta from within Burma’s own borders brought destruction and imprisonment, and James remembers it and speaks of it with stunning detail and emotion. He fills his childhood recollection with such images, right where I would find memories of a birthday party or a summer vacation, or some other significant, much happier event.

James was six when his village was attacked. It was a Sunday night when the enemy struck, after James and his community had enjoyed a full day of celebration and feasting. It was perhaps the last celebration he would enjoy in freedom for twenty years. James is understandably emotional as he speaks of it, but I sense he’s not afraid anymore. Quite possibly, having lived through what he has, what’s left to fear?

From that moment on, his family lost more and more of their earthly possessions, but they never lost each other. In fact, during one sweeping raid by the enemy, while in a makeshift camp (not formerly recognized as a UNHCR refugee camp), James and his entire family of eight, including his mother and father were made to lie flat on the ground as their hut burned next to them. The soldier, carrying an AK47, told them repeatedly not to move. And so they didn’t. Others who ran or tried to hide were struck down by bullets, but James and his family were spared.

The soldier slipped away, perhaps unknowingly an answer to the prayers of those lying prostrate on the ground. What was once their home and belongings was now just a pile of ash.

Ultimately, James and his family made it to an “official” refugee camp, where they found safety. Life was better on many fronts, as the camp was protected in a mountainous region within Thailand’s border. There were schools and churches. Supplies were abundant due to the generosity of others. James learned to speak five languages fluently just by being in the midst of so many cultures, perhaps a silver lining to a very dark cloud.

This may all sound like great news, but a fence still kept others from coming in, and them from going out. He was ostracized and treated differently by those living in freedom on the other side of the fence. He recalls knowing that he had no future.

And before he knew it, James was 26.

Fast forward to life in America, and James is the pillar of his family. In fact, it was James who navigated the application process for refugee status; James, who led his family here two years ago through check points and borders and customs and the whole ordeal of international travel. James, who speaks many languages.

Fort Wayne is now home to the largest population of Burmese outside of Thailand, which neighbors Burma (and contains its numerous refugee camps). So, not content to be merely a pillar for his own family, James has provided aid and comfort to many others who are here – to those who have arrived legally in America with similar nightmares to share. He is an interpreter, a friend, a liaison to a strange new world.

There is much to debate about refugees in our midst. What about competition for our jobs? What about the strain on our schools and our healthcare systems which are already overburdened? What about those strange cultural differences? What about this and what about that?

This is understandable. But what about James and his family? What really is ours in the first place? Are any of us truly worthy to reap someone else’s sacrifice from years gone by, while at the same time ignore that there are others in the world still, to this day, entangled in the chains of captivity? Our freedom has always been here, but for most of us, someone else paid the price for it. Maybe none of us can ever respect that enough, unless we give something of ourselves for others to enjoy it as well.

As I sit with James in his apartment, he’s finishing up a job application online. He’s been trying for a while to find work. I ask, after all that he’s been through by the tender age of 28, if he’s frustrated in his job search.

He smiles and says, “at least here, I have a future.”

Chapter 41 With a Bent Toward Something

2010-09-12T09:27:00.000-07:00

The rain is coming down and there’s a crazy bird out there, alone, singing with some sick joy in the night. It’s Monday for God’s sake.

It’s freezing and wet, and not at all late summer to me. I open up the windows anyway because I’m hot. I’m always hot.

I hear that train again, way off, warning at its crossings. It’s heading toward a place, with a plan, with a bent toward something. If you want to hear it, you can, if you listen through the din, or above it; or maybe feel the ground shake. You’d have to get close enough, but it’s enough to just believe it.

Cars are driving by and their wheels slap and splash against the slick black road, and I sit and wonder about the adventure I’ve missed, while I’ve tossed and turned; while I’ve made excuses and invited someone else to take my burden.

But rest assured, I still point others back to where I last saw Him.

This is not some pity party where I invite friends to an intervention, to enter into some crisis of faith. I know what I believe. I know what I’m missing.

It could be that I need to write again, if only as a way to worship, to smoke out these vices masquerading as security blankets.

I’m not good as a drifter. I float between bad and worse; I succumb to some form of an unmotivated lifestyle that is fueled by bouts of addiction and colored with tinges of gray. It has its own trajectory, careening toward a fraction that has regrettably reduced itself, again, and again; maybe even lower than its lowest common denominator.

And so it begins again. This is me crawling back out of a mess of my own making.

It is not a proud moment to have accepted something of a Holy assignment, to recognize it, to achieve it, to acknowledge it is bigger and beyond me, but then, to step aside.

Some may say that’s wonderful, a special something to point back toward, to know and to cherish and to appreciate; a legacy perhaps, but it doesn't last. It is there that I've wallowed in a wretched place, one of nonsense and folly; of temporary blitzes of euphoria bridging a gap to nothingness.

Yes, nothingness is a place to visit; it is a destination on a spiritual map. I’ve been there.

In fact, it is from there that I write this letter to you, whoever you are; whoever may still be reading. And my prayer is that you would somehow discern the clarity amidst the fog. That these ramblings would find a place of comfort in your living room, on your train, at your job.

You see, it's never been uncomfortable enough. This cross I carried for him then was still light and convenient and, mostly splinter free. And then I put it down when it became too heavy. I pick it up from time to time, and I give a little here and there to this day, and that day; to challenge the guilt I endure for the week or the month I do nothing.

I did not stop believing in the One I chose to follow. He is ever real and breathing and doing. But I am not doing. I am merely a spectator, or worse yet, a player at half time who has feigned some injury, pulled some coach aside to plead my case, my useless case for why I'm not fit for the second half.

Surely he'll listen, he can see I'm beat up, muddy, a deplorable mess.

I know I need to get back at it. There is much work to be done. I need to be heading toward some place, with a plan, with a bent toward something; anything but this. The ground is shaking if I put my ear to it, if I stand still. If I move closer.

It’s not enough for me to just believe it.

Chapter 40 What Crazy Love is This?

2008-12-08T16:53:00.001-08:00

What crazy love is this, that you would assume the repetition of my sin? Surely you see something I don’t, because this stain won’t come out.

I am forever shaded in grey and my intentions murky and misguided. There can be no finer splendor than what you abided in; a brilliant sunrise to my stormy dusk. Yours was and is a containing of our whimsy, not once and again, but a Kingdom real and true.

And yet you left it.

It is surely some cosmic fate you took on as your own, when any other King would be content to embrace what was merely good in us; to spare the righteous and cast the sinners away, dooming them to hell.

Yet you witnessed the glory in each and all; sons and daughters you called us. Such was your love that there will never be an earthly equal; such was the inherent beauty of your creation that you would take on the very pain you fashioned. The nerve endings, the flesh, the tendons – all of it under your watchful eye, someday to know it frail and torn.

This was what you knew when you became small, insignificant, dependent on another. Time would contain thirty three of our years but time was and is of no concern to you, so you felt the severity of your plan when you designed it. You assumed it all upon your entrance into this wrecked dimension. I wonder if you still bear the agony when I rub out this spot; when I hide it and pretend it won’t consume me.

So what does Christmas matter but to set the stage – one which renders a prologue to a battle of three long days? You knew it would take thirty three years, but those three days, and only those three, would finish it once and for all. You knew your adversary and his resolve. You scripted it and you began it. In your measure of eternity, it was done already.

But you still knew you would be bruised and beaten and battered, for your opponent wouldn't go lightly. Each and every failure of this mortal man was to be thrust upon you – branding you and tainting you.

Until you emerged victorious. And white as snow, for someone such as me.

What crazy love is this?

Chapter 39 It's Really Not Abundance at All

2008-10-31T11:21:00.000-07:00

The second Bush is about to finish his second term and there is much talk of his replacement.

And those who are limitless in number, but limited in power, are blaming the limited in number who are limitless in power. Right about now there’s a question as to who can best manage this conundrum, and the well being of a country that has known wealth and freedom quite abundantly, but one which needs to heal from the self-inflicted, festering wounds of greed and gluttony.

So, as we look upon a feast that has been spread upon our table, it’s this very issue of wealth and abundance that has a way of nauseating the noblest of notions – those of the fat and the healthy; the lean and the hungry. For if abundance cannot flow outward abundantly, it’s really not abundance at all.

One side will argue that the table’s bounty should be shared with the masses, not only in our house, but among tables in other houses far and wide – that all should come and sit and eat until they are full. Others who have worked hard for the harvest, as well as those who have become heir to it, together with those in power over them, well, they all are justifying their righteous anger at the expense of a few who will not work, and therefore should not inherit the right to have their hunger satiated.

Nonetheless, for one who has been fed and sustained and relatively privileged for years, my voice is strong and healthy and heard. In a world where blessing provides a feast that is large enough for all to eat, the evil opposing it creates an insatiable appetite in the gorged to remain so; and the din and frenzy of my efforts and maybe yours drowns out the cries of the weak, the very ones who grow weaker by the day for they have gone quite a while without sustenance.

Much like the animal kingdom, a very twisted circle of life provides for the survival of the fittest.

But, wait – isn’t there another Kingdom, one which is steadily being ushered in? Those of us who claim an inheritance to this Kingdom mustn’t allow the feast to spoil while the entangled and entrenched argue their position; no, we must quietly take our ration, that which has been given us, and lean close with an ear to hear the whispering of the underserved.

And then share our portion with them.

It is a decision to re-distribute, one that is not forced upon us, but made by us and only us. And with our other ear we listen to the passion of those in power, so as to make a wise decision on a leader who will affect change and respond and allow our voice – and that of the weak – to be heard at the proper time.

If you and I would share from our plate, then I wonder if it would become contagious? Another group may witness it and soon share from their plate, and then, whoever is in power or authority over us (or anyone for that matter) will watch as a groundswell reverberating from a different circle of life emerges, one which ripples and resounds and creates a beautiful sound to the ear of the One who provided the feast in the first place.

And abundance will flow abundantly.

A Horrific Mess that is Me (redux)

2008-10-17T05:58:00.000-07:00

I am tired.

I should daily die but, instead, every other day perhaps, I grasp and claw and fight my way into my will of living, the very resolve that is manmade, centric focused, self-fulfilling.

As I write this, I plead for something, anything to help me describe Him, for I watch as the chapters of my story reach their glorious heights only when this author realizes quite shockingly that he is not the Author. Surprisingly, He does a much better job than someone such as I, with my feeble existence, my limited tolerance, my pathetic shell.

Even as I write this, I plead for something, anything to help me describe Him. My mind bounces this way and that as I cower at the thought of Him. My writing is sporadic, stunted, all over the place, yet nowhere as I try to capture Him, as I search to contain Him.

As I get out my bucket and shovel and begin to work on my sand castle, He forms a mountain with His bare hands. While I retrieve my crayons and my construction paper, He sweeps His fingers across the sky and makes a prism of color unlike any other. While I blow my hot air, He breathes into the wind and engulfs me into His embrace. While I puff on my horn and beat my drums, He summons nature to cascade and ripple and resound with the harmony of the ages.

He shocks me, beckons me, and pulls me by the ear. He embraces me, taps me on the shoulder, smacks me on the butt to get in the game. He will place His hand on the small of my back, or turn me to face Him. He will stand in front of me, beside me, shield me, and nurture me.

He’ll even get out of my way.

He gives me a free will to sin and so I do. But as one sin falls on top of another and they multiply and grow arms and legs and tentacles He never stops taking me back. I am wounded, limping for a lifetime, but there He is, down the road, on one knee, weeping as I run toward Him. He’s so happy that I’m back. I run so fast to Him that I knock Him over when I get there, and we laugh.

His lap is imminently ready to be crawled into, His chest large and comfortable to lay my head. He sits at my table, occupies my grief, and circumvents my catastrophes.

But I can’t mistake this God for any other. No, I dare not try because He will deafen with thunder and He will rebuild kingdoms and He will not trifle with sin. His is a mighty fist attached to a muscular arm that keeps this planet in motion. I shudder at the reality that He is.

Capture Him if we must in the landscape of our minds, but no frame can contain Him.

His love is overwhelming, nearly as vast as He is. He prepares and executes a cosmic change in plans and summons His own beautiful Son to walk this earth and to fix a horrible mess that is you. A horrific mess that is me.

Then He turns His back on him. He rejects him; His first and only born just for me. His beloved Son just for you.

So, as I write this, I am tired, but oh, how awestruck I should be! I was not meant to prop myself up, to cling to artificiality, to pigeonhole my way. I was not designed to muscle out of this box.

I am fearfully and wonderfully made and I must—yes, today I must—find my weakness made strong in all that He is.

Chapter 38 Insert your City

2008-10-15T12:00:00.000-07:00

And so it is that I imagine a rogue military unit sweeping in from Ohio and occupying Fort Wayne (insert your city here). They seize control of the city in every way possible. Laws are ignored. The federal government looks the other way. Soon, the leaders of this unit give instructions to start "cleansing" the area of Hoosiers and anyone who is not a native Buckeye. Men are killed, women are raped, and children witness it all.

Somehow, I make it out alive with my family.

In an utter state of confusion and desperation, we depart with others en masse (and by foot) to Canada where we're sequestered in a camp with only the shirts on our collective backs. One week there turns into a month, and then a month into a year. We spend ten years in this camp, and only the lucky among us eventually get a ticket out.

Again, I'm blessed, because my family is intact, and all at once we're sent to Bolivia to start a new life without fear of persecution. They explain that we'll be safe in Bolivia, and that it will be a place of refuge for us.

But we can never return to Fort Wayne.

We try to explain to the Bolivians that we're legal and we're in their country for a reason but the Bolivians don't understand people from Fort Wayne and many of them want us to leave. We don’t look like them. We don't talk like them. We're straining their system.

Yet we're all human, aren't we?

So, we do the best we can in a new culture and a strange land. Our college degrees mean nothing here but we try to get jobs and learn their language and customs, while still trying to preserve some of ours.

It’s not easy, but at least it’s better than what’s happening back in Fort Wayne.

Sound too crazy to believe? Try telling that to a refugee.

As you may or may not know, when an individual receives the designation of refugee, he or she is given the gift of life. This may sound a little extreme, but we're not dealing with some casual term. Rather, to be named a refugee is to receive a title of huge significance, granted by the U.N. High Commission to a relatively small group of people who have fled an oppressive government, war, genocide or some other unrest in their country. By contrast to the potential death sentence one might be under by staying (or by being forced to return to the place from which they fled), to become a refugee is to be granted life. As wonderful as that is, though, a new life still comes at a cost -- for those who receive this status can never return to the world they once knew. You may think that's not so bad considering what they're leaving behind, and that's true to a certain extent. It doesn't make it any easier, though. Most people love their homeland, despite the circumstances causing them to leave. Somehow in the midst of all of this, they have to find their way.

I say all of this simply to point out that refugees are among us. The world is growing increasingly flat. The mission field is no longer a distant option that draws near only through missionary furloughs and Sunday night slide presentations. We are all human. Make a friend in a refugee and offer a helping hand. Be welcoming. Before long he or she won't be a refugee anymore, but rather, your friend.

And, if you ever wonder what it's like to be a refugee, read the above story again, and simply insert your city.

Chapter 37 Who will be the Generous One?

2008-09-05T13:28:00.000-07:00

Each day, on my way to work, I drive down an access road which leads to a professional office park.

And each day, as would be obvious, I go the opposite direction on this road to head home.

Near the end of this road is a traffic light, and with its not-so-generous cycle, it lets approximately six cars through – seven if the driver is gutsy (eight if he or she doesn’t mind skirting the law).

So I, like many others leaving for the day, wait in line for my moment.

Of importance, is that right near this intersection there is a long entranceway to a Harley Davidson dealership. While waiting forever in line, one can watch a variety of un-helmeted bikers arriving on an assortment of vintage or newer Harleys. And, as also would be obvious, there's usually a large number attempting to exit.

Accordingly, a choice must be made by any number of drivers in regular cars and SUV's, as one or two (or seven) of these motorcycles and their riders wait to turn left; to be let in and join the line. Assuming someone is magnanimous (like me), and a biker is deemed worthy, he will inherit a placement not only at the front of the line (and in front of me and others who have been waiting our respective turns), but, quite often, his coveted position results in him being the last one to squeak through the intersection.

Some believe the riders should turn right and go to the back of the line, and wait, just like everyone else. It’s an awkward dance, no doubt, for to let one or two in means that my arrival at home or another engagement will be delayed. Or perhaps the delay will befall not me, per se, but the person (who works down the hall) waiting behind me, the very same person who will remember how I left him hanging as I darted through the last possible shade of yellow and off to freedom.

And then, perhaps, he’ll snub me.

Technically, society and etiquette deems that one rider should be let in, and then the next should enter in on the heels of the driver that let the first one in. And so forth and so on.

But society is not always so kind.

So the pressure starts to build, and the questions start forming in my mind, and I’m sure the minds of others while waiting: who will be the generous one? Am I even in the mood to let someone in? To be sure, these people in line with me, well, I work with them, so everyone is watching. What type of person am I now that I'm out of the office setting? What about that guy from accounting two cars ahead? What will he do?

