TheoSpora

I seem to get a lot of Google hits for this brief recounting of a drive down "Oh My God Road." The following is a description of what I remember and what I felt as my wife and I slowly made our way down the mountainside. My impressions are that given the switchbacks and relative size of the road it would be better suited for mountain bikes than cars. However, given the blind corners and lack of guard rails, I would caution one to be careful becuase the road is not much wider than a car and half with a slight shoulder on one and a sheer drop on the other...

Twenty-five miles west of Denver we entered the I-70 parking lot eight miles from three rockslides. There were warnings but we had no idea how long the clean-up would take, and besides we were on our way to a resort for an anniversary weekend. Well, three hours and six miles later we found ourselves getting off of the interstate to visit Central City for a much needed bathroom break.

For those who wish to know, I will know Central City for its decrepit casinos and, well, that is about it. The ride into town, eight miles off of the interstate was pleasant because we were practically the only car on a four-lane highway to nowhere. Our only worry was that the people in traffic knew something we did not.

A quick sandwich, a visit to the bathroom, and a new set of directions later and we hit the road again in an attempt to bypass the traffic jam we left behind. It just so happened that our directions took us down Virginia Canyon Road, otherwise known as "Oh My God Road," literally. No really, the signs actually say "Oh My God Road."

You see, "Oh My God Road" is a nine-mile road that connects Central City to Idaho Springs, where supposedly, the traffic ended. Our journey started off like many journeys in Colorado, uphill. It was a nice trek up a two-lane road to the top of the mountain. When we reached the pinnacle, we saw the fallen remains of an old mining set-up left for dead. The water chutes had decayed and fallen in places; towers stood silent against the blue skies awaiting a changing of the guard that would never come. Our solid pavement turned suddenly to hard-packed gravel; a sign told us the road would close due to construction on August 16 (2005). We knew this would be our only chance to drive "Oh My God Road" in its current state of being.

Four hundred yards later, the pavement re-appeared beneath the tires, and collectively we laughed shrugging off the moniker we had come to fear. "Oh My God Road" became "Geez That’s All Road?" Our comfort and laughter was ripped from beneath us all too quickly.

In what seemed like two or three short breathes the road began to narrow and the pavement stopped. The crack and pop of gravel beneath our tires filled our ears as my foot softly rested on the brake pedal. Our car slowed to what seemed like a crawl as we alternated singing a "Slow Down" chorus. Our road was about a car and three quarters wide, graveled, with no guard rails and washed out shoulders. At fifteen miles an hour you can see a lot of the road you travel, especially when you are at the top of a mountain and there is nothing between you and the valley floor.

Even now, I can feel the panic set in as I describe the road to you. My heart begins to pound, much too large for the chest that holds it. My breath shortens into quick staccato bursts offering little relief to my oxygen starved brain. My hands are tense much like the white-knuckled driving that occurred that day. I didn’t need "Oh My God Road" to tell me about my fears, but she whispered them in my ear all the same. The pictures my mind creates about danger and pain and fear were all too real during our descent. Panic was the obvious choice, but panic wasn’t an option. There was no where to turn around, no going back to the safety of pavement and guardrails. There was only down and that meant driving headlong into my fears.

We took it slow, trying to laugh those fears away. My wife, ever the great comfort in my life, praised my feeble attempts at bravery; her words were a welcome salve on the panic that had set in. Switchback after switchback we hugged the mountain side of the road. One time, and one time only, did I dare look down at the side of the road and it was a mistake.

We did look out and ahead. We saw the stand still traffic of I-70 and laughed at the poor souls stuck on the bridge with nowhere to go. At least we were moving! We marveled at people who had built cabins along this road, vowing never to be so silly ourselves. Six or seven miles later the valley floor rose to meet us. Looking up we could no longer see the road we had taken. Like an unmarked grave it left little trace on the mountainside.

About an hour and a half later, when we cleared the traffic, "Oh My God Road" became a source of pride. We had conquered what was bound to be the scariest road we had ever taken without a single scratch or scar.

A thousand things sift through my mind as I think of that brief nine-mile journey. Panic, fear, pride, hope, and joy are all a part of that carnival ride down the mountain. What I will remember most is that I, we, did it. When push came to shove, we started and we finished and that means something.