Who will ignore the obvious and feign some distraction with the radio?

Who will pretend not to notice and speed toward the intersection?

The power is with us, the line of the expectant who have made it to the front. It’s a twisted mini-caste system but we hold the right of way, and with each passing moment we smugly enjoy our upward social stratification. Only due to some benevolence on our part will a rider be granted entrance to such a desirable spot.

What's more, even if we grant it, the spot is bequeathed not for the goodwill in our heart as much as it is for the expected thank-you wave, which is really what it all boils down to, right? That some stranger will render us kind, and acknowledge publicly what our mothers have told us all along: that we are good, and sweet and how could anyone not like us?

And so, this very non-fictional scene is set so that you may believe and imagine just a hint of fiction, for he, yes, none other than He, was riding away from that Harley dealership and he was waiting to be let in. I had watched him from my position much further back in line, and on this day, those with the collective power of the line were not kind to him.

(We can imagine him for Who he is, you and I, because by grace we have been given permission to dream such a thing, and the moxie too, to let fiction and fantasy overlap into the harsh rhythm of reality.)

So, there he waited, and he watched for someone. And he did so with patience and an otherworldly smile, for he had the time.

This was no easy choice for those in line, for truly that same time is of the essence. With each progression forward, I knew that others were expecting much of me and that co-worker in front of me – that we’d fall into line and keep things moving; that the crowd and the pressure of those expectations would dictate our next move.

With the time I had to mull this over, it became clear to me that conventional thinking keeps us focused on the intersection, our turn, our place, our destination. This not-so-generous cycle of life is beckoning us to press ahead – to give grace to others as we deem fit, not to accept it from someone who has too much time on his hands. It’s a Siren’s call of society that deafens and dictates that we’ll ignore the obvious, feign some distraction and pretend not to notice those waiting on the side, as we’re caught in the wake of another, squeaking out our last chance to make it and leave others behind

He knows this. And it took me a couple light cycles, but I slowly realized he was not trying to get in; he was simply trying to get our attention. So he pulled to the side and he parked his ride. He probably skirted some law as he walked across and he stood in the median, waving not a thank-you but a greeting: to come, perhaps, over to where he had parked, and to hear more, away from the line of cars and the pressure and the awkward dance.

Truly this would be a dropping of everything to go and follow, would it not? The release of a coveted spot, among other things. My arrival at home or another engagement would be delayed.

And this is what I was thinking, snubbing him as I waited in line for my moment.

Then Jesus went to work on his disciples. "Anyone who intends to come with me has to let me lead. You're not in the driver's seat; I am. Don't run from suffering; embrace it. Follow me and I'll show you how. (Matthew 16:24 The Message)

Chapter 36 Blinded by the Light

2008-08-28T06:31:00.000-07:00

It was 1977 and the Manfred Mann Earth Band was Blinded by the Light. I was ten and the lyrics were nonsense to kids and adults everywhere, but it didn’t really matter. We sang that song and danced together like a bunch of idiots, and shouted that one particular word so loudly – you know – the one that was supposed to be deuce, but it came out sounding much more like something else; something that was tantalizing and oh-so-scandalous for a pre-pubescent mind.

To this day, I’m not even sure what the lyrics meant, but that anthem played out that long summer of my youth. Manfred Mann probably didn't know what they meant either because, what few knew at the time, was that Blinded by the Light was actually a song re-done. The words were the same and the music sort of close, but the actual songwriter was an artist who was well on his way to becoming critically acclaimed and much more famous than Manfred Mann and his Earth Band would ever be.

His name was Bruce Springsteen. He knew what the lyrics meant.

His original version of Blinded by the Light was a bit more disjointed and folksy and not as well received. It was his first release from his very first album. The song was a stream of consciousness sort of tribute to his life thus far, and though it made sense to him, maybe the general public just didn’t get it. So, while it went to # 1 for Manfred Mann four years later, in 1973 it didn’t even make it to the charts for the Boss. It could be that the Manfred Mann version fit the times better, or they were more catchy with their arrangement, but any way you look at it, this was Springsteen’s first shot out of the box and he fell flat on his face. But, thankfully, the artist would soon emerge, and he would rarely taste that dirt again. Just as cream rises to the top, so would the world know that this particular songwriter could not go unnoticed for long.

And while he was rising, the Manfred Mann Earth Band started to fade into obscurity. Their version of the song endures, sure, but most can't recall any original work of theirs that put them in the same league with other greats.

This got me to thinking, which is a dangerous thing, I know. There’s a song that was written long ago and many of us dance to it, in one way or another. It’s a familiar tune, but someone always tries to improve upon it and in subtle and not so subtle ways, he or she calls it their own, and sometimes, even turns it into a hit. Could be that this particular someone makes it more catchy, to fit the times better, and it connects with a more modern audience.

Nothing wrong with that. In fact, sometimes a modern rendition endures.

Whatever the latest version may be, though, we sing along with it like a bunch of idiots and sometimes lose sight of what the actual lyrics mean. The music is sort of close to the original, but we’re butchering some of the words, sometimes to the point that they tantalize and excite us into a frenzy.

Now, far be it from me to draw any similarities between the Boss and Jesus, but you see where I’m going with this. Regardless of how we mix up the message and the music and try to make it better for listening ears, the true songwriter will rise. In fact, his lyrics make perfect sense to him as a stream of consciousness tribute to a perfect life, and if we try to improve upon them, we may know some success for a time, but we’ll eventually fade away into obscurity.

Does the more modern adaptation help us get it? I hope so. Just so we eventually know that the song is re-done, and the true Artist is on his way to becoming more famous than we’ll ever be.

I'm a terrible blogger

2008-08-12T05:58:00.000-07:00

Friends.. I'm a terrible blogger. I've been in a funk for a few months, but have been very busy with The Reclamation Project, the organization that has been described and written about throughout these pages for lo these many years. I suppose that's a good thing. You don't want me to just be a slacker, right?

Anyhow, we're starting a fundraiser to keep our hopes and dreams alive: dreams of serving well the refugee community in our midst. TRP is far more than the renovation of the Rialto. It is, right now, a critical hub in a growing network of people and agencies who are helping resettled refugees acquire language, affordable housing, driver's licenses, free legal help, jobs, and -- most importantly -- American friends. What's more, our two dedicated and skilled employees, with the help of TRP's Board and scores of volunteers, are seeing many innovative, potential solutions to these challenges facing resettled refugees.

Unfortunately, we presently lack the capacity to seize these solutions. In other words, our current operational revenue is not sufficient to achieve our mission. So, we've come up with what we hope will be a creative response to it. We're calling it "10" -- a broad-based, grassroots movement to mobilize young and old around TRP's refugee message and mission.

I hate asking for money. But I am inviting you, my faithful readers and blogging community to be a part of this. What am I asking for?

To give 10 dollars a month for 10 months

You're probably wondering "why just $10?" or "why wouldn't I just give $100 and be done with it?" Please know that we believe the future of TRP depends not on a few occasional larger donors, but upon thousands of smaller, regular donations from people like you and me.

We need your help today -- so we've made it easy for you to get involved! For your convenience, we want to extend the option of authorizing your gift of $10 to be automatically debited every month from your bank account (Electronic Funds Transfer) or your credit card through Pay Pal. We have all of the information for you to choose various options at this link:

TRP Online Donation

Regardless of the method, I sincerely ask you to get behind the development of "10" by giving a tax deductible gift of $10 every month.

Thank you friends!! If you trust me and what we're doing, and feel so inclined to pass this around or post on your blog, it would be much appreciated!!

In Him and full of Hope,

Jeff

Chapter 35 The God Lakes We Drink From

2008-04-21T06:37:00.000-07:00

My favorite lakes entertain big old trees that belly right up to the edge of the water. I love it when their branches hover and draw near for nourishment in a natural dance.

These lakes are not man-made; no, they’re thoughtful and the spacing between the tree trunks and the water is perfect. In the autumn, the leaves fall on the surface and create a beautiful, multicolored blanket. I imagine the tree is warming the lake for the winter ahead; the poet in me presuming the tree’s devotion and thankfulness.

I suppose man-made lakes can still be pretty and maybe even majestic, but God lakes are mysterious, profound and inexplicably true. The water in them tends to be deeper and darker because the hole in the ground is a mystery that’s not been seen. Perhaps the floor of it bears the very fingerprint of God.

I’m not an expert on lakes, but the man-made ones seem to always need maintenance and chemicals to look the way they do.

The God lakes we drink from.

A carpenter worked in a barn with his father. Together they labored in a cloud of sawdust, their fingers calloused and blistered. Blueprints were given to them to build stage flats for a theatrical production. It was a tedious job, as each flat was identical: four feet by eight feet, and a foot off the ground. The production itself was quite lavish, and so, its set was correspondingly large. The flats would eventually be laid out to create a mammoth, cross-shaped stage.

What better shape and size to display the story of Jesus?

Many weeks went by and the carpenter and his father were true to their task, completing their work on time according to the blueprints given them. Afterward, the flats were neatly stacked in the back of their barn until such time they'd be needed, which was just around the corner.

However, as many things of such magnitude go, there were delays. And then, even more delays. Pretty soon, it became obvious that just around the corner would never come.

Eventually, the flats began to collect dust in the back of carpenter’s barn. One day, the carpenter called to ask if someone would please come and get them. And so, the man in charge of the lavish (albeit stalled) production did just that. He moved the flats and stacked them one by one in the back of an old theater where he hoped to someday perform his play.

Years went by and the play for which the stage was intended, despite all of the man's best efforts and planning and blueprints, well, it never quite made it to the light.

Deep within that theater though, another kind of light crept in. Oddly enough, even without the play, some very needy people from all around the world found a place of warmth and hope. They were loved and served while the theater underwent renovations. Soon, some sections of it were finished and it became a place for them to call their own.

And then, one day, a very passionate Sudanese woman decided that she wanted to send clothing back to her country men and women, many of whom were trying to survive while nearly naked in the neighboring refugee camps of Chad. So she held a clothing drive at the theater. And the clothes came, indeed they came to overflowing: in bushels and bags and they started to fill most of the theater's basement in big piles until such time that they could be shipped overseas.

The man (the one who originally planned to have a play about Jesus) thought it would not be good for the clothes to be on a damp basement floor for very long, and since the theater itself seemed to always be in a state of construction and disarray, he wondered if he could find something -- anything really -- to get the bags off the ground.

Even a foot off the ground would be enough.

So he thought of the flats and he found them in the back of the theater, where they had been quietly stacked for many years, and he began to carefully lay them out, one by one, so that the clothes could be on something dry.

And right around that time, the man believed that a Carpenter and his Father were true to their task, completing it on time for another kind of production; a much less lavish one indeed, with a stage built according to a entirely different set of blueprints.

I suppose man-made projects can still be pretty and perhaps even majestic, but God projects are mysterious, profound and inexplicably true.

The God lakes we drink from.

Chapter 34 He Carefully Untangles Me

2008-04-09T19:02:00.000-07:00

There’s a low growl of pistons exploding beyond me and I stand still, hoping such a storm is approaching. I count the echoes as they defy my silence, and then I lie still and listen as they overlap and threaten each other, over and over some more. It’s coming closer, indeed and I’m nervous, for I’ve lost my way. Again.

Will such a disturbance confront my rebellion and stop to see me, or will I be denied? The collective bleating of a flock is a low hum now, a cackle off in the distance, over and beyond some hill I snuck away from. There are thousands calling out his name at the very moment I am, dare I say millions, and so, just like others bowing to such competition, I forfeit. I will let them have him, for surely I am just one and very unnoticeable.

But he knows me, and he calls me by name, louder and louder still. I know his voice too; I hear it above the thundering lack of a muffler and he’s weeping. I am hoarse from shouting back at the top of my lungs, no less a sheep who has strayed from my Master. I’m caught in a thicket, in this dark exile, my once able limbs broken symbolically in the brush.

Before long his engine is idling and he runs to me. He carefully untangles me and lifts me up and out of it; he fears no emasculation as his tears flow, for he knows they cleanse. Each and every one will cleanse.

“It’s time to ride again, Jeff” he says gently. “But first, a celebration!”

He's not angry? Surely, no one has loved me like this. He knows my name. He knows it like I'm the only sheep around. I was but one, drifting from some ninety-nine in a drove who stayed, and yet he is dancing and beckoning such a feast.

I was lost and now I'm found. That is all the explanation I need.

Sacred Cows

2008-04-04T08:19:00.000-07:00

I was honored to be asked back as a guest editor of the Porpoise Diving Life's monthly e-zine. April is my month, and the theme is "Putting Some Sacred Cows out to Pasture."

Here is where you'll find it.. and you might see some familiar names when you visit!

Thanks,

Jeff

Chapter 33 Lukewarm I Lie Today

2008-03-03T07:59:00.000-08:00

Came in close, I heard a voice
Standing stretching every nerve
Had to listen had no choice
I did not believe the information
(I) just had to trust imagination
My heart going boom boom boom

"Son," he said "Grab your things,
I've come to take you home."

Peter Gabriel “Solsbury Hill”

Early spring is fickle this year, just like always. The Indiana wind is whipping up something fierce and it takes turns deciding whose side it's on. Today it swirls a soothing, temperate gust, but tomorrow it will turn crisp and bitter, nearly cutting into my skin with its forceful rhythms and frigid barbs.

Even so, he stood in the middle of it, out in my cul-de-sac. His ride was leaning heavy into its kickstand and the blustery swirl had no influence on it. The tipping of such vintage steel wasn’t even an option, nor would he waver. His hair was all that moved -- what wasn’t shielded under a tattered bandana was nearly horizontal and it flowed free and easy, with disregard for any seasonal squall.

He was fifty yards or so beyond my comfort, but his eyes spanned it with deep concern. I thought I should tether myself to a pillar, perhaps one of grandeur that adorned my home.

How he didn’t get swept away was beyond me.

And then, just like Peter I doubted my step. Deep water was now a prevailing easterly wind and it would surely carry me to Ohio and beyond. Like another Peter my heart was going boom, boom, boom but I managed to split the distance between us, my eyes on his, and approached close enough to hear him over the storm. I had to listen, I had no choice.

"Son," he said "Grab your things,
I've come to take you home."

I imagined him there, disbelieving his words, but still needing to trust him as real, simply because he wouldn't press his flesh to mine. He had to be there with his dark eyes that always love more and judge less, but even so, he'll no longer trifle with my disobedience.

"But I’m fickle this year, just like always," I say. "I take turns deciding whose side I’m on."

He spread his arms then and I was in the eye of it. He spoke of lukewarm as if I didn’t know and I begged him to make me refreshing: cold to one on a hot day, or hot to another on a cold one.

He was not there to negotiate, my chances gone. And so he repeated.

"Son," he said "Grab your things,
I've come to take you home."

I woke up then and I was still.

The sun is peering over the eastern sky, and lukewarm I lie today. Before I move from this spot, I have no choice but to listen to random gusts beat against the walls with their own forceful rhythm.

I crave some tethering to an unwavering influence, and I know it's him. It's got to be him! The tipping of me can't be an option anymore.

Sweaters

2008-02-11T06:57:00.000-08:00

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

2008-02-05T13:18:00.000-08:00

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

2008-02-01T07:56:00.000-08:00

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.

Chapter 31 Maybe It's All Art

2008-01-25T13:42:00.001-08:00

I kick the dust off this slumber, and I lie awake. As I do, I wonder if this art of mine will persevere. Rubbing my eyes, I hear voices saying that really, what I do -- it's not art at all.

But then I argue. I think that it should be, because I like to toy with words and join them together in print, mixing this one with that, to paint something that I cannot speak. These words I choose have no access to my tongue, nor your ears, but somehow they find a way from my fingertips to your eyes. My brush, such as it is, dabs the color of black on white, with just a glimmer of hope that what's left will somehow color your imagination.

Well, alright. Maybe my particular art isn't obvious enough. True art is found in, uhh .. music. I listen to it and I wish I could make it.

Or in museums. I visit real art in museums. And I study it in history.

Maybe theater. I watch as a thespian reveals his art in a play. Or I watch another, as she dances hers in a ballet.

I reach out and touch art, because a sculptor fashions his hands just so.

A poet muses and finds achievement and accolades in the dawn of some tortured awakening. I read it and I know for sure that it's art.

But, what if art was never meant to be defined as some cultural appreciation of finer things or some pleasure to humanity and its senses? What if, instead, it was every good and noble effort rising out of the depth of mankind's ability to create? What if that which is subtle, or crying out -- that which is emanating from some collective passion and giftedness, becomes, well ... art to the eyes and ears of Another?

Like, maybe it’s all art?

An engineer offers his exactness, just as his wife's cleanliness and style splashes a canvas. Together their home is well designed and clean and very hip, and it hangs on the wall of their neighborhood like a priceless Monet.

Another artist paints comfort to the hurting and affirmation as he lifts a slumping shoulder. His mercy rises off the palette, and it pleases the Almighty.

An architect sets the stage, and a builder depicts the skyline.

A physician, immersed in a world of science and sequential practicality is perhaps unaware of the choreography of her healing, and a God who dances in the rhythm of it.

One man fancies himself a teacher, and rightfully so. A gifted orator, his words are perfect cadence, and they spill off his tongue like a melody. They form the greater sum of his intent so students can learn, and in so doing, they render a symphony to the ears of a Father.

So, my hunch is that God knows of this enduring masterpiece; of what hue we’ll paint to accent the whole, of what chord our instruments will play to delight Him, for He alone bequeathed each talent to us. We are artists, each in our own way, and we must find our fatted calf -- to express it and perform it on the stage of His choosing; yes, an altar to bring a sacrifice of who we are in the midst of the art we create.

I sit on the edge of the bed and for now, my arguing is over, because I think this is true.

That, maybe, just maybe .. it's all art.

Chapter 30 He's Relentless About It

2008-01-15T07:12:00.000-08:00

In the thick and the thin of all that’s indefinite in the days to come, a moment should be taken to reflect on that which is certain and easily known to me and to you.

From where we sit right now, in a room or open sky, in our town and in our day.

I speak of the days that tumble backward into weeks and the months that cascade into years; the very ones that have led us to this exact point in time, with the view outside our windows. The events we’ve known and the decisions we’ve made have shaped us to become who we are. Or who we aren't. Each epoch of our lives until now can be read like a book, with absolute certainty, because they have been. They were real, not imagined.

I wrote that a few years ago, but I think of it often. It's just that ... well, I’m forever being pursued by a faithful God who is eager to show me what He’s been up to, in my life and the lives of those around me. He wants me to get a clue as to what His Kingdom is like. He's relentless about it, and He's after you too, just in case you're wondering.

He loves us that much.

For me, seven long years have passed since I set out to produce a play about Jesus. That’s old news to anyone who has followed this blog. Seven years of grappling with the reasons why I was set on this course. Seven years of stumbling around in the dark of a decrepit old porn theater; seven years spent discovering a Jesus who cares deeply for the poor and the disenfranchised. During that time, my eyes were also opened to a new view of Church (the very Bride we are), and to our Bridegroom (who by the way, looks nothing like the one I had created for my own convenience in the aforementioned play).

To Him, of course, seven years is as an instant, but it takes at least that long for new concepts to get through my thick head. Fast forward to today, and through no foresight of our own, the fledgling non-profit that rose from the ashes of a failed play is knocking on the door of potentially becoming a full-fledged refugee resettlement agency. From fledgling to full-fledged must be how He does it.

We've spent years establishing partnerships and cultivating volunteers, all with good intentions, but never quite knowing the full extent of what those relationships would mean. He knew why, of course. He knew in our un-knowing. So now, when a refugee arrives (the very foreigner His son calls us to love), we have a built-in network available to warmly welcome a stranger. A holistic approach to serving (aka “resettling”) a refugee has been His design and plan for some time, for He knows better than us the extent that someone is stinging from the unspeakable pain of leaving his or her homeland -- one of instability and war, from half-way around the world.

Oh yes, He knows. He always knows.

It is not our place to explain God and the fullness of His plans. It’s a fool’s folly. Certainly a glimpse is all we’re given, but I'm convinced that a glimpse is one of the best gifts He gives us. It's the roadmap He’s pointing us back to. Mine got pretty wrinkled, and the paper is soft from all of the unfolding and re-folding, but it marks a journey from my past to my present. A peek like that may just be the best chance I ever get to know what God's up to, at least in this time we know.

Sure, the roadmap will reveal the many diversions that we've all taken away from Him. It will expose our stubbornness and poor choices. It will surely disclose that we have far to go -- indeed, quite a distance to travel. But there’s a turning, a subtle but true convergence of this road and that, all merging together to ultimately point us due North, and back to His very presence. It's undeniable.

So, all of that to say, what about you? Will you unfold your map and spread it out on the table? Probably a lot of zig-zagging going on. If you're anything like me, you'll need to get out the highlighter and figure out where you've come from and what you've traveled through. And why you did.

What has God been trying to show you all of this time?

These are the decisions that I (and hopefully you) have made, the very choices that we need to find and re-read in the chapters that have been. Because for better or for worse, they brought my fingers to this keyboard, and your eyes to this page, from where we sit, with the view out our window.

And there are more chapters to be written.

Home for Christmas

2007-12-26T05:23:00.001-08:00

Hallie came home Christmas Eve! Thank you so much for your prayers and e-mails of concern for this sweet little niece of mine!

Here's a note from my brother-in-law (also Jeff) and sister Jodi:

Hallie came home today; What a miracle. Jodi and I would like to thank everyone who was praying for little Hallie. It is still hard to believe that she has gone from a future of certain and imminent death to one of health and hope. As I contemplate these past few weeks on the eve of the celebration of God's greatest gift to this world, his son Jesus. I cannot help see in a small way a similarity. God's gift of his son provides, to any one who will accept it, the miracle of eternal life with him in the place of certain death and separation. Like most people in this world, Hallie did not know she was sick. She was born that way. Only after her miracle will she know what a healthy body feels like.

May God bless this special Christmas in your home as he has done in ours. Thank you again for praying for and for coming by to visit Hallie while she was in the hospital.

Jeff and Jodi

Chapter 29 And the Soul Felt Its Worth

2007-12-21T12:06:00.000-08:00

Long lay the world
in sin and error pining
'til he appeared
and the soul felt its worth

Placide Cappeau (1808-1877)

Lest we forget, there’s something so profound and beautiful about this soul, such that One would appear and find it worthy. This is not discovered in the lights, the candy, the wrappings; though perhaps some in the goodwill toward men.

Far more stunning is the gesture, the willingness, the absolute absurdity that He would appear at all. And far be it that He would just make an entrance, to chide and counsel, to draw others to some vague light and mysticism. No, he emerged helpless and weak; and even while soft and human, at least two souls in a lowly manger felt their worth. And then another, a lonely shepherd watching his flock by night. Soon, some wise men too, and thus began the process of souls finding significance, multiplying here and there over thirty-three years. But even those were a pittance; those were just the early investment to bolster a public offering, one which would compound with interest: an explosion of mathematical certainty that was worth every moment in-utero, every hammered thumb of carpentry's youth, and most of all, each and every puddle of blood poured out for souls to come.

Yet, despite it all, the world lay in sin, still to this day, and therein lies the error of an ancient poet, for we are once and forever sinners, each of us errors pining to the end, to our death. We must know why He emerged and made good on prophecies of old. Each and every soul must cry out above these carols and festivities, these tried and true traditions, to find its full value, the high bounty on it; to seek the One who would ransom such rabble.

Shall we realize the payoff now? Shall we cash it in and justly recognize the dividend of each transformed life, of miracles, goodness and grace? Yes, we must, for with each nod of acceptance from the Almighty these souls of ours are sanctified, and they bask in the warmth of His approval; for this, this is why He appeared.

And that is the wonder of Christmas.

12/19 Update

2007-12-15T18:48:00.001-08:00

12/19

Hallie is doing well! Her weight is up and she's been eating a lot, and due to the proper dosage, she's been responding very favorably to her anti-rejection drugs. She's even been getting special treatment from the doctor who invented the drug (how cool is that?). My sister (Jodi) thought they may move her out of intensive care and into a regular room later today.

Your prayers have meant a great deal to Jodi, me and my entire family .. thank you everyone! Please continue lifting up this sweet little girl as you think of her!

Merry Christmas!

Jeff

12/16

Hallie is slowly but surely responding to the anti-rejection medication! Her doctors seem pleased by her progress this past week. Please keep praying as you think of her, and I'll post more updates as I get them. Thank you all for your prayers this week.. they have been so appreciated by everyone!

Jeff

Please Pray for Hallie

2007-12-10T08:02:00.000-08:00

UPDATE 12/10

This past week had been very encouraging as Hallie returned to a healthy color and she emerged fairly happy from anesthesia, looking more healthy than she had in a very long time.

Unfortunately, over the weekend, we learned that her little body has started to reject the new liver. They are removing her from all current anti-rejection medications and replacing those with the strongest anti-rejection drugs available. She will undergo a liver biopsy today. Though the liver itself seems healthy and viable and her blood work has been good, her color is yellowing again and the liver counts are dangerously low. They are hoping that these new drugs will reverse the situation. If not, Hallie will be placed first on the nationwide donor list for a liver transplant. This will hopefully provide another liver more quickly, but of course it will require a second major surgery for this 11 pound, 10 month old little girl.

Your prayers are so appreciated, and please pass this link on to others whom you know will pray. We know of a omnipotent Father who is painfully aware of this situation and yet, He still uses our petitions to move mountains.

Thanks everyone,

Jeff

Chapter 28 There's No Other White Like This

2007-12-03T11:22:00.000-08:00

I shouldn't wear white to our wedding. This gown should be gray, or ashen. It should be smudged in random places with oily black. Perhaps some color of sin, like scarlet, could be woven in the threads.

Our engagement has been long, and I’ve not been faithful. You know I’ve chosen other lovers. I’ve taunted you, my Groom, and threatened to leave. I’ve flaunted my betrayal in your face while you’ve wept for me. The ring of promise you gave me is tarnished, and the stone, chipped. I’ve taken it off or moved it to another finger more times than I care to remember. Quite often, it just didn’t fit, so I'd replace it with baubles and trinkets.

Of course, over the years, I’ve used your name when it was helpful, to deceive others and advance my cause. I still do, actually. To reveal that I’m betrothed can be quite beneficial, when I want it to be. Especially when those very same others realize who it is I’m going to marry.

You know all of this, but still, you wait, unwavering. My infidelity has been tragic, yet your passion for me has been unrequited. My loyalty has been sporadic, while you remain steadfast.

And here we are, after all of this time. We’ve chosen Christmas for our wedding day. You’ve always said that this age would come to an end, and you were right. The months evolved into generations, and the seasons into epochs. After two thousand years, we’ve come full circle, for this is a time of profound love.

And Love is who you are.

The orchestra has begun and I smell the feast awaiting us. I’m sitting in the back room where I wait nervously, as any bride would. I look down into my lap and I smooth the brilliant white of this silk and satin. There's no other white like this.

You’re not supposed to come and see me, but you do, and you’re smiling. I can’t understand why you haven't given up on me, or why you would want me after all these years; after all I've done.