For me, fear is a powerful motivator and a powerful foe. It has the power to stop me dead in my tracks; it has the power to make me run for my life; it also has the power to draw from within my greatest potential. I think fear is a catalyst that feeds a great amount of potential energy within each of us. Fear forces a choice, a battle that must be fought within each of us. We can give in and give up, we can live to fight another day, or we embrace what is before us, befriending the very thing that threatens us. There are consequences for each action, benefits and drawbacks, risks and rewards, and no choice is inherently good or bad. The choice we make is but one in a million choices we will make in our lives.

I know many of the fears that lurk in the shadows of my soul, fears of failure, fears of inadequacy, fears of losing or not living up to my "potential." They remain real despite my small success on August 14. I suspect that there are very real fears in each of our lives. Ones that we dare not share. The problem is, the more we silence our fears the more irrational and large they loom in our lives. There is little we can do save having the courage to be who we have been called to be. In that thought lies one of the few things that can silence the fears that hold our souls.

I would like to thank the person who built "Oh My God Road." I won’t thank them for their engineering prowess nor for their eye on safety, but I will thank them for striking at the heart of my fears. I would thank them for making me panic and sweat and curse them to no end. I would thank them for making me confront my lack of control, for making me stare long and hard into the face of the things I fear and still go on. I would thank them for helping me make one fear a companion instead of a nuisance, a compadre instead of an enemy...

I will consider myself forever entangled with the exploration of the vast mysteries of who and what God is, as well as, how God is active in this mortal plain. My sense that God is an Ultimate Projection is just one fruit (or maybe foul) of that exploration. The idea that God’s attributes are created through the language and images and experiences we have on earth is probably not new. We, as finite beings, can only ascribe (or project) things we know to the Creator. As such, all things ascribed to said Creator are flawed from the beginning. The things of finite creatures can reflect images but never comprehend or view the full scope of the infinite.

Therefore, for God to be God, God must be of a substance that at the same time reflects the image placed within and steps beyond our finitude and individual (and communal) projections.

I have no problems with saying that where love or mercy or hope is found, there we will also find God. However, we must also make room for the idea that where hatred, oppression, and injustice is found, we will also find God. God’s attributes suffer in the hands of men and women. We can certainly witness this through the obvious polemic that occurs when we venture to call Mother Theresa and Fred Phelps (of God Hates Fags fame) worshippers of the same God.

Each of these people has projected their internal worldview onto their ministries. God, for each of them, becomes who they are (or were). In the arms of the faithful, God is continually created and re-created. In the case of Mother Theresa, one might look at the witness of her life and view God as compassionate, merciful, giving, and sacrificial. These are also the qualities that she displayed throughout her life on earth. In the case of Fred Phelps, people see the judgmental, fear-inducing, intolerant characteristics of God. Moreover, these are characteristics that Mr. Phelps displays through his constant homiletic and social intrusions. That said all of these characteristics can be supported through various scriptural references and historical claims.

If this is the case, then is all that we know of, or attempt to ascribe to, God flawed? Is each characteristic of God that we endeavor to ascribe fundamentally and inescapably finite, and thus fails in its bid to adequately approach the actuality of God? Certainly we can ascribe our deepest fears or our deepest hopes to God, but is that everything? Can the Ultimate Projection really be more than one mind or even one gathered set of minds projects out into the world?

All of this is a long way of describing why I feel so beholden to the mystery of God. It is why I can honestly answer tough questions with an “I don’t know.” It is why I get so mad when people attempt to create answers and put words into God’s mouth based on either their interpretation of a 2000+ year old writer or their own internal fears and needs. What happens with these situations (and all situations) is that the Ultimate Projection becomes merely another projection.

Being okay with the mystery of God also means being okay with the mystery within me as well. For me, mystery is the most comforting and confounding piece of my faith. It is comforting that I do not need to have or create the answers to life; I can attempt to release the Ultimate Projection from the confines of my mind. It is confounding because of one question. Namely, how do I relate to something that is at its core everything I know and none of it at the same time?

The closest I can come to realizing the potential of God is to be open to various interpretations as they speak through the experiences of my life. As each person projects their internal realities into the Cosmic Stew that is the Ultimate Projection the concoction grows beyond the limits of one person, group or community. The love, mercy and hope mingles with the judgment, intolerance, and fear. That mixture combined with a healthy dose of mystery (mystery meat anyone?) is a recipe for something that is at once a reflection of our internal image of God and a healthy respect for the very “thing” that is our Author.

Therefore, the Ultimate Projection can no longer be a “he” or a “she.” The Ultimate Projection is at once both she and he, child and adult, elderly and young, mother and father, brother and sister. At the same time, the Ultimate Projection is none of these as well. Such is the mystery, that what we choose to believe in is at the same time everything and nothing…

It is hard to remember when I last wrote. Life has a way of passing by the windows of my soul when I am holed up, and I have certainly been holed up the last week or so. Denver is a beautiful place, frighteningly beautiful.