But yet, somehow, you love me even more, for I am your Church.

~~~

I wake up then, still caught in the grandeur of this expectant dream.

I have matured, and I’ve grown; I've learned from my mistakes. Yes, I know that my eyes still wander. My motives aren’t always pure. I get distracted by unimportant things.

We’ve still a month to go, so I’ve got some time; more time for dreaming and waking. Indeed, I've still some waking up to do.

By Christmas, you'll see. Just you wait and see. I promise that I’ll be Bride you’ve been dreaming of, too.

Update on Hallie

2007-12-03T10:47:00.000-08:00

UPDATE 12/3

I'm happy to report that Hallie has a new liver!

In a flurry of activity over the weekend, a 24 year-old woman passed away, and she had designated that all of her organs could be donated. She helped and perhaps saved the life of many people with that sacrifice, Hallie being just one of them.

Hallie is doing well after the surgery and is still under heavy anesthesia. Please pray that everything will go well as her little body heals and as it adapts to this new liver.

Please also pray for the loved ones of the woman who died.

Thank you for your prayers!!

Jeff

Chapter 27 Those Italics are Mine

2007-11-19T11:24:00.000-08:00

Yeah, I know you told me to drop everything and follow you.

And so I did.

But when I dropped everything, there was this knee-jerk reaction to pick it all back up, because I couldn't have pieces of my life scattered everywhere, now could I?

Somehow, though, I was able to keep everything in disarray and follow you with abandon, but I still knew you were going to send those people. I hope you didn't watch my eyes. You would have seen I wasn't focused. Wasn't paying very close attention. Too much stuff on the floor. Who could concentrate with all of that clutter?

Fast forward to today and I’m still looking at what I dropped and how I can go and grab it and be busy again, because if I’m busy, I’m safe. Not only am I safe, but in my highly industrious, albeit hectic state, others perceive me as vital and significant, and, therefore, too important. Then, they don’t expect any more from me than I have time to give.

Which is why I'm so good at finding someone else who can help. That's what I do.

It sounds like it’s all about me, my time, and my boundaries, but if everyone would just chalk it up as my spiritual gift, well, then they would understand that I don't have the wherewithal or skill-set to enter into true intimacy with anyone.

Least of all the least of these.

So, I guess what I'm saying is, yeah, I did drop everything, and I did follow you, and that got me here, but you've got to let me straighten things up again. The room must be neat and clean and orderly so that others may enter in, you know, to an uncluttered place so that they can find what it is they’re looking for. And that's you, I hope.

I’m a facilitator. I’m a conduit. Yes, that is my role. I’m a four lane highway of over anxious efficiency, because I have to be, to help you be all that you can be.

I know, you're probably thinking that I’m avoiding something. But, so is everyone else. At the heart of each weakness and each failure is the avoidance of that one thing which, if we faced it, we’d be different and altogether better people. I get it.

That one guy we all know, he avoids responsibility. The woman we're thinking of – sure, we can all see her – she avoids frivolity.

That crazy uncle, the one that every family has, he's off in the corner, his head hung low. He avoids his past.

And the woman in the window or crossing the street, or folding the laundry in the next room, she avoids what the future holds. As best she can.

Some avoid commitment. Or maybe it's confrontation. Others avoid peace. Still others avoid the truth like it’s the plague.

Even as someone might read this, he or she, well, they're trying to figure out what that nagging little thing is that always gets avoided in their own life. Or maybe it’s not so little. Maybe it’s that big gorilla in the room.

But, then with some kind of audacity you say, “I came with the authority of my Father, and you either dismiss me..”

Gulp.

“…or avoid me.” (John 5:43)

Those italics right there, those are mine. I can just hear you saying it. Like I would ever have the gall to avoid you. Of course I’m not avoiding you. I’m just capitalizing on my strengths.

Yeah, my strengths.

***

And so it was, this past Saturday, that I sat in the Rialto and I conducted intake for our new legal clinic. We’ve started off small, only once a month, but word is starting to get out on the street, simply that our volunteer attorneys are available to listen and help, and it’s all for free.

It was a beautiful sight, really, to witness people in our old porn theater; those seeking refuge in this town, from various African nations, and God knows where else.

Ahem. Sorry. You know where else.

Others came from just down the street. It didn’t matter. They each had a need for justice in their lives, so they showed up.

I had them fill out forms, and I offered them water or coffee or hot chocolate. I made sure they were comfortable as they waited. Waited for those attorneys to help them.

I put together our Christmas trees while they patiently sat there. I made sure I was busy. God forbid I go and sit with them and learn their name and enter in their lives.

And then, dammit, you startled me and I dropped everything all over again because you caught me off guard and you were almost yelling when you said,

“You avoided me!”

Those italics are mine.

Chapter 26 Fan this Ember

2007-10-11T13:38:00.000-07:00

There is a faint hope worth clinging to; it flickers, against all odds, as a slow burning cinder in an otherwise dark and windowless room.

It can’t be extinguished, not by us. Not by anyone. We know it’s there, in the corner, lighting a small space. Were it not there, death and fear would overtake us.

This hope, this ember, is eternal.

But, still, even while it illuminates the distance, it’s too far; it’s much too far from these tactile, temporary senses of ours. We’re on the other side, allowing our eyes to adjust to the darkness, letting the meager light it gives be all that we need. All that we require.

This hope, such as it is, won’t satisfy like the competing darkness, like momentary folly. In the dark, we’ve learned how to live. I can see an outline of you. You can see an outline of me.

And that’s good enough.

This hope, this goodness – we excuse it because we need it to burn brighter and hotter, and fight for us more tenaciously, white knuckled and impassioned. Otherwise, it’s – well, it’s just there. It's just a little light. Yes, it's a little light of mine, but it's not shining.

Perhaps it can’t be all that we want. Maybe it's not all that it's cracked up to be. Come on, it can’t possibly sustain us and light the path of our scattered thoughts; it can’t brighten our consuming distractions. How could it possibly illuminate our selfish intentions?

Better yet, let's continue to co-exist with these demons, ones who’ve been previously welcomed as some twisted guests of honor. This self of mine is tragic, even criminal at times.

Best you see just a shadow of me.

But maybe, just maybe, if we collectively exhale, we can fan this ember into a flame. Maybe even more than a flame. Could it rage, engulf and consume our wickedness? Could we then see each other for who we really are?

I, for one, would like that, I think.

Yes, this hope must burn brighter. Hotter. It has to, because I need to know that someday, I won’t be selfish anymore.

And you won’t use such harsh words.

I won’t lose my temper.

And you won’t be critical of my dreams.

I won’t withhold love.

And you won’t manipulate me.

I won’t sneak away and keep harmful secrets.

You won’t judge me if I finally share those secrets.

I won’t look for a quick fix.

You won’t pretend that you know it all.

Together we won’t seek out coping devices to disguise our insecurities, our fears, our inadequacies.

This all makes sense!

Yes, this hope must burn with an intensity, such that shadows can’t creep in. Look at me full and exposed, and let me see you too!

This is a hope worth clinging to.

Update on Hallie

2007-10-10T05:37:00.000-07:00

2007-10-03T07:17:00.000-07:00

I may be wayyy behind on this, so forgive me if you've already seen this clip.

For the record, I'm a typical guy. Not too many tears comin' out of me unless I hit my thumb with a hammer.

But, dammit all, if this didn't make me cry like a baby.

I dare you to keep a dry eye during this:

Paul Potts

Chapter 6, 7 & 8

2007-09-26T11:55:00.000-07:00

are up!

OK, so maybe I STILL feel like a dork telling you when chapters are up, but if you want to stop by and read about Sentry's continuing adventures, I've made it through Chapter 8.

And, who knows, when you encounter yet ANOTHER construction zone in your town, you may just wonder .. what's really caused these roads to need repair?

Your comments thus far and interest in the plot have been most rewarding and encouraging :-)

Thank you!

Jeff

Sentry Merged Left, Chapter 4

2007-09-25T07:30:00.000-07:00

Check it out ... here!

Sentry Merged Left, Chapter 3

2007-09-20T07:47:00.000-07:00

is up!

For those of you reading.. thank you! Your comments have been most kind and encouraging :-)

Sentry Merged Left, Chapter 2

2007-09-17T07:15:00.000-07:00

You can find it here!

This Very Cool Couple

2007-09-13T11:27:00.000-07:00

Wow.. Some of you are going to be sooo jealous because I got to have lunch yesterday with none other than Becky Kenealy (and her awesome husband Dan). Becky is just as warm and genuine and kind as you'd imagine from reading her blog, and it was a true pleasure to spend some time with this very cool couple. Thank you Becky and Dan for taking the time to swing by Fort Wayne on your multi-state motorcycle ride!

Also, have a quick clarifying prayer request. You saw in my recent whiny post that publishing efforts are fraught with various forms of torture at every turn, not the least of which is waiting and then, well, rejection. You can't sugar coat it -- it just is what it is. My problem is that I don't turn the whole thing over to prayer and let it go like I should. I hold onto the good the bad and the ugly of the process like grim death.

I'm a little thick headed that way.

With that said, below are the publishing houses that have rejected it, and the others (in red) still remain as possibilities, though Steve Laube (that agent o' mine) considers them more in the "distant" possibility category. The landing of an agent was a very good thing, but this good thing won't last forever.

Essentially, if these don't work out, I'm back to marketing it on my own.

So, distant or not, I'm pretty sure that God is capable of the type of miracle necessary to turn it around. Yes, it be true.. anything is possible through Him. Can I get an amen?

Any and all prayers would truly be appreciated!!

In the "still possible" category:

Zondervan
Revell
FaithWords/Hachette
Berkley/Penguin
Howard/Simon & Schuster
NavPress
IVP

Rejected (how could they?)

Moody
Jossey-Bass
Waterbrook/Random House
Thomas Nelson
Cook Communications
Regal Books
Broadman

Reviewing Sentry Merged Left

2007-08-23T12:15:00.000-07:00

You've probably noticed that I've been veering from my usual stuff and writing more fiction than usual, which is really what I love to do.

Anyhow, I'm trying to write a story that's been floating around in my head for a while, and it all started with my oldest son pointing to a construction sign that pointed us to merge lanes, but there was no construction afterward.

Nothing, for miles.

Anyhow, after numerous false starts with my writing over the years, I started blogging in 2004, and if it wasn't for this process I never would have finished anything, let alone the book that is floating to my right in the sidebar.

So, all of that to say, it's much more fun to have you with me during the process as I tackle this particular story.

I was wondering if you'd be so kind as to read it and give me your feedback? I hope to post at least one chapter a week until it is finished as an entire book, but it will be on a different blog, which I'll point you to for Chapter 2.

Throughout the process it will be officially cleaned up by an awesome editor (yes, that means you, Leslie) and into a book proposal, then to the very cool agent who is representing me for the other rabble I've written (though he tells me he doesn't handle this kind of material, so we'll just have to change his mind about that).

This would of course make you, my beloved five or six readers, front seat to a process which, start to finish, has about 98% chance of crashing and burning.

But it's fun nonetheless.

(If you can't tell, I'm only a little bit cynical about the publishing process, and this is because out of fifteen publishers that said very cool agent has submitted So I Go Now to -- now called A Carpenter at the Rialto -- I've received six rejections, albeit very nice ones. Six down, nine to go, so maybe you could lift up a prayer. )

(i'm waiting)

Thank you!! Oh, and by the way, the waiting game while trying to get a book published is excruciating. I think it should be a new form of torture.

Alright already, enough of my whining.

Chapter 1, below!

thanks..

Jeff

Sentry Merged Left ~ Chapter 1

2007-08-23T06:25:00.000-07:00

Not too long ago, on a muggy Thursday evening in late August, sixteen-year-old Sentry set out upon a bicycle ride.

It was a ride that would soon change the course of his young life.

Now before this ride, Sentry would describe being sixteen as awful and awkward and full of various injustices. Nothing was ever fair and he was indeed a victim, receiving daily doses of horrific and undeserved treatment from someone in authority over him.

To begin with, Sentry endured no end of torment due to his rather unusual first name. For this, he blamed his parents. Who would do such a thing?

In fact, Sentry was often asked if his was a family name, to which he always responded, “It is now.”

Still, despite the idiocy of their choice in giving him such a ridiculous name, weathering that abuse had become mostly tolerable, especially when compared to something of more pressing concern. Something far more humiliating.

You see, Sentry (being properly and legally licensed to drive a car since early spring) was unduly forced, for the entirety of the summer, to rely not upon a motor vehicle, but instead upon the aforementioned bicycle as his main form of transportation.

Making matters worse – much, much worse – was that Sentry's friends (nearly all of them) were rich. And they each drove around in their very own cars as if it was natural and normal and expected. Sentry's parents would not extend the same courtesy, though, and used the convenient excuse of not having enough money for such luxuries, as if that would somehow pacify their son.

Additionally, they did not think it wise that he should borrow one of their cars, unless of course, they were also present as passengers. This was utterly unacceptable to Sentry, who felt this to be harassment, and yet another cruel feature of their ongoing persecution.

Other tales of woe could certainly be shared, but suffice it to say, the ride Sentry would take on this muggy night was indeed on a bicycle, and it was obviously a quite necessary ride to clear his awkward, tormented, abused, harassed and altogether persecuted sixteen-year-old head.

And it was on this sad form of transportation that Sentry turned westward, as he had on many occasions over the summer, away from his home and quickly on toward the last shadings of daylight. The breeze cooled him as he picked up speed and veered onto a hilly and bendy country road bordering thick woods to the south – woods which came alive with the sounds of the night and always seemed to usher in the darkness a little earlier than the rest of his town.

The sharp turns in the road concealed the potential of traffic in either direction, so he paid close attention to what was coming over each rise and around each bend. Having no lights on his bike, Sentry presumed correctly that his reflectors would be of little use, especially if a passing driver couldn't see him until the last minute.

Still, for an otherwise well-traveled road, it seemed as if he was all alone, and had been for quite some time. It felt right and good, however, for Sentry was the oldest of four children and because of this, he was rarely alone, but for these evening rides.

The sounds of the forest were nearing a fevered pitch and up ahead, there was a short flat stretch in the road. Sentry took a brief opportunity to take his hands off the handlebars and look up at the dim August moon, all the while marveling at his ability to balance.

The next hill approached more suddenly than anticipated, so he quickly regained control of his bike.

For the first time that night, there was light up ahead; yet it was pale and blinking in the creeping dusk – not the ever-intensifying white brightness of headlights.

As he cleared the crest of the hill, he discovered the source of it: a big, yellow road construction sign with an arrow pointing south, toward the woods. It demanded action, to merge left, for it signaled construction that was underway immediately, or very soon afterward.

So, Sentry merged left, even on his bike.

As he passed by, there was a clicking sound that became noticeable; the bulbs switching on and off. He rode further, just beyond the arrow, but there was nothing to suggest the reason for the sign. No construction, no torn up road. No barrels. No work crew.

He continued up over the next hill and down the road a bit.

Still nothing.

So, Sentry circled back to the solitary arrow pointing south, blinking, and clicking with silence in between. The air felt stifling to him and he was more alone than ever now, on the border of the woods, an ever darkening scene around him.

The night creatures and insects stopped chirping, their concert over for the moment. He should have turned around and returned home, but instead he laid his bike down on the ground, on the side of the road, behind the big sign, its construction arrow illuminating his surroundings as if on cue.

Blinking, clicking. Blinking, clicking.

And right about then, a whimper was heard, and a girl quite familiar to Sentry emerged from the woods, pale and panting, her dress torn.

More Prayer Needed for Hallie

2007-08-16T08:54:00.000-07:00

UPDATE 10/10

Not much to report, other than Hallie is stable at home and enjoying the company of her family. Family members have been tested, and she remains #1 on the donor transplant list for the entire state of NY! That gives her doctors the luxury of being highly selective with regard to the liver they pick.

So, we wait.

Thank you so much for your prayers, and even now, I know everyone could use a few more! Pray that God would see fit to provide the perfect liver for this sweet little girl, however that may come about.

Blessings!

Jeff

UPDATE 9/4

I was with Hallie over the Labor Day weekend and she's just as sweet as she looks in this picture! Unfortunately, she has a lot of lines running into her for medication and the inevitability of her upcoming surgery, but she remains a trooper even at her young age. Thank you for your prayers; the entire family could use them as they navigate through this difficult season. A donor could surface at any time (unfortunately through someone else's misfortune) or my sister could be the proper match, leading to a transplant surgery in the upcoming weeks.

UPDATE 8/21
Keep praying everyone! Hallie is stable (and still smiling) but everyone is playing the waiting game for a donor. We don't have a firm date on a surgery, but it could take place at any time if the donor is a match. Jodi is being tested all of this week to see if her liver could work, and if so, the surgery would take place in mid-September. NY has a two week waiting period for donors to change their mind, even if it involves the parents.

Thanks to everyone for your e-mails and your ongoing prayers :-)

UPDATE 8/15

Well, friends.. need to ask for more prayer! Hallie needs a liver transplant. Her father (Jeff) was tested and the surgery was all set for 8/21, except they've now determined the match will not work, and they've cancelled it. She's been moved to the top of the transfer list where they live in Rochester, and her mother (my sister ~ Jodi) is now being tested as well. Please offer up prayer on Hallie's behalf, as well as for Jeff, Jodi and family.

UPDATE (5/7):

She's home!!

She's on quite a few medications to ward off infection, and needs to keep weight on, but hopefully all will remain calm in this sweet little girl's road to recovery.

Once again, I thank you all for your prayers.
Blessings to you and yours..

Jeff

UPDATE (5/1):

Hallie is out of the ICU and is currently in the pediatric ward. The intricate pattern of tubes and IV's are starting to fall away one by one.
Hopefully my next update will be that Hallie is at home with her family!

Biliary Atresia isn't something that can be completely healed, but the surgery she just endured will allow her to lead a mostly normal life. A liver transplant may be necessary in the years ahead.

I'm so grateful for all of you and the time you're taking to pray for this sweet little girl. Thank you!!

UPDATE (4/27):

Each day is better for Hallie! Her temperature is holding steady, kidney function is still good, and she's quietly recovering from her surgeries. She's been opening her eyes from time to time and the Dr.s hope to get her off the ventilator over the weekend.

The power of prayer is undeniable. Thank you for the part you've played (and will hopefully still play) in her ongoing recovery!

UPDATE (4/24):

Thank you SO much for your prayers and your encouraging e-mails. Currently, Hallie is stable. They've been able to get her kidney function under control and her fever has broken, which the doctors were pleased with. She's not out of the woods yet, and so much seems to change at any given moment, so I'd appreciate your ongoing prayers! ~ Jeff

Hey everyone ~

Could you lift up a prayer for my niece Hallie? She's 2 months old and was born with a condition called Biliary Atresia. She needed surgery last week to repair the bile ducts in her liver, and since that time she's needed a second surgery to repair an intestinal kink. I received a call this morning that she's not doing well at all .. kidney function is not where it needs to be.

Any prayers you can offer on Hallie's behalf, as well as my sister Jodi, brother-in-law Jeff and family would be much appreciated.

Please also pass this on to others that you know will pray. I will post updates as I get them.

Blessings, and thanks ~

Jeff

Abandon Returns

2007-08-13T06:17:00.000-07:00

Many of you know that I live in something of an imaginary world. I like to dream up characters and weave tales and use words as art to draw myself (and maybe you) toward a very real truth. I'm a little nutty, but you've all been kind enough to stick with me.

With that said, it's an incredible honor to invite some friends to join in on this process; to watch them inject life into a fictional person and to see pieces of themselves revealed in the story.

As fate would have it, this very character -- whom we've collectively penned -- well, he sort of disappeared and wandered for a while, much like what can happen to each of us in our very non-fictional lives.

But, thankfully, he's back.

Here are the chapters, thus far, of this progressive story in seven parts. All of the contributors have done an amazing job!

I hope you enjoy them as much as I have.

part I ~ here.

part II ~ here.

part III ~ here.

part IV ~ here.

part V ~ here.

Stay tuned for VI and VII!

Chapter 25 Try and Love One Another Right Now

2007-08-08T12:34:00.000-07:00

Come on people now
Smile on your brother
Everybody get together
Try and love one another right now.

The Youngbloods

It really isn't necessary for you to dig out any of those flower-power songs from the sixties. Just look around you. What's old is new again.

Love is making a comeback.

You gotta admit, though -- in Christendom, we had a pretty good run without it.

We ignored it.

We hushed it away.

We put conditions upon it or saved it for special occasions.

We released it in small portions when the timing was right (and when others were looking).

When they weren't, we gave love a back seat during our debate and our discourse.

We sent it off to foreign lands.

Ultimately, we buried it.

But love would not be denied. In fact, never designed to play second fiddle, it was marking its return while we were still underestimating it, assuming it to be some fickle and quirky emotion.

Not even close.

You see, if we take the Word at his word, then it's pretty clear that Love itself hovered over the waters even before the world began. The Word, being marked by Love, was with God, and through the Word, all things were made. In the very beginning, Love was present.

Love was the grand Designer of it all.

And true to form, at just the right time, the Word became Jesus, at Christmastime to be exact; a cosmic shrinking of an all powerful Creator into a mere human: a carpenter (so he could still make things with his hands). He was a man, but only because he allowed himself to be; not on some whim, some lost bet, but because he knew he must overcome all challengers. Love needed a comeback and so he delivered himself; for someone such as me, and someone such as you. For humanity as a whole.

The Word, because of Love, got out.

It makes no sense, but who could make this up? There he was, Love come down, walking this earth, a supreme Power in everyday skin, knowing full well that the sand between his toes, the stones of the Temple, the fig upon the tree, the beak of the bird, the sun, moon and stars, all came into being because of him.

And through him.

We know he was here -- the history books tell us that. But we also know that history repeats itself, because back then, too, they did their best to push Love down.

They hushed him away.

They put conditions upon him (they had also enjoyed a good run without him).

Then, they buried him.

Yet, here’s the thing about Love: because of him, the forces of hate never had a chance. Death had finally met its match.

But it wasn't easy. This was not a light-at-the-end-of the-tunnel return from death where a man lay helpless on a hospital table and for a minute or even an hour he teeters between waking and sleeping until a doctor shocks him back into reality with enough memory intact to weave his tale of the afterlife.

No, this man beat death after being beaten himself, this very Love pierced and brutalized into submission. No one took out the paddles, nurses sourrounding, waiting for a charge that would save his life. He was deserted in a tomb to go the path of all other bodies before him.

He was ignored and sent away, and for three days he fought the battle on his own.

But you know what? Love won. He brought himself back to life. He delivered his comeback and he lives; then, now, and evermore.

Love will not be denied.

Well of course! This all makes sense because Love created and still sustains all life in its own image. Love persevered, and once again, it's making a comeback.

We were designed to love. What's old is new again.

So, come on people now, smile on your brother, everybody get together ..

Sing it with me:

Try and love one another right now.

Chapter 24 Almost Identical to the Big Dipper, Part 7

2007-07-30T19:12:00.000-07:00

I watched as silver-tinted clouds stretched like fingers across the night sky. Partially obscured, the moon fought back, proud and resilient, reflecting its light for a few remaining moments. Soon it relented, as more oppressive clusters formed and banished its efforts to the dark.

It grew cold then and thunder claps began to echo, growling like twins in the east and west, mimicking and overlapping upon themselves.

A mist began to settle on my eyelashes and the wide leaves above me started to wither; for the night, or maybe they were banished too? I rummaged around and found an old jacket in my car and with it I made a pillow. I curled up in a fetal position to ward off the chill in the air, and seven stars, albeit freckles on my inner knee, formed a drinking gourd with a ladle tip pointing right down a dark road off the parking lot—one with no street lights, made even darker as the storm approached.

Still, with the ominous shift in my surroundings, I felt at peace. I think mostly because the space bridging what had begun in this parking lot vigil, and what would soon be my present moment— both begged for a sort of enlightenment, an awakening that would somehow tie this and that together, and everything else in between.

And with those extra Coronas (which I had to drink, due in no small part to my non-consenting, non-Jesus characters), sleep came easy. As I began to drift, I wasn't worried about time, assuming the storm would soon startle and awaken me. Surely, though, sleep itself was a portal back to reality, some double negative to render the opposite, for I had a hunch, and maybe you do too, that this was all a dream and at any moment my best friend and lover and wife (all wrapped up in one person) would finally emerge and she’d wake me and laugh—you know, at me—for somehow finding sleep during the five minutes she ran into the store.

But reality would need to wait a little longer, for the storm I anticipated actually heralded a calm, and right then and there I knew I was in the center of it.

People from all over my town emerged from their homes, baskets in hand, smiling as they prepared for some midnight eye-of-the-storm feast. Men set up huge tables and women fluffed tablecloths in the wind; all culture and color and creed mixed together and discriminating lines dividing this one and that were removed. Loaves of bread were surrounded by a cornucopia of vegetables and fruits, cheeses and meats. Wine flowed and the remaining Coronas multiplied and were placed in tin buckets of ice, with large, luscious limes sliced in wooden bowls all around.

Children gathered instruments from what they could find and they formed a band and started to play. Dancing began soon thereafter, and women with long skirts and flushed cheeks twirled, their suitors strong and proud. A warm summer breeze replaced the misty chill of the night; and the tree with the narrow branches and wide leaves found new life, banished no more.

Right before me, the paralyzed stood up from their wheelchairs and shadowed corners, jumping in with the dancers. The blind dropped their canes and stared in amazement at their hands, their feet, their neighbors. The hungry sidled up to the tables and ate with abandon. The homeless joined together and jingled keys to their mansions; their laughter contagious.

The last were first at this party.

The smart ass from the store ran out and she embraced me, thanking me for my honesty, and reminding me that even the smallest acts of kindness can create quite a stir, pointing to the celebration all around.

After a few hours of this, something most unusual happened. I saw three figures walking toward me, their faces shadowed (though I'm certain they were the ones who looked, sounded and even smelled like Jesus to me). They walked through the crowds, past me and to the west, and they bowed down in worship, yielding in unison to the one true Christ in the distance, encouraging me to do the same.

So, I looked in that direction, down the dark road with no street lights and there was the source of thunder. It was him, and soon it made sense: he was the fourth all along, and a party like this had to be of his doing. He'd been planning it for a long time. A really long time.

I'm not sure if we'll ever share a Corona together, but people often ask me what it was I saw coming toward me on the brink of that dawn. I tell them:

"I saw him riding in on a Harley, the Jesus of my day. His hair was long and wild from the wind and it looked like he'd been on the road for a while. But his eyes were still bright, and he smiled when he saw me. I guess he traveled light, because his saddlebags were mostly empty.

In a cloud of dirt and dust he called me over. I wasn't sure what to do, but I was drawn to him so I went. As I got closer, he put his hand on my shoulder and he promised me a great adventure. I believed him, but I asked him to wait. I needed to take care of a few things because my plate was full.

When he heard that, his strong hand grabbed hold of the clutch and he raced the engine. He told me that now was the time.

And it felt like a dream and maybe it was, but I dropped it all on the ground—everything— because I wanted to die to the details.

Then I got on the back of his Harley and we rode."

The End

(or maybe, The Beginning)

*******

I really do have a series of freckles on the inside of my left knee which are almost identical to the Big Dipper. That part was real.

Chapter 23 Almost Identical to the Big Dipper, Part 6

2007-07-23T08:58:00.000-07:00

As I waited for a third visitor, a bright moon hovered over me and became my steady companion. And as you know by now, I was also joined by two other companions, those being the extra Coronas which had not been consumed by two individuals: one, who had previously looked like Jesus to me; and the other, who sounded just as I thought he should.

So, in the wake of their dismissal, I guess you could say I drank their beers. It was all part of a closure ritual for me.

I'm sure you understand.

Anyhow, the minutes started overlapping into hours and pretty soon I had lost track of time altogether. I began drifting in and out of what I assumed was a conscious, waking moment.

(I mean, how could it NOT be if it started with these freckles? You know, the very ones on the inside of my left knee? The ones that are almost identical to the Big Dipper?)

I shut my eyes and within seconds there was a subtle scent wafting, and it was noticeable even above the pungent stench of empty beer bottles. It was the most unusual of odors, yet as the wind whipped up once more, it became overwhelming. It emerged as oddly familiar: some combination of damp stone, incense and smoke, mixed in with musty carpeting, oil and red oak; dusty books, crumbling binders.

And stale coffee.

Soon, he was in front of me—the source of it all—and he embodied some solemn memory of that which is quiet and still. His eyes were kind, yet stern; sleepy yet serious.

Intuitively I knew I shouldn’t move or crack or giggle. And you shouldn’t either, because then I’ll never be able to stop.

Four beers into this, I get it: I’m being tested. Jesus reduced to sight, sound and smell.

True to other smells, my senses were overcome and they returned me to the place where Jesus lived, right exactly where I was required to go each week, to know him and be delivered; to let light out from under my bushel and learn what it meant to be good. Adults with starched collars and coffee on their breath surrounded me as they made their olfactory contributions (perhaps unknowingly) to memories; to aromatic bombardments of the iconic sort.

And all that filled my nostrils left some indelible imprint, these sensory trappings of wood and brick, of Jesus contained.

I counted down the minutes and finally it was over and I could move. I could squirm and run and stretch. I could approach him, shake his hand and smile. The cloth of his robe, the very fabric held firmly each scent: a bouquet of church.

But I was hushed and hurried along, for this was a very busy man tending to a desperately needy flock.

As he released my hand, I opened my eyes and I was an adult, and he was next to me, under that tree with narrow branches and wide leaves. He smelled like every bit of Jesus, pieces and parcels from years gone by. Yet I knew, I just knew for all of his good intentions—now and throughout the years—he wasn’t the One.

He withdrew in a hurry, for the warm smells of a pot luck summoned from the basement, and only he could say the blessing.

No time for a beer, I suppose.

Chapter 22 Almost Identical to the Big Dipper, Part 5

2007-07-13T13:34:00.001-07:00

I waited there for a while, seemingly alone as a cool evening breeze started to toss and sway and bring life to my parking lot vigil.

Halfway through my second beer, I ran my finger along the Corona label, which has always been fascinating to me. Well, the entire bottle is, actually, because most beer makers don't use the clear glass anymore; too many problems with sunlight messing up the quality and taste and such. Apparently, the Corona makers keep their supply in good shade until it's ready to come out, and we all know that the solid cardboard case keeps out light too.

Whatever the case may be (no pun intended), I think the clear bottle makes it taste the way it does and I happen to like it. Maybe you do too.

Now, the Corona name could mean just about anything: from a cigar to a crown to a part of a flower. Some others may have told you they’ve had a spiritual awakening while enjoying a Corona or two.

Or six.

It could be that they’ve taken yet another meaning of Corona a little too seriously, that being the colorful, hazy ring surrounding the sun or the moon. It’s caused by ionized gas and light colliding and it’s quite a beautiful, if not an altogether spiritual experience. You know, St. Elmo’s fire kind of stuff.

But then again, it is just beer.

Regardless, there was no Jesus #2 anywhere in sight, so I rested my head back and shut my eyes, allowing the breeze to dance over me. I listened as the voices of those coming and going overlapped and formed something of a symphony with other night sounds.

And then, there was a whisper.

“Greetings, my child.”

I spun around and looked in every direction, but I was still alone.

“I am here, trust me.”

But he wasn't, really—here, that is. At least I couldn’t see him. How many Coronas had I downed?

“Seek not my face, for I’ve been consecrated.”

Well, he certainly sounded like Jesus, I suppose.

“Is that why I can’t see you?” It came out like a demand, but that was probably the beer talking.

The breeze picked up and swirled in front of me.

“You’ll see me, but not here, for I don’t reside in such places. Yours is not to wonder why, but to follow and know the rituals and rites as set forth by those before you. Only through this may you come to me.”

Huh?

“Well, what if I don’t?”

(I know many who find him that way, and that's great, but if that’s not my bag, was he saying there'd be no chance for us?)

He was silent. It was a deafening silence and I started to feel it on my skin. I was becoming more than a little afraid, and wanted to take back my question. After a painfully long pause, he temporarily broke the tension:

“You’re a fan of Springsteen, aren’t you?”

That was the last thing I expected him to ask.

“Actually, yes, I am.”

The wind whipped up even more and goosebumps appeared on my arms. The tree with the narrow branches and wide leaves started to engulf me, and suddenly I was quite aware of the darkness. I felt the freckles (which are almost identical to the Big Dipper) searing my skin.

“Fear’s a powerful thing, baby.”

He sang it, just like that, and again he sounded pretty good, this whisper and shadow of a Savior.

“Submit yourself to a healthy fear of me, and find your peace only among the brethren, the saints, the priests who will intercede on your behalf. Hold vigil for me, but not here among the commoners.”

That was all it took. Why could anyone at any time come to him then, but not now? Wasn't the most repeated command in the Bible fear not?

So, I resurrected the Jersey chutzpah of my youth, and it seemed serendipitous as I prepared to confront yet another of my childhood misunderstandings about Jesus.

“You forgot the rest. Fear is a powerful thing, but…” (I gave him my best Boss):

“It can turn your heart black you can trust. It’ll take your God-filled soul, and fill it with devils and dust.”

And, just like that, the mini parking-lot-typhoon ended. One thing I do know: however we get to Jesus, whether here or there or anywhere, we shouldn't be afraid.

There was a faint ring of light hovering and mimicking at least one meaning of the beer I was drinking. It was fleeting, though, and not so beautiful. My mini-constellation stopped burning and then, it was just me again, wondering who or what had just spoken to me.

He sounded fine at first, this Jesus impersonator, but then I saw right through him.

Just like the empty bottle I was holding.

Chapter 21 Almost Identical to the Big Dipper, Part 4

2007-07-06T06:47:00.000-07:00

Before he even opened his mouth, I knew it couldn’t be him. There was a frown of disapproval hovering over his brow as he approached, and just like that, I was ashamed.

Like maybe I was at a certain kind of church.

“You shouldn’t be drinking beer out in the open like this.”

He didn’t even say “hello.”

“You call yourself a Christian, but child, you must be vigilant about appearances.”

Oh, he was definitely not Jesus.

“One sip is all it takes and you’re on the road toward alcoholism and addiction and a full tearing away of your moral fiber. You do not want people knowing about your weakness in this area.”

As I said, he certainly looked the part of Jesus (or at least what we’ve come to expect of those who represent the house where Jesus is said to reside). He was clean shaven, conservative and wore his collar tight. His shoes were shined and everything about him appeared quite respectable.

Something inside me -- or maybe an accumulation of somethings from my childhood -- made me feel as if I should defer all decisions to his wise counsel.

And he wasn’t joking about the beer.

“I think you need to put that bottle down and come to my office,” he chastised me.

“But..”

He cut me off.

“No buts. Put it down.” He looked over his shoulder. “You never know who is walking out of that store.”

I found it strange that he seemed more concerned about what others might see.

Come to think of it, I’ve literally spent years trying to shake off this image of Jesus, and wouldn't you know, here he was, standing right in front of me. Literally.

So, I finally had a chance to do something about it. But the guy on the motorcycle -- the one who started this whole thing -- well, he neglected to tell me how to get rid of the one who wasn’t; you know, who wasn’t the One.

I blinked hard. Twice.

Nothing.

I stood up and clicked my heels three times.

Still nothing. In fact, the bad-Jesus-candidate started to cluck his tongue and shake his finger at me.

I sat back down and started to count the freckles on the inside of my knee, because obviously nothing was working, so I thought that maybe I’d find the secret in the miniature constellation that’s almost identical to the Big Dipper. I started counting them and yes, you should know, there are seven of them, just like the real one.

And another thing you should know, if you don’t already, is that the Big Dipper is pretty easy to find, so it acts as an amazing guide for star-gazers because it points to other stars and major constellations. And so my very own Big Dipper acted as something of a guide as it pointed directly to the twelve-pack of Coronas sitting on the ground, now an eleven-pack, and I quickly concluded that if this guy wasn’t going to have one, then really, I shouldn't waste time as the rest of the bottles proceeded to get warm (you know, if I was going to be hanging around for a while).

So, I drained the beer I was working on and popped open another one.

Being polite, though, I held it out to him. “I suppose you don’t want one of these, then?”

He spun around in disgust and, I'm embarrassed that I noticed this, but he clenched his butt cheeks as walked away in a very brisk stride. He tilted his head upward and threw his shoulders back and his posture was quite proper. Many people smiled at him and started to say hello. It appeared as if they wanted him to stop and chat and who knows, maybe even receive some kind of comfort (as those like him are wont to offer), but he rushed right past them.

Somehow we’ve made this guy out to look like Jesus, but he wasn’t really acting like him, I didn't think.

I leaned up against the tree and held the cool bottle against the Big Dipper. I couldn’t resist, so I yelled after him, “That’s alright. More for me.”

I smiled and thought that maybe this could be a long night.