My wife and I took some time last Friday and headed up to Boulder for the afternoon. After living at a height of 5,280 feet for two weeks we decided that we were acclimated enough to attempt a day hike. Our effort was… painful.

Our neighbor mentioned that the Flat Irons were an easy hike outside of Boulder and beautiful to boot. We decided that would be the kind of hike we could handle. We were wrong. About 100 yards into the hike my lungs began to burn, my heart was pounding in my chest and my thighs were killing me. I guess I should appreciate the opportunity to hike, but it hurt and the only thing I appreciated at the moment was a rest another hundreds up the trail.

As the hike progressed and we entered a tree lined area, the shade cooled our sun beaten heads and enabled us to keep moving for another two or so miles. We never made it to the Flat Irons. Our hike ended when our boots began to rub blisters on the backs of our feet. The area was beautiful and we look forward to returning for another attempt soon.

The hardest part about moving here has been the loneliness. We have said “hi” to the neighbors, visited a neat little church, and spent the better parts of most days walking our neighborhood, but we still have no one to call “friend.” That part is slow going because we have no routine outside of our domain. We have been together 24/7 for almost a month now, and as much as I love my wife, we do need a break now and again.

The executive presbyter in Denver has mentioned a very small rural congregation that he would like for me think about preaching to in the future. Initially, I jumped at the opportunity to preach again and get out of the house. However, the more I begin to think about it, the more I fear the opportunity. The congregation is currently in conflict due to the circumstances around their current pastor leaving.

What do I have to offer these conflicted people?

I know this is not about me. I know this has nothing to do with my skills, my ministry, whatever. There is little, in the realm of ministry, that concerns me, but then again it has everything to do with me as well. Ministry is already a lonely passion, but to be placed in a situation where the people are conflicted, where half of the people will instantly look upon me with suspicion is to be placed in the lion’s den wearing gazelle flavored cologne.

The more I look behind the fear, the more I see the isolation and depression of moving lurking in the shadows in my mind. The shell that houses my mind seems dark and hollow at the moment. The friends and colleagues that used to fill the voids seem distant, though their echoes are always present. There is no one to have lunch with here, no one to play golf with, no one to relate back to me the messages that keep me sane, keep me real. My wife can be good for that, but she is dealing with her own demons at the moment…

At some point I must wake up from the fog that has clouded my life and embrace the world around me. It will happen at some point, I am just impatient…

grace and peace

I don't know why I place these things out here. I am not ashamed of the way I think or believe, but more the inability to coherently translate all of my ideas from the brain to the fingertips. If this makes sense, great. I feel that it jumps a little bit, but then again that only proves the somewhat futile attempt to describe the indescribable....

There are assumptions that I make in all of the theology I do and believe. These assumptions are a part of my heritage, my education, my experiences, and my emotions. When I write, preach or teach, these basic ideas, basic to me at least, are factored into every result that bursts forth from my mouth and the material used.

In my short lifetime, I have come to rely upon three assumptions. First, within each person is a mark or imprint of the Ultimate Projection. Second, within that same person, the mark or imprint is hidden through the individual and communal acts of sin perpetrated throughout his or her lifetime. Third, the Ultimate Projection remembers, despite the actions of an individual, what has been previously given and desires that each person attain, as best they can, congruence with that imprint.

I realize these three assumptions are fairly standard for systematic theology; they coincide with creation, fall, and redemption. However, the emphasis placed on each can only be particular to the experiences of one’s own life. For example, I am drawn to the redemptive piece of this tri-fold puzzle. This comes through my experience of being exceptionally hard on myself. The appealing nature of this particular aspect of my relationship to an Ultimate Projection stems from my need for grace, forgiveness and hope.

I could choose, and many do choose, to only focus on this assumption and its interplay in my life. However, doing so would only create a lop-sided view of what it is that I believe greater than myself. Therefore, an Ultimate Projection can only be more completely described through relationships with ourselves and one another. My sense is that the more we begin to understand ourselves, through internal and external means, the better we understand that which is imprinted within us.

To do or be good in this world is to rely on the insights of our collective encounters with this Ultimate Projection. I can only project those qualities of God that I experience in myself or in others. You can do the same. We can share these projective ideas with one another in a way that builds a greater sense of who God is; a Projection that takes on a larger meaning that we could intend.