Chapter 20 Almost Identical to the Big Dipper, Part 3

2007-06-28T13:08:00.001-07:00

Sure enough, over by my car, a man was leaning up against an old motorcycle.

“He’s your one condition,” the customer service woman said as she pointed and handed me the 12-pack of Coronas.

A little more information would be nice, I thought.

“That's it?”

“Unfortunately, that's all I know,” she answered.

Surprisingly, I believed her. She went on to explain the man's promise--that whoever brought the beer back could keep it on one condition, and that he'd explain it from there.

“And he's been saying the same thing every year.”

I put the beer under my arm and smiled toward everyone and nodded a sheepish “thanks.” Quite frankly, I had spent enough time with these people and I mostly had thoughts of turning on my heels to find my wife and how we could escape through some back door.

Problem was, real or not, I couldn't reject this bizarre proposal in good conscience. Especially after eleven years of built-up anticipation.

So, I reluctantly exited through the front door. Alone.

I felt all eyes nearly penetrating the back of my head as I slowly approached him. Somehow I needed this to make sense. Of course, being a guy, I excused it as much ado about nothing. I'd play along, sure, but this was just a crazy biker with too much time on his hands.

And some supermarket employees who may or may not exist.

When I arrived, I could see him looking off into the fading colors of the day. The sun was hanging on a bit longer and it was splashing tinges of orange and foaming purple as it submerged into the horizon.

He must have sensed something because he looked back at me over his shoulder. His smile was tired, but honest.

“I was hoping it was you,” he said quietly. “You've been a long time in coming.”

“Yes, so I hear.”

He turned back toward the sunset, apparently encouraging me to do the same. We let the silence build for a little bit. I don't always do so well with it, you know--the pressure of the quiet--so I broke it.

“I really haven't done anything that spectacular. Just brought some beer back inside is all.”

He stood up off the bike and he was tall enough to cast a shadow over me. “It’s not what you’ve done, but what you will do that interests me the most. You have been chosen.”

Chosen or not, you should know that I was just about done with this surreal little existential dream or portal or whatever it was. But, before I could politely excuse myself with some classic fib, he looked down at the beer and asked if I wanted one, which, absolutely, I did. Time and reality may be hanging in the balance, but this shouldn't stop me from enjoying a Corona.

As he reached for it, he explained that he's not from my town, or any town for that matter, though he visits frequently and can be seen here and there. He's a wanderer, but he's always watching and waiting, especially for this moment.

And then, out of the blue, he asked me what I thought about Jesus.

“Uh.. well.” I cleared my throat. “What do I think about Jesus? That's a pretty random question. Why do you ask?”

“Alight. Better yet,” he switched gears, “who do you think Jesus is?”

It seemed like a trick question. I know who Jesus is. Most everyone knows who Jesus is.

“Is this my one condition? Is there a correct answer to this, and if so, do I get to bring the beer home?”

He had big, strong hands, and he put one on my shoulder. “I don't want you to bring the beer home. I want you to stay right here, under this tree with the narrow branches and wide leaves. I want you to share a Corona with some people; four people, to be exact, one at a time. Three won't be Jesus. One will. It's up to you to figure out who the real one is.”

Ok, so now I was looking at my car, quietly planning yet another escape route should I need bolt in a hurry.

But my wife was still in there.

Damn.

I looked down at the freckles on the inside of my left knee, you know, the ones that form a constellation which is almost identical to the Big Dipper? Was I really chosen? Somehow they had started this whole thing and, suffice it to say, I was getting a little freaked out. Who wouldn't be?

Still, as previously mentioned, this wasn't just any ordinary beer.

“So, what do you think?” he asked.

He dug into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a bottle opener. He flipped off the cap with one smooth motion and he handed the Corona to me, and it felt good and cold. He tossed the opener to me so I could use it on the next one, boldly presuming that there would be a next one.

None of this was real; so, I guess I could give it a shot.

“Sure, what the hell,” I told him.

I took a long, well deserved sip as he explained that he'd be leaving and right around the time his engine stopped echoing in my ears, the first candidate would arrive.

So, I sat down and watched him go. The last bit of purple on the horizon smoothed into gray as he rode off, and with it, the low rumble of his bike slowly faded to silence.

And then, like clockwork, there he was. Or at least I thought it was him. He looked an awful lot like Jesus as he was walking closer.

But, then again, I suppose anything can happen over a cold Corona.

Chapter 19 Almost Identical to the Big Dipper, Part 2

2007-06-25T05:53:00.000-07:00

More people started to gather as the customer service woman explained how all of this began.

“Twelve years ago, a man came into the store. He was an unassuming biker who was traveling through our town, and he laid out specific instructions as to what we were to do. He gave us some money to buy the Coronas the first year, and then he would return the next year to do it all over again. Unfortunately, this became a tradition. We had no way to reach him, but he would always come back, and with each passing year he somehow kept that gleam in his eye, promising us that one day, someone would be honest enough to bring the beer back in.”

The sun was beginning to set behind her and so I was having a little trouble making out the features of her face. I had no idea where my wife was; she should have finished long ago and be very worried, or at the very least, see me up front with all of these people. This story was so strange and surreal that I had to be caught between waking and sleeping.

Maybe I was caught in one of those moments that didn't respect the boundaries of time.

The woman continued on and told me that all of the store employees knew of this tale, one that grew with mystery each year, but they’d been extremely careful not to let it slip out into town for fear of tainting the man’s plan.

“He requested that we do it the same way and at the same time each year, and just like clockwork, we'd always hear the low rumble of his motorcycle afterward. He must watch from a distance, because for eleven years now we’ve seen him slowly circle the parking lot and then ride away.”

So I had to ask. “Well, where is he now?”

They all turned around in unison and pointed toward the tree with the narrow branches and wide leaves.

“He’s outside waiting for you.”

Chapter 18 Almost Identical to the Big Dipper, Part 1

2007-06-18T12:38:00.000-07:00

I have a series of freckles that are almost identical to the Big Dipper. They’re on my left knee and I've often wondered if this is a sign, like maybe I’m special or chosen or something stupid like that.

Anyhow, whatever the case may be, I’m pretty proud of my constellation and so the other day I was admiring it while parked under a tree with narrow branches and wide leaves. It was a cool spot in the shade and I thought it quite nice to be there, because it was very hot and I had somehow found it in the midst of an otherwise treeless parking lot.

It was like an oasis.

Various others were coming and going and entering and exiting the supermarket while I waited for my best friend and lover and wife (all wrapped up in one person) to emerge. I wasn't sure what she went in for, but really, it didn’t matter.

I thought that the shade actually had texture on my skin, like it was powdery, if that's even possible. My eyes were getting heavy but before I drifted away completely, I glanced over at the line of shopping carts that were haphazardly crashed into each other and one of them had some beer in the bottom shelf by the wheels. Not just any beer, though; it was a 12-pack of Coronas, bottles of course, because they don’t do cans. At least I don’t think they do.

So, I got out of the car and I walked over and hunched down to look at the beer. They were cold, because the bottles were sweating and I wanted one, even without a lime, though one with a lime would have been a nice bonus.

I waited and turned my head and then my body around in a couple circles, like I was on a caper, checking to see if anyone was coming back for it. Certainly someone would come back. Maybe not for warm Budweisers, but definitely for cold Coronas.

After a few minutes of this, no one came, so I took the booty from the bottom of the cart and my gut was telling me to stash 'em in the trunk of my car, but instead I took them inside. I walked past the pleasant greeter and sidled up to the customer service desk.

The woman behind the counter asked why I was returning the beer. Was there something wrong and did I have a receipt? I smiled at her smugly because I knew I was doing the honorable thing.

“I’m not returning it,” I said. “I found it.”

She looked down at the Coronas.

“You found them. There’s more than one in there, so you found them.”

I thought right then and there that I also found something else: that the customer service desk woman was a smart ass.

“Alright, I found them,” I corrected myself with a glare that wasn’t very nice.

“Where?” she asked.

“In your parking lot. Under a cart. Can I keep them?”

She glared back at me.

“What, like a reward?”

Oh, she was definitely a smart ass.

“Yes, like a reward,” I replied. Even as I said it, I knew I didn't really deserve a reward. Maybe they could give me a coupon for being honest, but I shouldn't get the whole 12-pack.

Nevertheless, she left and went through some back door and trusted me not to have second thoughts and bolt with the cold beer staring at me from the counter. I thought maybe she was checking with a manager about what to do.

I waited for a long time and all the while thought that, really, this shouldn’t have been that difficult. She could have politely refused me, taken the beer and held it behind the counter for some woman to eventually come back in with a receipt (of course it would be a woman) and she'd be panting and frazzled because, when she got home, she'd find her limes but not her Coronas.

And all she wanted was a cold Corona with a sliver of lime.

(I say all of that not because women are forgetful, but because it seems that only women drink Coronas. And me, a guy, who happens to also like them, as in plural.)

Oddly enough, though, that’s not what happened when the customer service woman returned. She came out and she was smiling.

And then she said I could keep the beer.

“I can keep the beer? Really?”

“Yes. On one condition.”

She kept smiling and more people came out from behind, and they were smiling too, and some started clapping. One woman took a picture and I thought that maybe I was dreaming. Then the smart ass explained that each year, they leave a 12-pack of Coronas in the bottom of a cart. They’ve done it for eleven years and for eleven years they’ve watched a person discover the beer, look around the lot, and then take off with it. This is their twelfth attempt and they’ve been waiting all of this time for the one person who would be honest.

And that one person was me.

Then she said, “You must be special or maybe you’re chosen or something stupid like that.”

"Maybe I am.” I thought about telling her that I have a replica of a well known constellation on my knee, but then I assumed she’d probably make fun of me. So I didn't.

Anyhow, there was a strange pause and silence and everyone was staring at me so I looked over my shoulder to see if this was a joke or if maybe even people like me can get punk'd. I reached down and started pinching my Big Dipper to wake up, you know, just in case I really had fallen asleep under the narrow branches with the wide leaves.

But nothing happened. This was real, I think, or at least I haven't woken up yet.

So, I informed her and the small crowd of supermarket employees that I was up for the challenge, I suppose, but obviously needed to know what the one condition was.

As soon as she started talking, I thought that maybe I should have followed my gut and put the abandoned beer in my trunk.

Chapter 17 My Head is All Scrambled

2007-06-05T08:21:00.000-07:00

God, I have trouble focusing. My head is all scrambled.

It is because of this that I write.

Somehow, here, I am at peace. Some window is opened, and words are released.

I can concentrate.

So, I offer these words as a prayer:

Help me to be a man after your own heart.

Allow me see life through your eyes today. Please give me ears to hear.

Show me where to walk. Right where you would.

Teach me the best way to comfort those who are hurting and alone. Direct my attention to the downtrodden, so that I can love them and serve them with abandon.

Remind me today (and every day) that it’s all about Jesus.

Simple as that.

Because when I get that, I relax.

I’m easier to be around, and I love better.

The trivial starts to fade away.

I worry less.

I obsess less.

I complain less.

Help me to be the Church; without judgment, criticism or hypocrisy.

Make me more forgiving.

More graceful.

A better listener.

A better friend.

Allow my rhythm to be slower; my pace, enviable.

Remind me that in your eyes, the playing field is leveled. I’m not the star. I’m only as loved as the next one.

But oh, how loved I am.

Amen.

TRP in the News

2007-05-30T07:16:00.000-07:00

I hope to eventually get back to writing .. but, in the mean time, I thought you might like to see a piece that was just in the local news.

Click here and then choose the "NEW WPTA" video at the top.

peace,

Jeff

A Rialto/TRP Update

2007-05-23T07:26:00.001-07:00

Many of you have been so gracious to read my ramblings and follow the crazy story of The Reclamation Project's inception and the Rialto's rebirth. Some of you have stuck with me since the beginning of blog #1, which began nearly three years ago.

Well, I'm happy to say that Phase I of the Rialto is now finished (as you can see in these photos).

Already we see God lining up opportunities for this space to be used. This summer we hope to partner with a legal aid clinic called NCLC that operates out of Indianapolis. They want to expand their services to Fort Wayne, so we're discussing the opening of an intake site at the Rialto. NCLC offers free legal aid to low income clients in the realm of immigration law, tenant/landlord disputes, tax issues, housing and other areas where there is a great need within refugee communities.

As you may also know, Fort Wayne is now home to a large population of Darfuri who were forced out of their homeland due to the genocide there. TRP has been privileged to begin discussions with the Darfur Peace and Development Organization as it relates to a potential office share arrangement with them in this newly finished Rialto space.

TRP is nearly done with our rehab project of a house in one of the Rialto's surrounding neighborhoods. As you may recall from other posts, TRP is a CHDO (Community Housing Development Organization), which allows us to receive funding to purchase run down, or shall we say "reasonably priced properties," and through volunteer assistance, equip and rehabilitate these homes for our refugee families. Often refugees arrive here with large families and need more space than the rental units available to them, so we hope to do more of these housing projects in the future, as funding allows.

Lastly, the Circle of Friends program in Fort Wayne continues to offer hope to our new friends and cross cultural appreciation for Americans involved. As can be expected, one of the most crucial resources for international refugees to build a sustainable future is local friendship. Through the Circle of Friends, Fort Wayne residents are connected to newly arriving families with the simple goal of helping them transition well to life here; they assist with various cultural transition points, such as: transportation, financial management, grocery shopping, cooking, etc. Of most importance, a cross cultural relationship is started, which leads toward mutual understanding and long term benefit to both groups and, ultimately, the Fort Wayne community. As you've likely heard before, often it is the American volunteers who find themselves learning more than the refugees they came to serve. Seems like God wants us to remember the level playing field He always had in mind for us.

That's a quick update! Thanks to everyone for your ongoing prayers and words of encouragement.

~ Jeff

P.S. I was able to land a literary agent .. woo hoo! Steve Laube, out of Phoenix is representing me and currently attempting to get a traditional publisher interested in book #1, and while they're at it, hopefully book #2 as well!

Abandon Reinvented Himself: A Story in Seven Parts

2007-05-07T07:35:00.000-07:00

Part 1

Some years ago, on the cusp of a stormy and oddly-colored April dusk, a baby boy was ushered into the world.

This particular baby began life just like every baby before him, but his parents, never quite beholden to the trends of their day (and a bit oddly-colored themselves), decided to bequeath him the name Abandon.

Abandon Beethoven Erstwhile, to be exact.

Actually, bequeath was a strong word, for this was not a family name nor a regal title passed down through generations. As fate would have it, this was a special name designed just for this special boy.

Curiously belying the greenish gray and disagreeable clouds present on the day of his birth, Abandon began his life with an altogether sunny disposition. With just enough of a cry to reveal his health and calm his mother, the nurses gathered around him to towel him off, check his breathing and conduct their usual monitoring.

Within a moment, however, there was a startling hush among them. Soon, more nurses began to assemble, and they were nudging and whispering to each other.

You see, this baby was not merely pleasant. His eyes were surprisingly open and quite bright, and he seemed serendipitously aware of his surroundings. Unlike other jumpy and spastic newborns, Abandon reached toward each face as if to touch them with an easy and graceful coordination.

This miracle of a baby, combined with such a unique name, gave all of the nurses a healthy set of goosebumps on their arms, and no small measure of fine hairs standing to attention on the backs of their collective necks.

"But why Abandon?" they asked amongst themselves.

Surely the parents meant the noun abandon, and not the verb abandon. The verb would be most unfortunate given the already recognizable attributes of such a child.

All the same, that very question remained unanswered as those few brief moments blended into the rest of that April evening. Other babies came and cried and clawed their way into life, and soon the nurses and doctors were preoccupied. Before long, morning came and the unique child with the unique name left the hospital with his oddly-colored parents.

And the young Erstwhile family walked into the bright sun of a brand new day with their brand new baby.

***

A few years past, and Abandon grew strong and healthy. And, much like that first morning of his birth, Abandon became precociously aware--but this time, of the peculiarity of his given name and its inherent dichotomy.

Were his parents somehow suggesting that his life would be defined by desertion and withdrawal? Or, more favorably, would it be marked by unbridled enthusiasm and passion? Were it the latter, was he predestined by Something bigger than himself to embody some perceived meaning?

The possibilities were endless.

Sadly, with such potential in a name, and despite his positive outlook, Abandon still came to the conclusion that his parents, for all their good intentions, were likely fancying themselves unique, and quite literally dragging their son along in the wake of a random and haphazard decision.

These questions were much too deep and mysterious for a child. Thus, instead of facing and resolving his unusual identity crisis, he decided to turn his back on it.

Abandon reinvented himself.

With little fanfare, his new name, bequeathed unofficially to himself, became Abe--a much less controversial acronym of his full given name.

So it was, with his parent’s reluctant blessing, that somewhere in the middle of the first and only term of the Carter Administration, young Abe Erstwhile embarked upon a new life with a new name.

Abandon, with all of its promise, became a faint and altogether unpleasant memory.

***

Stay Tuned for Part II. You just never know where it might show up.

Prayer for Hallie

2007-04-23T06:10:00.000-07:00

UPDATE (5/7):

She's home!!

She's on quite a few medications to ward off infection, and needs to keep weight on, but hopefully all will remain calm in this sweet little girl's road to recovery.

Once again, I thank you all for your prayers.
Blessings to you and yours..

Jeff

UPDATE (5/1):

Hallie is out of the ICU and is currently in the pediatric ward. The intricate pattern of tubes and IV's are starting to fall away one by one.
Hopefully my next update will be that Hallie is at home with her family!

Biliary Atresia isn't something that can be completely healed, but the surgery she just endured will allow her to lead a mostly normal life. A liver transplant may be necessary in the years ahead.

I'm so grateful for all of you and the time you're taking to pray for this sweet little girl. Thank you!!

UPDATE (4/27):

Each day is better for Hallie! Her temperature is holding steady, kidney function is still good, and she's quietly recovering from her surgeries. She's been opening her eyes from time to time and the Dr.s hope to get her off the ventilator over the weekend.

The power of prayer is undeniable. Thank you for the part you've played (and will hopefully still play) in her ongoing recovery!