Throughout the millennia, there have been attempts at describing what or who this Ultimate Projection is. Largely, these exercises are futile, because any attempt to describe only places restrictions on that which is believed to be indescribable. The best we can hope for is a close approximation of who/what the Ultimate Projection might be based on the experiences we have with that which is greater than we believe ourselves to be capable of doing/being. Love or hate, sadness or joy, hope or futility are all things that can push us beyond what we thought ourselves capable of handling. Each of these, in turn, could be used to describe the various states of an Ultimate Projection in an anthropocentric way. However, an Ultimate Projection must not be bound by our descriptors as well, it also must be free to be more than the mere emotional or even rational states we wish to ascribe to it.

I would be an interesting specimen for a phrenologist; after four days in our new home, I have hit my head three times on the pipes in our basement. I am now dwelling in the land of short people, and it hurts.

The moving in phase has hit a bump in the road for the moment. After three days of unpacking and placing items in our place, our energy has waned and we now just sit and stare at the boxes for hours on end. Our bedroom has yet to be set up; our clothes lay dormant in their cardboard cells; we have food, which is always good. In fact, the kitchen was the first and is the only room that is 95% complete at the moment.

One thing we are learning is that the people who told us about Denver’s weather were only half right. It is beautiful out here. However, all of the sunshine we receive has translated into a week of mid-90’s heat much like the rest of the country, and we have no air-conditioning. So our lives are lived with the constant hum of fans as background noise. This is not a bid for sympathy, just a fact of our existence.

There are still days where I wake and say to myself, “what the hell have I done?” I hope the questioning will stop soon; I need people to talk to, friends to meet. We have been fairly self-contained for the last week, and I can tell that we need some human contact that we are not married to.

These transitions are always interesting to me. I have moved twenty some odd times in my short life, so being in a new place is easy for me. It is a time to re-invent and try new things; a transitional period where two worlds are colliding and what comes next is something entirely new but made up of the old rags of my existence. My life is funny in that way.

We live in a wonderful area, a lot of younger couples and tree-lined streets. We have a park within three blocks of our rented house and a grocery store within eight. We have a front porch and afternoon shade. I am learning how to make a Mojito and soon that will be our occasional evening drink as we watch the world pass by.

There are several churches in the area, but I am not sure where we will try and attend. The neighbor across the street attends an “emergent church” called Soul that was an offshoot of an Evangelical Presbyterian mega-church. The EPC is too conservative for my taste, they don’t ordain women and that is the first thing that tells me we won’t get along too well. It would be interesting to see how the “church” works, so we may try to attend the “conversation” once or twice just to get the flavor.

Truthfully, I am so entrenched in the PC(USA) culture that I would have a hard time not being involved in a theologically progressive congregation. I need the freedom to stretch and struggle with God, not the answers that I find in most places. I am really beginning to feel my desire for mystery taking root in everything I think and believe. It is much more interesting for me not to know than it is too know. I feel more alive in the fluidity and flow of ambiguity than in the safety and security of solid answers. I am beginning to wonder if there is a home out there for one who seeks to find their home everywhere though…

I am standing in an empty house, soon to be our home. The hardwood floors carry my voice throughout each room as the echoes fade from front to back. This is a naked place, old but not dusty, cramped but not small. Our little Colorado bungalow will be our home for the next year as we seek out our place in this village of two and a half million souls.

Our trailer sits out front, loaded with everything we own. The day is cool and sunny, highs in the upper 80s, I think. I am ready to unload, but the unloaders we hired will not be here for another two hours. I have popped a couple Ibuprofen to ease my joints into the days activities. The ramp is set up, awaiting many busy feet, hand trucks, and the unloading of our stuff.

“How much can I unpack before my back disagrees with my mental age?” I can only wonder and try.

So far so good, our trip was uneventful except for a check engine light in Kansas City, MO. We arrived two days earlier than expected and have been alternating our days between rest and getting lost in the city. The city is set up on a grid; however, sometimes streets will end and then pick up a few blocks later. This phenomenon has frustrated our attempts to get around, and sitting in the car trying to re-orient ourselves is not easy any longer.

Tonight we will rest in our new home, learning of the creaks and groans that occur at odd hours. Our landlords are nice people, so are our neighbors. We are in a good location where we could never afford to buy, but that is beside the point. My time is short on the computer today; my thoughts are one-sided, much like a Labrador playing with a tennis ball. Unload, visualize, place, shuffle, sit, rest, sleep. That is the rest of my day, in a nutshell…

grace and peace

Our great adventure across the country began on a humid 96 degree Tuesday. Three men, who I knew very little but would come to have great respect for, loaded all of the possessions of our home into nineteen linear feet of a twenty-eight foot trailer. Tom, Thomas and Lawrence sang, strained, and shifted our furniture from its resting place to its well-packed new home.