UPDATE (4/24):

Thank you SO much for your prayers and your encouraging e-mails. Currently, Hallie is stable. They've been able to get her kidney function under control and her fever has broken, which the doctors were pleased with. She's not out of the woods yet, and so much seems to change at any given moment, so I'd appreciate your ongoing prayers! ~ Jeff

Hey everyone ~

Could you lift up a prayer for my niece Hallie? She's 2 months old and was born with a condition called Biliary Atresia. She needed surgery last week to repair the bile ducts in her liver, and since that time she's needed a second surgery to repair an intestinal kink. I received a call this morning that she's not doing well at all .. kidney function is not where it needs to be.

Any prayers you can offer on Hallie's behalf, as well as my sister Jodi, brother-in-law Jeff and family would be much appreciated.

Please also pass this on to others that you know will pray. I will post updates as I get them.

Blessings, and thanks ~

Jeff

Chapter 16 The Right to Refuse Him, Part 2

2007-04-20T10:57:00.001-07:00

So I lift the net as my brothers watch, and I throw it. As it hits the water, almost immediately there’s a churning, like a tremor beneath the surface. I wonder what I’ve caught, for this is highly unusual, and actually, quite impossible.

I plant my feet against the edge of the boat and I start to lift it out of the water. I stumble from the weight and my brothers rush to my aid. Soon, they too are struggling from the enormity of our catch; so many fish are trapped that I lose count and I know this net won’t hold the bulk. The spray from their flopping and flailing hits our faces and we laugh at the miracle in our hands.

Before I can appreciate what is happening, John squints toward the beach and cries out, “It’s the Master!” and instantly, I know this must be true.

With the sunlight now, I can see his face across the sea and he’s beaming. He’s piercing the distance between us and seeing right into the center of me with overwhelming love and compassion.

My first reaction is to hide, as if I could. I still cower a little.

I’ve forgotten my nauseating hunger as I lift the net with all of my might. Others jump out of the boat and swim to greet him as I stay behind to drag the load myself. It’s another miracle altogether that the net still hasn’t ripped.

He’s prepared breakfast and the fire is strong and healthy. The aroma is promising of a fisherman’s feast, and if it wasn't for my sin and shame, I couldn't imagine a more perfect moment than this one.

Most of the fish are still living and trying to escape as I haul them on land, but it’s an effort in vain. We eventually count 153 of them, caught in an instant, after an entire night of nothing. For me too, it's obvious now that my efforts without him are always in vain.

How soon I forget.

There’s an awkward pause, at least for me as I approach him. The symbolism isn’t lost on me as he hands me some bread. I stand nearly naked before him and the heat from the fire is swirling the cool morning air.

I sit and literally devour my breakfast. Never has there been so much satisfaction in warm bread and freshly fried fish. Still, I can’t escape the feeling that I’m the center of attention. My brothers seem intent on reading his face, looking for some disappointment in his eyes, some preparation for a scolding which I’m sure I'll receive.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want it—a lashing, some type of punishment for my behavior so I can know resolution. But nothing will distract him from his leaning posture of grace and forgiveness toward me.

Not even my denial of him.

We finish and he leads us again, much like he used to; he is walking down the beach, and we follow. I'm in front, as I should be, and, as if knowing my earthly hunger was now satisfied, I'm hoping he'll address deeper cravings inside of me.

Am I alright by him? Will I do this again? How can I be so strong in some aspects of my life, and then fail him so miserably? If my choices of late have been destroying me, what choice must I finally make to end this torture?

Apparently, the denial is not a topic of concern for him, so I wonder if he’s already forgotten about it. Instead, he dials in and asks me if I love him. Three times in a row, in fact, in rapid succession, much like those who learned of my betrayal first hand. I wonder if it’s intentional and if I’ll use the same knee jerk, skin deep reaction that I did then. He’s asking me so fast that of course I tell him I love him. Of course I love him more than my brothers love him. I love him as much as he already knows I love him.

I love him. Period. How can he even ask such a question? And how many times must I answer him? How can he doubt my word and my affection?

I wonder, for with each response, I’m charged with a responsibility.

To feed his lambs.

To feed his sheep.

And to follow him.

Rough translation: Don’t just tell me you love me. Anyone can do that. Show me you love me.

He turns to look at me and in an instant, I know my love for him will always pale in comparison to the love he has for me. Why did I spend so much time wallowing in my guilt and shame? What can separate me from his love?

Nothing.

And so I must follow, because somehow, he knows that by giving him lip service, I retain my right to refuse him. And I often will. I must choose to physically follow after him and do what he does, or remain the steward of my own destiny.

And that may be my toughest choice of all.

Chapter 15 The Right to Refuse Him, Part 1

2007-04-16T07:06:00.000-07:00

The dawn is mostly black, but for a few tinges of light on vague clouds that conceal the horizon. Generations before me have promised that the night is always darkest before dawn, and I know this to be true.

Especially on the water.

Despite the last minute rush of deep and lonely darkness, though, this has always been my favorite time of the day. I've spent many nights like this on the sea as the steward of my own destiny, and I still rejoice in something that is beyond me; something that is ever steady and true.

But, on this particular break of morning, I find no joy in the promise of it. Whatever light or hope may exist, I’ve entered the darkest period of my life and I’m not sure I can even make it to the dawn.

My choices have been destroying me.

Oddly enough, this livelihood of mine is all I have now, and it's all about choices; this spot or that, this side or another. I can rely on my own ability and strength out here, and, of course, I can always count on the fish to be stupid. But, today, despite my years of experience, I’m coming up empty.

Anymore, it seems I can't do anything right.

I should have eaten by now, but I’ve been so consumed with guilt and shame that to eat anything at all seems like another betrayal. Surely, I can’t be satisfying my own hunger in the wake of this.

I’m starting to feel sick.

Still, all I know to do is to pour myself into work and hope this passes. I’m stripped nearly bare out here, both literally and I suppose figuratively, perhaps as a penance. I've been at this all night and nothing. Maybe I'm being punished.

So, what exactly did I do? I denied a friend. Said I didn't know him. It was deliberate and even I was surprised by it.

Of all the people for me to refuse, I chose him.

One time, I could live with, but then, I did it a second time. And a third. My world was spinning and quite frankly I might have done it again and again if given the opportunity. But, it stopped. Gratefully, it stopped with a startle. The shrill and echo of it still shrieks in my ears.

I had been spared.

The thing is, I'm afraid I'll do it again and I can't live with myself much longer if that's the case. If I couldn’t control myself then, who's to say I ever will? He made his point, you know--that I have the ultimate power to choose and the right to refuse him.

Perhaps I should run away and stop embarrassing myself.

And him.

Without breakfast, the chill in the air seems almost unbearable now. I start to shiver uncontrollably. But I stay with the task at hand, because I will figure this out by myself. The black sky is turning deep purple and it's giving way to slivers of orange and shades of gray as I steady myself. Voices of friends and brothers are murmuring in the background and I know they're talking about me.

Of course, I'm intimidating. I always have been, so no one will come out and say what they're thinking to my face.

They're afraid that I won't ever forgive myself. Could they think I'd be foolish enough to end it? Judas did. Maybe that's why they're never too far from my side. They don't want to leave me to my own fate.

The wind picks up and as it does, smoke reaches me all the way out here, so I turn around. Off in the distance, on the beach, I see the flickering of a fire. A man is crouched over it, fanning it and giving it life. I keep my eyes on him as I pull the net out of the water and it's empty, again.

He gets up and walks ankle deep into the shore, puts his hands up around his mouth and shouts to me:

“Try the other side!”

And just like that, I'm distracted from my feigned confidence and self loathing. My gut reaction is to question how he knows better than I, for I’ve been to this spot before, hundreds of times, and I’ve controlled my own destiny with my own hands and my very own choices. I’ve trusted my discernment and crafted my own judgment.

“Go ahead. Try it!” he shouts again, through laughter, as if knowing my inner struggle is almost always in vain.

Well, nothing is going my way, so what can it hurt? The fish may be stupid, but I’m not. The breaking of the night is eerily timed as the sun peers over the eastern sky.

So I lift the net as my brothers watch, and I throw it…

To be continued

Weezer, Redux

2007-04-12T07:25:00.000-07:00

I seem unable to find the time or energy to write anything new these days. Call it a royal funk, if you will.

So, indulge me as I post something old as new again. This, written some time last year, seems to fit where I'm at.

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.

Chapter 14 Some Semblance of Teetotalism

2007-03-22T08:52:00.000-07:00

Levi and I jumped in the car and we were off to get his treat.

You see, it just so happens in the Jacobson house, that if a child can practice restraint over his or her particular vice for a period of time, then a small, five-dollar prize awaits the victor at our local Walgreens.

It all begins with the accumulation of a week’s worth of stickers on the calendar representing each day he or she is able to stare down and defeat a particular issue which is damaging to the soul and body. Levi, who is seven, has been asked to leave his tattered, beloved dottie-dog (think Beanie-baby Dalmatian) in his bed, for if his right hand is holding it, his left thumb is firmly planted in his mouth. Thus, if we keep the dog in his bed, we limit thumb-sucking to only those moments of top-bunk slumber.

And so he did it. One whole week of dominance over the dark side. Truth be told, though, it wasn't long before Levi could be spotted wandering around the house, slipping back to his old ways. It's a struggle for him, but as his benevolent parents, we're mostly interested in a gradual scaling back; you know, toward some semblance of thumb-sucking teetotalism.

Anyhow, a celebration was still to be had for the one week of abstinence, so, back to the trip at hand. The Police were just starting in with Spirits in the Material World and you should know that this is just about my most favorite non-Boss song from the 80’s, and Levi seemed to agree that it was pretty cool, so we sang it together.

In fact, I like it so much and it’s never long enough (like most Police songs), so I played it over and over.

And over again, all the way to the Walgreens parking lot.

It’s really a simple little ditty, so here goes (sing it in your head, after the funky synth intro):

There is no political solution
To our troubled evolution
Have no faith in constitution
There is no bloody revolution

We are spirits in the material world
(Are spirits in the material world
Are spirits in the material world
Are spirits in the material world)

Our so called leaders speak
With words they try to jail you
The subjugate the meek
But it's the rhetoric of failure

(Repeat Chorus)

Where does the answer lie?
Living from day to day
If it's something we can't buy
There must be another way

We are spirits in the material world
(Are spirits in the material world)

So, Levi and I, firmly aware of our spirits-in-the-material-world status, went into Walgreens where, after much deliberation, he proceeded to pick out a plastic motorcycle with a guy on it and a package of candy.

When we walked out of the store, Levi had his chin held high and a big smile on his face. I asked him if he wouldn’t mind if we played the song again, like five times on the way home, and he obliged. He sang and played with his new guy and by the time we reached our driveway, Levi knew most of the words, or at least some version of them since Sting never did articulate the lyrics very well.

Interestingly, I read once that this song made the top 10 list of the "Most Misunderstood Lyrics." Not the meaning behind them, the actual words themselves. In fact, you may be learning as well, for the very first time, the real lyrics to this song, which all along you thought were something else.

Spirits in the material world?

Levi made up his own: "Yee haw, don't spit in my cereal, ha."

And I learned "Icy 'coladas treat" is actually "Our so called leaders speak."

Anyway, since the 80's have come and gone, along with the 90's and any semblance of my youth, I found myself reflecting more on the meaning behind these lyrics, and Levi too, with his vanquished vice and treat of celebration.

Maybe, upon closer inspection of the whole thing, it’s not a simple little ditty after all.

Sting was right, in that we are a troubled evolution. Or creation. Or however you want to look at it. We each have chinks in our armor which may be our own little secret, or we may have chosen to go public. Or we've been caught in it, removing any choice at all in the matter.

Like Levi, we each have our vice requiring us to practice some form of restraint.

I’ll admit I get a bit lost on the overall meaning of the song, especially now that I know the lyrics, but perhaps the thrust of it is to condemn our collective reliance on material things, even our material skin; that our time here is fleeting, and whatever causes us to be a faulty humanity is simply too large a burden to carry, so instead it makes sense to pacify ourselves with the notion that we’re all beautiful souls trapped in temporary bodies, in a gravity filled world that is all upside down and backassward.

But really, this wandering post isn't about what Sting might have meant, so I digress.

What I’m really trying to say is that there are long held truths that we’ve always assumed are truths, much like our botched rendition of Police lyrics. Might be a bad church history thing or a legalistic upbringing. We keep singing along to what we think the words are, when actually, those aren’t the lyrics at all.

You and I, we’re pretty screwed up. We'll struggle for a lifetime to defeat a particular issue which is damaging to our soul and body. I'm not trying to excuse sin, but somehow instead we need to come to grips with the fact that some of what we’ve believed to be true all of these years, well, it simply isn’t.

In fact, once we hear the lyrics the right way, it's pretty hard to hear them any other way.

Despite our collective shortcomings, in God's eyes we're beautiful, ransomed and redeemed. Any attempt to believe otherwise undermines the very reason Jesus was sacrificed on the cross. Sin and death have been defeated, but when we wallow in our guilt and shame, we essentially tell him the whole Resurrection thing didn't stick.

We each have our own vice, so in this, none of us should feel alone. And we rarely pick a new one. We tend to repeat our pattern, and unfortunately that means that this vice, whatever it is, will be with us and hound us for the rest of our lives. We have to be honest with ourselves--it will. We can't assume that we're ever far enough away from it that Satan won't keep it high on his list of taunt and torture tactics.

By the way, if you think you're above it or beyond your particular little issue, then he has you right where he wants you. Pretty soon we'll find you wandering around the house, slipping back to your old ways, your vice hanging out of your pocket.

And yes, the truth is, whatever that vice is, the sin arising out of it separates us from God. But Jesus beat that sin on the cross, which is why grace always wins.

This is a daily struggle, no doubt. We need to get back up when we fall and we need to find the right help to get us through it and community to support us. And we have to put stickers on our calendars and learn how to acknowledge our successes and not beat ourselves up with stupid lies about our worthlessness or some unwillingness on Jesus' part to forgive us (again).

And don't forget about that misheard lyric that grace just won't cut it this time.

It will.

Pretty soon, if we keep at it, we can hold our chin high and look forward to a gradual scaling back to some semblance of teetotalism.

And don't forget about a treat to help you celebrate.

4 He was sheer weakness and humiliation when he was killed on the Cross, but oh, he's alive now - in the mighty power of God! We weren't much to look at, either, when we were humiliated among you, but when we deal with you this next time, we'll be alive in Christ, strengthened by God. 5 Test yourselves to make sure you are solid in the faith. Don't drift along taking everything for granted. Give yourselves regular checkups. You need firsthand evidence, not mere hearsay, that Jesus Christ is in you. Test it out. If you fail the test, do something about it.

2 Cor. 13: 4-6

Chapter 13 Only Fools Believe Such Nonsense

2007-03-05T11:53:00.000-08:00

17 A man out of the crowd answered, "Teacher, I brought my mute son, made speechless by a demon, to you."

The shell of my captured is lifeless. To my master’s satisfaction, I’ve used secrecy and subtlety and with a little bit of resolve, I've consumed him. I always snicker on the inside, because everyone should know my methods by now. But they don't.

In fact, you don't.

Now, you probably have some limited understanding of the time continuum, but limited is where I want you to stay, for my ways are then sealed in some ancient story, with frothing of the mouth and seizures and the mania of demonic possession. If it’s ancient to you, then perceived boundaries are drawn.

Allow me to let you in on a little secret, though: I know no boundaries. I know no time, for I don’t play by your rules.

Certainly you appreciate that I’m vile. I'm the lowest form of just about anything you can conceive of, and even then I'm much worse. Take a death row inmate—no, take every guilty, demented death row inmate—and the shame of their crimes and the cries of their victims are entertainment for me. I rejoice in their pain. In fact, I take full responsibility for each and every heinous act, for at their worst, I'm at my best.

I do report in regularly, for my master is obsessed with control and he won’t be denied access to my whereabouts and my efforts on his behalf. If I could rise up against him, I would; there is no loyalty in these ranks, only fear and some twisted duty arising out of it.

I summon him for our daily briefing. There’s no small talk, so I begin without delay. I take sick pleasure in the father's desperation:

18 "Whenever it seizes him, it throws him to the ground. He foams at the mouth, grinds his teeth, and goes stiff as a board. I told your disciples, hoping they could deliver him, but they couldn't."

“Even his closet followers have failed in their attempts to be rid of me,” I inform my liege, with smug satisfaction.

“That’s because they’re idiots. Press on, and do not disappoint me.”

“I won’t. Have I ever?”

There’s no response because he knows. In the wake of his silence, I know he acknowledges my greatness.

I return to the task at hand, and it’s the same. It’s always the same. Then, now, whatever you think time is—I’m an occupier and a parasite. I will devour every last bit of goodness in you, well beyond your ridiculous hope for redemption. Even as you read this, I am bound and determined to de-rail your faith. I will cause you to doubt the resurrection, to see the folly of religion, church and biblical fairy tales.

Only fools believe such nonsense.

My genius is in all that you don’t acknowledge as my work, as I rise on the wake of each dawn to begin my pursuit of you, well before you can even embrace the promise of a new morning.

I am stress, and I weigh heavy on you. I attack you. I am the one who tells you over and over that you’re not capable of handling this life. Any of it.

I am distrust for your mate, your child, your boss and your closest confidant. They will betray you and I’m behind it all.

I am your addiction and I am constantly making a way for you to enter into temptation. I will make sure you fall, time and time again. There are limitations to grace and you have found them.

I am guilt, and I am shame.

I am pain, for you are worthless and everything eating at you right now is me, reminding you that you’ll never amount to anything. You are a failure. You are a statistic.

I am depression and disease. I will tear at your health and sense of well-being.

I am death, and I’m coming for you.

19 Jesus said, "What a generation! No sense of God! How many times do I have to go over these things? How much longer do I have to put up with this? Bring the boy here."

Go ahead. Read this story all you want. Preserve it away as history and I have won. Even now you will doubt its accuracy, for how could this really have happened? It’s not relevant.

20 They brought him. When the demon saw Jesus, it threw the boy into a seizure, causing him to writhe on the ground and foam at the mouth. 21 He asked the boy's father, "How long has this been going on?" 22 Many times it pitches him into fire or the river to do away with him. If you can do anything, do it. Have a heart and help us!"