They were modern day locomotives, churning along in the heat of the day to help us begin our great new journey to Colorado. The day was fraught with joy and sorrow. The banter between the moving men kept us going as we loaded box and sofa and bed. The house becoming noticeably empty as each piece was removed and our footsteps echoed on the hard wood floor.

The heat wore our bodies down while the emptiness wore on our emotions. It was hard to leave, and I remember finally standing in the doorway fighting the urge to close the door; staring into the now bare house that had bourn our triumphs and defeats for the past three years. I will remember the sound of the back door slamming against the frame for a long time to come, for my heart fell as the latch clicked into the slot and the handle refused to turn for my hand once again.

Numb, tired, grungy we drove in silence to the hotel that would be our home that night. Having sold one of our cars to friends that same day, our woundedness was almost greater than we could bear. We had said good-bye to too much, and now we are homeless shacked up with my parents, grandparents, aunt and uncle in Charleston, South Carolina; the only place that seems hotter than our home.

It is Friday and we fly back to Richmond in a few hours to begin the drive across the country. I look forward to it on one hand, but there is something nagging me that I am not able to process yet. I have wept for friends, for colleagues, for safety and for home. I have yelled and patronized and rationalized to make myself feel better, but for now there is only emptiness. I am as cavernous as the empty home we left behind, a shell waiting to be inhabited or claimed.

The reality that school is frightens me to the core. I am a student once again and it feels horrible. I can sense the old, rational self bubbling to the surface once again. I can feel the disdain for feelings and connection well up in my being. I will not let go of what I have become, that is my hope. I do not want to be the student I was, I need to be the person I am. But for the moment, I am homeless, wandering, frightened, but not alone…

A lot of things hit you when you move. There are bills to pay, arrangements to make, services to cut off and turn on; there are items to pack or give away, cars to tune, maps to create, and routes to print out; but the things that hit hardest though are those that have to do with other people.

We have been here for almost seven years now; the first four years in seminary grounded us in this city, the last three have been years where my wife and I have been able to stretch and grow where we have been planted. When we first arrived we weren’t sure that we wanted to root ourselves in this odd little city.

Thinking back, that first year was difficult as we tried, sometimes succeeding sometimes failing, to connect with people around us. It took a while but we started to warm up to our surroundings and take root in life of the seminary. We met some people at school and work who helped to till the soil where we lived and nurtured us both individually and together. It is hard not to grow when the environment is friendly.

With a little patience and openness, we have made great friends through our experiences here in Richmond. Some of our friends remain in this city; others have already forged ahead in new places.

Regardless we now know people that we will choose to know for the rest of our lives, no matter where we or they live. Above all else, it is these people that made our time here special and extraordinary, and I am thankful for every minute that we spent and will spend with our friends.

As I remembered our years in Richmond, I also thought about my last two years in this congregation, and I realized that if someone were to judge my time here, I could be accused of being biased in a number of ways. However, I also realized that everyone is a bit biased and I quickly forgave myself for my idiosyncrasies.

In the midst of that rumination, there were two accusations that bubbled to the surface. First, I realized that I could be accused of being a dreamer. Second, I can be accused of talking to you about how special each one of you is in the eyes of God.

I have always been a dreamer. Not as much a vivid images while I’m sleeping kind of guy, but more of a thinker about the way things could be.

I thought that I might share a couple of the things that I have dreamt about or thought about over the last two years. The first has to do with worship.

I have heard on a number of occasions that worship is boring or we do the same stuff all the time. The preacher wasn’t uplifting and didn’t make someone feel better. The service was too slow and restrictive.

Now, being a good Presbyterian, I know that our worship can sometimes feel or sound like a funeral service, with all of the ritual and confession and prayer. Sometimes, the preacher can get onto a subject we don’t like, or call up feelings that we don’t want to experience.

My dream is that each of us will wake up one Sunday morning and realize that worship is not about you, nor is it about me or any other person who inhabits this pulpit, it never has been, and a good worship service never will be.

Worship is about God and having a dedicated time to encounter God through our relationships with one another and our relationship with scripture. The only one who is to be pleased by our corporate act of worship is our audience, God.

Ideally, we would take our offense at scripture, our offense at a prayer, a sermon, a song and find out why it affects us. Rather than blame someone for making us feel uncomfortable, find out where the uncomfortable feeling comes from and dig into it, pray about it, wrestle with it.

A second dream I have pertains to the whole church. When my wife and I visited Alaska recently our sea kayak guide told us that the number one natural cause of death for bald eagles is drowning.

You see, eagles can carry their weight in food, but sometimes when they fish they grab a hold of more than they can carry. There is a lot of speculation about why this occurs, and most scientists believe that when an eagle digs its claws into its prey it cannot let go easily.

This reminds me of how we operate as a church sometimes. We bite off more than we can chew, we dig our claws into a meal, and end up drowning ourselves in the process.

My dream is that we let the mystery that God is reign in this world and instead of fighting over issues in which there are no definitive answers, we get about the work that we have been called to in this world. To love God, and love one another as we love ourselves.

This leads me to the second thing I can be accused of, telling you how special each one of you is in the eyes of God.

I don’t have the vocabulary to describe how important this is. To believe this simple thing is to believe God’s gift of your being, apart from anything that you do.

This idea is not just meant for you though; it also means believing every one is a recipient of the same gift of grace and redemption from God. And like the householder, we are to be patient and tend to what ever is growing in the fields around us. We are not to be quick to judge, nor are we to slash and burn everything before us, because a lot of good is lost in that process.

Just about every sermon I preached from this pulpit dealt with the idea that our worth comes from the simple acts of God: love, remembrance, hope, strength, and belief; and, in response we are called to love, remember, hope, be strong, and believe in whoever God has planted in our lives.

When we move we have the opportunity to take stock of our lives and the time we spent in one particular place. We have the opportunity to separate the wheat from the weeds and take what we have learned and plant it somewhere new.

One of the greatest things I learned during my time here in Richmond came out in a conversation with a friend recently. I can’t remember what we talked about, but I remember making this statement, “without art and music and dance and story, I could not believe in God.”

These dreams and parables are meant to awaken our long dulled senses to the presence of the Holy in our midst. Ambiguous stories and fanciful dreams are meant to pique our interest in a God that is an active voice in this world.

But art is not limited to canvas and sheet music, our world, our relationships, each person is a work of art created by a master painter. So, open your eyes and clean out your ears, take what has been given to you, and see the beauty before your eyes.

If I could impart a little wisdom to this congregation before I leave it would be this: live kindly, live gentle lives, love each other— especially those whose voices are different from your own, and give generously and freely of the greatest gift God has ever created, give generously and freely of yourself.

I am now knee deep in packing tape, cardboard, and Sharpie fumes. The packing has begun and our adventure out west will begin on the 23rd with a four day drive to Denver. I do not know how much I will post between now and then. I have one more sermon at my church before I leave this Sunday.

I will check in as I can, but the drive and the move will just about take all of the energy I have for the moment. I will be back, but it may take us a bit to settle in and get the ship righted once more.

Life will be different, of that I am sure. New place, new people, new vocation, same me...

O Lord,
We cannot hide from your presence
Your reach is far and your grasp is gentle
You are felt deep within the earth
As all of creation groans from the weight of your hands
We can see the marks of your beauty in the landscapes of our lives

O Gracious Host
You stretch your vast arms wide and encompass a universe of seen and unseen things
And yet these same arms welcome home strangers and aliens, widows and orphans, the poor and oppressed
Behind every eye your goodness and mercy dwell,
Behind every heart your compassion and hope reside,

And yet we choose to ignore this out of fear
We are loathe to recognize that you came in peace,
rebelling against the ways this world taught us to live.
We choose to walk our own paths, listening and looking up to those with power and wealth

Where you have blessed the meek,
We have worshipped the wealthy;
Where you have blessed the merciful,
We have screamed an “eye for an eye;”
Where you have blessed the poor in spirit,
We have lifted up the self-righteous and elite

O Merciful Lord,
forgive our blindness
for your kingdom to find its way in this world
we must turn and find you
we must write your words on our hearts
and see your wisdom in the foolishness of the cross.

The road is narrow and the path unsure,
So few have chosen to tread where angels tread
So few have walked this trail that we fear being lost, being alone.
And yet, by taking the first step we know that we will never be alone again.

For those whose lostness seems unreachable
For those who find themselves to ill to take the first step,
For those who live in places where we would dare not go,
For those whose lives are lived far from the comforts of home
We pray that the gentle rain of your love and mercy might fall upon their faces
And grant them peace and strength.