Yes, I will pitch you into the fire of your gluttony. I will drown you in the river of apathy. Don’t beg for mercy for there is none to be given. Even now you say “if” because you can’t conceive of the rescue.

I am skepticism.

23 Jesus said, "If? There are no 'ifs' among believers. Anything can happen."

If only you did believe. But you don’t, for I’m still here, and I’m destroying you.

24 No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the father cried, "Then I believe. Help me with my doubts!" 25 Seeing that the crowd was forming fast, Jesus gave the vile spirit its marching orders: "Dumb and deaf spirit, I command you - Out of him, and stay out!"

And just like that, I am blinded. I obey him, and I cower, for how could I not? He is the Bright and Morning Star, and I am shadow. He is the Prince of Peace, and I am war. He is the Lamb, and I am slaughter.

He is love. And I am hate.

26 Screaming, and with much thrashing about, it left. The boy was pale as a corpse, so people started saying, "He's dead." 27 But Jesus, taking his hand, raised him. The boy stood up.

I am defeated.

28 After arriving back home, his disciples cornered Jesus and asked, "Why couldn't we throw the demon out?" 29 He answered, "There is no way to get rid of this kind of demon except by prayer." (Mark 9: 17-29, The Message)

I am silenced.

Porpoise Diving Life

2007-03-02T07:50:00.000-08:00

The March issue is up, with contributions from some of your blog-o-friends!

Check it out here.

peace,

~ Jeff

Chapter 12 Same as it Ever Was

2007-02-12T08:15:00.000-08:00

And you may find yourself
behind the wheel of a large automobile.
And you may find yourself
in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife.
And you may ask yourself,
Well...How did I get here?

And you may ask yourself
How do I work this?
And you may ask yourself
Where is that large automobile?
And you may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful house!
And you may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful wife!

Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...

Talking Heads (Once in a Lifetime)

The early morning skies have craved some citrus hue of late, and this particular Monday was no exception. I turned eastward to start the week’s whirlwind, again, driving headlong into my very own tangerine dream.

Up ahead, misty white exhaust swirled around the gathering cars at the red light, each with drivers casually sipping their steaming coffee. I was no different; I had settled into the leather seats of my nice German car and turned up the dial just so to heat them. The outside temperature read 3 degrees, though I was quite cozy on the inside.

And David Byrne was serendipitously waxing on and on and on.

So, as I was entertaining the irony of my indoor comfort (belying the outdoor tundra), just ahead of me, these man-made car clouds concealed a solitary figure waiting at the light. His left hand was on his knee, and with his right he was racing that old Harley engine.

Now, there’s no amount of clothing that could fully protect this man, at least in these types of temperatures, but I knew (even as I imagined him) that he really didn’t care much about comfort for himself. His was a unique way of constant sacrifice, ever focused upon leveling this stacked and hugely lopsided deck called humanity.

Same as it ever was.

The light turned green and I pressed ahead with the pack, finding my own comfort in these thoughts. But, wouldn’t you know, he pulled over and motioned me to the side of the road.

Damn. Why couldn’t he return in the spring, or at least when the temperatures achieved some form of sanity?

I swerved to the right shoulder and parked right behind him. It was so stinkin’ cold, or at least it looked like it was, and so I was conflicted about getting out. I decided to stay in the car as he got off his bike and walked toward me. Fighting the instinct to reach for my license and registration, I lowered my window with the touch of a button and he reached in to hug me, which caught me by surprise.

He entered my zone of comfort to touch me.

Same as it ever was.

After he let go, I jumped out quickly, you know, to do the hug right and his smell was familiar—like always, it was a beautiful mixture of the outdoors and ransomed leather. Today it reminded me of winter’s dominance; of frosted evergreens and distant fireplace smoke.

I pulled back from the embrace and he left his hands on my face and they were surprisingly warm.

I’ve missed you, he blurted out, his breath visible in this arctic air.

Not: why did you disobey me? Not: where have you been? Just:

I’ve missed you.

Yeah, I’ve been sidetracked, it would seem.

Same as it ever was.

I dug my hands into my pockets and looked at the horizon. Then I looked over at my gloves, which I had left on my front seat.

Are you ready to come back? He wasn't shivering, but I was.

Of course I knew that I hadn’t been following him very closely. But, to me, it seemed less of a black and white issue; to come back I would actually have to leave, completely. His distance always seems more gradual and retractable at any time, while I attended to other seemingly important details.

Same as it ever was.

Still, much has been written recently of all that clouds my intentions, noble as they are; or at least I've danced around them from time to time. But, I suppose in so doing, the craved reality of him is indeed quite far off, and I know I’m missing the adventure.

I’m ready, I told him. But every time I explode out of the blocks, I fall flat on my face. It seemed like a fitting metaphor. By the way, I was thinking less of track and field, and more of those slalom skiers. You know, given the temperatures.

He smiled. He watched the cars going by and then he leaned against my car.

Just get back up.

Just get back up? That’s the wisdom I’m getting from this Deity?

Jeff, you have my grace and it will not be withdrawn. Take the discomfort of failure and the wounds of falling down and turn them into a blessing for someone else. Don’t retreat back into your own comfort and wealth to lick your wounds. Come and find me out here, where I’m at work, and when you arrive, give me your brokenness. Trust me when I say that pretty soon, you won’t be falling down quite as often.

He climbed back on his ride. He raced his engine to warm it up and turned his head as he left.

Just get back up, Jeff.

And you may ask yourself
What is that beautiful house?
And you may ask yourself
Where does that highway go?

I could barely feel my toes as he rumbled away. Friends and neighbors on their way to work stared at me on the side of the road, wondering what possessed me to leave the inside of my gloriously warm car.

And you may ask yourself
Am I right?
Am I wrong?
And you may tell yourself

MY GOD! WHAT HAVE I DONE?

I returned to my now fully heated seat. The outdoor temperature had risen a whole degree to four. I put my gloves on to return some sense of feeling to my fingertips and I merged back on the road behind a passing car, its exhaust rising defiantly to conceal the pigment of the fruit inspired sunrise.

And I was comfortable once more as the Word was getting out. The song was just ending by that point.

Same as it ever was.

Chapter 11 On the Altar of Grace

2007-02-07T13:34:00.000-08:00

Well now, everything dies, baby, that's a fact,
But maybe everything that dies someday comes back.
Put your makeup on, fix your hair up pretty,
And meet me tonight in Atlantic City

Bruce Springsteen, Atlantic City

The Boss is breathing through these speakers, scratchy and wanting. He’s assuring me that everything dies. I know this, of course, but then he speculates that maybe everything that dies someday comes back.

He doesn’t seem convinced.

All the same, he’s promising his lover that they’ll somehow find redemption in Atlantic City—you know, new life rising from bad luck. But this aging Jersey-boy knows the fleeting romance of those beaches all too well, and often the only thing discovered there is a hope for redemption. A deceptive hope.

I'm tainted, though, for a return from death in any form is a check to my Baptist- bred spirit; it's some new-age reincarnation mumbo jumbo that whispers the same false hope to otherwise intelligent people.

Much like gambling always will.

Then again, some things do die and they do come back. Isn't death synonymous with sin, especially to a certain Someone? I think so, those evil twin brothers, both gripping me, white-knuckled for a lifetime. They should both perish in the wake of this Salvation—and I know they do—once, twice and again, but their hold on me is tragic. Did I make some deal with the devil, unbeknownst to me and my good intentions? Who is that leading me from behind, like a thug, his hand on my back, pushing, taunting, turning me this way and that? He’ll follow me through this life of mine, I just know it. He’ll pull me into dark alleyways and corners to remind me who’s really in control, timing his sucker punches just so to the gut.

And I’ve lost my breath again.

For there, I’m reminded that what perishes once on the altar of grace must return with a vengeance, for another round, to test the limit and resolve of such a concept. Surely this everlasting forgiveness is folly to everyone but the One who promised it. Maybe everything that dies, someday comes back.

Certainly sin and its founder would agree.

And the undying pressure of that persuasion stares grace in the eye and it goads me to do the same. To render it useless, for how could anything cover and cleanse this defiance, over and over again? I’m assured it’s normal to join in and to laugh at it, most definitely to mock it.

Try sinning again and find grace wanting, I hear him hiss. Do it again and again for without more sin, how can you ever know its margins?

I must test these waters.

And so I do. One toe, a foot. A leg and it’s warm. How soon does grace respond? It must be quickly, for what threat does fire bring to water? Soon I’m immersed in it, and I must find a way to stay here. To feel it on my skin. To know it like I know anything true.

These waters are deep, cleansing and effortless, my old ways defeated, today and tomorrow; for life goes on and on, offering real hope to otherwise intelligent people.

And death is no match for that.

19 One man said no to God and put many people in the wrong; one man said yes to God and put many in the right. 20 All that passing laws against sin did was produce more lawbreakers. But sin didn't, and doesn't, have a chance in competition with the aggressive forgiveness we call grace. When it's sin versus grace, grace wins hands down. 21 All sin can do is threaten us with death, and that's the end of it. Grace, because God is putting everything together again through the Messiah, invites us into life - a life that goes on and on and on, world without end. (Romans 5 19-21 The Message)

A New Kind of Who We Are

2007-01-29T06:38:00.001-08:00

I was honored recently when asked if I would fill in as a guest editor for an upcoming ezine. I quickly said yes, though, I soon learned I'd have to pick a theme for my assigned month.

A theme.

Typically, any type of structure like this is pretty hard for me. I tend to wander all over the place, and in my wandering, I’m not always sure where I’ll end up.

But, thankfully, I stumbled across the Gospel of Mark, and sure enough, said theme started to surface as I became reacquainted with the following passage:

16 Passing along the beach of Lake Galilee, he saw Simon and his brother Andrew net-fishing. Fishing was their regular work. 17 Jesus said to them, "Come with me. I'll make a new kind of fisherman out of you. I'll show you how to catch men and women instead of perch and bass." 18 They didn't ask questions. They dropped their nets and followed. (Mark 1: 16-18 The Message)

The usual premise that springs up here is, roughly speaking, all that we need to lay down, right about now, before we can fully follow Jesus. What part of who we are or what we have would seem so completely illogical for us to give up, yet somehow we'd do it anyway, no questions asked?

That's a tough one.

But, taking this emerging theme a step further, I think we've all traditionally known the translation of Jesus calling out to Simon and Andrew, offering that he would make them into “fishers of men.” Very evangelical and that's just fine.

But The Message renders it:

“I’ll make a new kind of fisherman out of you.”

That’s an interpretation I'd never considered. Maybe you hadn't either.

And here's the thing: we know that fishing was the livelihood of Simon and Andrew. We further know that fishing was not only what they did from dawn to dusk—it was who they were. It was in and through fishing that these two men found their identity. Jesus obviously knew this, so he spoke their language and he beckoned them to give their identity over to him, and in so doing, they would be transformed into something different, something adventurous and exciting.

A new way to live.

It couldn't have been easy. That was quite a lot to give up. Everything they knew and everything they were expected to become was wrapped up in fishing.

But, is it possible that Jesus never meant for them to give up who they were? In fact, it seems like he was offering them the concept of becoming a new kind of who they were.

If that's the case, where do we find our identity? What labels us from dawn to dusk? What is it about us that we've been afraid to let go of, to give up, to lay down, always fearing that we'd somehow sacrifice that which defines us?

Do we trust Jesus enough to handle our collective transformation into a new kind of who we are?

“Come with me. I’ll make a new kind of _______________ out of you.”

Let's fill in the blank and find out.

Evil Siblings

2007-01-15T06:36:00.000-08:00

After work the other day I met up with Kristie, my wife, who was waiting patiently for our four children, all of whom were enduring their bi-annual teeth cleaning at the dentist. When I arrived, she had some errands to run, so away she went in my car.

As I was flipping through a magazine, various hygienists began emerging one by one to update me on their particular Jacobson patient and encourage me with news of stellar check-ups.

Well, except for Levi’s hygienist, that is.

She emerged to gravely advise me that Levi had his first cavity and politely asked if it would be alright for him to come back the very next day for his filling.

“Of course,” I replied and I scheduled Levi’s return visit.

Everyone picked out their toy and their new toothbrush and we loaded up in the minivan for the ride home.

Now, having myself grown up with an older sister, who was mostly a nurturer, I could never have imagined what would soon transpire for Levi, who is in fact navigating life with older brothers. Who are mostly torturers.

Gabe, the eldest, started in first and informed Levi that a cavity meant they were going to rip the tooth right out of his head.

Tate added for kicks that before they ripped it out of his head they were gonna hit it with a hammer a few times to knock it loose.

Trying to keep up, Chloe, the youngest, chimed in and said it was gonna hurt big time. And so Levi smacked her just because.

After I told Levi to never hit a girl I told him not to listen to anything his evil siblings were saying.

But, as you may suspect, the damage was done. After a few moments of strained silence I looked in the rear view mirror and a holy terror had set upon Levi, the likes of which I’d never seen. Trying hard not to cry, he looked out the window as if his young life was passing before his very eyes.

Later that night, while enjoying a not-so-peaceful dinner with the torturers and the tortured, the subject of Levi’s doomed tooth and its subsequent need for a filling persisted.

While I had previously sensed that the worst was over, I was indeed incredibly wrong, for the general consensus of all those present at the table was Levi's apparent need of laughing gas to survive this procedure.

Attempting to stop this conversation in its tracks, and taking leave of my senses, I informed everyone at the table that Levi did not need laughing gas, because it’s about $70 for a whiff of it and it’s not covered by dental insurance and I’ve never needed it, so why should Levi?

Gabe boldly explained that without the laughing gas, when they rip the tooth out of Levi’s head, it’s not gonna be funny at all.

Tate brought up the hammer again.

Levi took a swing at poor Chloe before she could even open her mouth.

And then, we all knew what was next, because Levi does this thing, where he’s not quite crying but he starts to rub his eyes. As he was desperately attempting to stave off the inevitable, I tried to put my finger in the dike.

“Levi, don’t listen to anyone. It’ll be fine,” I said. “No one is going to pull a tooth out of your head or hit it with a hammer.”

And then, taking further leave of my senses, I blubbered, “they're going to give you a shot of Novocain. You won’t feel a thing.”

Within a nanosecond of it leaving the tip of my tongue, and with a quick side glance at Kristie, I suspected any reference to any type of a shot was a disaster and I might as well start making my bed on the couch right about now.

Instantly confirming this suspicion and jumping on the opportunity, Gabe, the head torturer, said that actually the shot was the worst part of it all, and it would only get worse without the laughing gas, because now he’d have the shot and then they’d rip the tooth out of his head.

And before Tate could even weave in his own tortuous hammer tale, the dam broke and Levi started to cry.

As the crying reached a crescendo, Tate thought that maybe a hammer at this point was too harsh and so he brought up the drill instead.

I looked at Kristie and I knew right about then that I would be purchasing a $70 whiff of nitrous oxide for a seven year old boy the very next day.

***

Later the next evening, as he was vigorously brushing his teeth (I presume to prevent further cavities and brotherly torture), I asked Levi how it went.

He said it didn’t hurt at all.

Kristie, who sat by his side, said he giggled the whole way through.

Chapter 10 Love is Being Re-defined

2007-01-11T06:26:00.000-08:00

There are signs of His majesty everywhere.

Some are expected and known, as with brilliant sunrises and settings, or in the hopefulness of a child. Perhaps, throughout the seasons that shift and breathe.

Increasingly though, His fingerprints are personified and discovered at the scene, the very one where the oppressed and the ill-fated grab a hand reaching down, with no condition upon rescue. An ongoing attempt is seemingly underway to level the playing field, to render a long awaited admission of the underdog’s existence, of Jesus incarnate. Lives are changing and hearts are softening. Perspectives are opening deep and wide, for love is being re-defined as a way to live, not just a feeling to reconcile.

I shouldn’t be a casual observer, nor should you; or worse yet, we shouldn't be reluctant to give berth to this Kingdom. It is advancing, and we’re acutely aware that it will be ushered in, despite our refusal or indifference as it approaches. The same tapes play over and over again and we make stubborn and willful choices; we dominate and deceive and effectively sidestep Him. We escort Him out of our way.

We divert His parade onto another route.

And I imagine He weeps, as anyone would, for what rejection isn’t harsh and cruel?

Yet His momentum will not be denied for love itself is unrelenting. Brokenness is being unearthed and yes, it surrounds us until the end. This air we breathe, once stagnant, is somehow more buoyant, as we nod in deference to this one or that, for we’re each as sin-stained as the next, and just as doomed.

And despite that sin and our inability to see the royalty of our birth, this unwavering pursuit of His knows no denial, no limitations. We are a chosen family, however bruised and fatigued. We are the redeemed, the purchased, the found.

So, together, shall we withdraw some permission we've granted the evil one? He who begs us to wallow in our shame and our defeat, all the while forcing our ineffectiveness and our inaction? Yes, for there is hope found today in this rabble and pile of fractured clay; that He will still take us and beautify us. That He will still use us.

Indeed, there are signs of His majesty everywhere.

The Porpoise Diving Life

2007-01-03T08:04:00.000-08:00

Hey, Happy New Year to all.

At the end of 2006 I was honored to read an advance copy of Bill Dahl's manuscript titled The Porpoise Diving Life. Hopefully it will be available for everyone in the near future because it was encouraging, refreshingly honest and chock full of stories that demonstrate the gritty reality that is often our faith.

Ergo, the theme, "reality for the rest of us."

Anyhow, take a looksie over at his website if you get a chance.

Peace to you and yours. I look forward to spending more time with all of you in 2007.

~ Jeff

Chapter 9 Out of this World, So to Speak

2006-12-19T10:49:00.000-08:00

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

2006-12-12T07:27:00.001-08:00

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

2006-12-12T06:10:00.000-08:00

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

2006-12-06T07:07:00.000-08:00

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

2006-12-01T12:47:00.000-08:00

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

2006-11-29T06:54:00.000-08:00

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

2006-11-14T11:46:00.000-08:00

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

2006-11-06T13:12:00.000-08:00

"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

2006-10-27T08:51:00.000-07:00

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?

2006-10-26T06:58:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-20T06:14:00.001-07:00

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

2006-10-17T04:53:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-02T07:33:00.000-07:00

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.