For we ask these things in the name of the one who came and lived among us,
the one who cleared the path so that we might live again
the one who taught us to pray saying…

I often wonder what you are thinking as I read scripture. You should really take the opportunity to read as a liturgist sometime. I love having the opportunity to gaze out from the pulpit see each face as scripture is read.

Your faces tell long stories about your week or even your morning. Some faces fight distraction or embarrassment; some faces hide secrets and intrigue. Every once in a while I will catch someone with a mischievous grin or a thoughtful expression.

But there are times when the faces seem blank and lost. These are faces that have been there or done that; they have heard this scripture lesson before. They remember it from Sunday School or Vacation Bible School and it seems like the minds that realize this begin to take a bit of a vacation.

After all, if the story hasn’t changed, what’s the use in mentally sticking around, right? I mean, if we are just going read the same stuff over and over again, then we can mentally check out and check back in when things get interesting again.

So, sometimes I let my curiosity get the best of me and I wonder where you might go when you have heard the story before. I want to delve into the expressions that your eyes communicate and swim in the experiences that are called up by scripture. Even more fascinating to me is not just the places you go, but how you get there, not the destination but the journey…

The way I see it, there are two ways that we are rooted into this world. The first is being rooted in our personhood, this means that we know who we are. The second way we are rooted is by what we know, this means that we know whose we are.

To be rooted means: being grounded enough to grow where we are planted. It means knowing the person that God created us to be and living a life that is as congruent as possible with that knowledge. Finally, being rooted means living in and amongst good soil that is conducive to growth.

When I was younger, I could always tell when the weekends came around because that was when we would have TV dinners at least one night. Usually, it was when my parents would go out for a date. Kris, my brother, and I would get to pick from the small assortment of “Hungry Man” dinners and then pop them in the oven.

I can’t remember how long it took for them to cook, but a short while later we were eating a meal consisting of a burnt brownie, dried out corn, some sort of pressed meat patty, and mashed potatoes with the consistency of baby food.

As the years progressed, and technology advanced, the time shorted for meal preparation. Microwaves came into fashion, and I remember being amazed at how little time it took to prepare the same meal consisting of a burnt brownie, dried out corn, some sort of processed meat patty, and mashed potatoes with the consistency of baby food.

But that didn’t stop me from eating them. They were quick, easy, and cheap and in my world that was good enough. Until I got a crock-pot.

I still remember my first one, my mother gave it to me when I moved out on my own for the first time. I remember being afraid to plug it in and leave it running all day. I was afraid my house would catch fire or the meal would dry out or be over cooked.

It was a funny thing, that little one person crock-pot. I would fill it with a small roast, a few flavorful things I enjoyed, and plug it in and walk away. When I returned home, I would have a fully cooked meal that fell apart when my fork touched it. The juices would seal and simmer and I would take what was left behind and turn it into gravy. Those nights, I feasted and savored what the crock-pot created.

Being rooted means taking whatever time necessary, however long the journey may be, to know who we are and who God created us to be.

I miss good transparent theological, biblical, or church oriented conversations. You might not think it, but the church is usually not the place where these conversations take place.

I am not talking about business type conversations, but more of the depth-full, open, playful, searching kinds of conversations. The type where you learn as much as you teach; where you dream about the possibilities of God, hope for the things that might be, and deal with the way things are.

I have had a few conversations like this here at Southminster, maybe five in the two years I have been here. And I will dare say that that is far higher than the average for most pastors and their congregations.

Regardless it makes me wonder why so few congregations eschew conversations of great depth and import, not just between pastors and congregations, but between each one of you as well.

I am certain that we all have our reasons for not participating, initiating, or requesting more of these depth-full dialogues. Maybe it’s the time. Maybe it’s being embarrassed about not knowing enough. Maybe we’ve had a bad experience in the past with these kinds of conversations.

Whatever the excuse, I miss having a group in the church to talk with about my struggles, hopes, celebrations, and fears when it comes to God, faith, and this world. The thing is I think the church as a whole misses these kinds of conversations as well.

Because being rooted means that we not only know who we are, but whose we are, we know the stories and experiences of God’s faithfulness, we accept and talk about the mysterious nature of God’s activity in the world.

There was a recent article in the Christian Century that talked about the trends of educational practices in the churches; the only denominations that continually failed to educate their congregation members were mainline denominations, or to put it simply, us.

Southminster has an active Sunday School program, of which about 25% of the total membership participates fairly regularly. The Wednesday night program brings in some great speakers that most people don’t even know about. Maybe 10% of the congregation takes part in that ministry. We have an active Presbyterian Women’s group. A small Presbyterian Men’s group. But for the most part, most people are content with two hours on Sunday morning, no more but a little less is just fine.

What statement to the world, to the community, to our youth and children do we make when education, dialogue, and conversation do not regularly happen on a depth-full level? There seems to be a great fear of committing to rooting ourselves in the communities of faith where we have been planted.

Our parable today is about growing in good soil. But even soil, like plants must be cultivated, must be cared for and tended so that the optimal conditions for growth are present. In good soil, roots grow deep. It is the place where seeds are planted, are nourished, are cared for and painstakingly tended so that growth above and below ground is strong and solid.

The good soil provides nutrients for life, it holds water and air, it is loose enough so that roots can stretch and grow without constraint.

The good soil is good conversation and dialogue. It is concern and care for the growth and well-being of one another.

The good soil is making a meal in a crock-pot, allowing our lives to simmer together as our flavors mingle together and blend into a savory meal.

The good soil is being rooted in the knowledge of God’s love for us and clamoring to find out more.

The good soil allows us live by the desires of the spirit rather than the desires of the flesh.

As I wrote this I could hear my excuses rumbling about in my head already: I’m too busy; faith is a personal thing; I already know enough; I don’t like to share personal stories with strangers; I wouldn’t know what to say; learning about the church is boring. This is my list of excuses for not taking advantage of the good soil around me, what are yours?

I like to look out over the congregation when I read and preach, because I like to see your faces. I wonder what goes on behind your eyes, what stories they would tell me if you would only let them speak.

When I see your faces, anxious, tired, excited, I see a seed searching for good soil. I can feel the yearning for something more from life, from relationships, from the church, from God. The question I have is this: are you willing to tend and prepare the soil for new seeds?

Each of you has been planted in this particular field. How will you care for the soil, how will you choose to grow, how will you choose to help others grow?

This post comes out of reflection on the most recent bombings in London. Obviously, it will not end there or I would not have numbered it. I can't say when prop #2 might bubble up from within, but this is an adequate beginning for me. I would appreciate comments and questions because this sort of writing is new to me, and I lay no claim to its universality. Usually, theological treatises do not begin with the problem of evil, they start "in the beginning," then again I don't know many classical theologians that write for blogs...

The problem of evil is that evil is a problem, for everyone. There is no country, no church, and no individual exempt from this problem. It affects what and how we believe. It affects our behavior and our words. It affects our worship and our service. The problem of evil is here to stay regardless of how many people we attempt to eradicate in order to appease our conscience and our sense of justice.

My argument for this is simple, evil is easier. It is easier to be selfish, to be self-serving, to be rude, and to be ignorant, spiteful, hateful, or ill-tempered. What may be the greatest evil of all is the belief that one has a lock on goodness. The second greatest, believing that there is a great gulf, divide, whatever between what is evil and what is good. Within each person lies the capability to do and be both evil and good. Therefore, no one person is one or the other. Instead each person simultaneously functions in both capacities, rendering all decisions thought to be black or white more of a gray muddled mess.

Granted, sometimes the gray is lighter and sometimes it is darker, but it is still gray; that is it still has some opacity to it that can be seen through to the opposite pole. The internal capacity for both evil and good is why I do not believe in a third party devil or tempter. I believe we carry enough evil within ourselves that we do not need to project this on to a super-natural being or specter.

Now, I suppose the argument could be made that if there is no devil, or if the devil is a projection of an internal evil then God could be nothing more than a projection of the good side of us? This is something that philosophers and others have debated furiously. While there is some merit to the argument, I think that the capacity for goodness comes through faith in something greater than the individual. When I think of the good, or lighter gray, activities that we are capable of I am drawn to thinking about an Ultimate Projection who aids our abilities to do good in this world.

It takes work, a hell of a lot of work, to do good things for this world and those around us. That, for me, points to something greater than us, something greater than our comprehension, an Ultimate Projection. The ability to act beyond the normal capacity of a human being is the ability to believe and act out of faith in this Ultimate Projection.

The problem with the idea of an Ultimate Projection is that it can be myopic. One person’s recollection of the good within may not match with someone else’s. Therefore, communities of faith are needed so that the collective projection more accurately reflects the image it is intended to reflect. The caveat is that all projections of the community must be included or the view is incomplete. Moreover, no church that chooses to exclude people based on arbitrary characteristics can lay claim to a more complete projection.

I am deeply saddened and angry over what has occurred today. It hurts me to think about the families who are identifying charred remains and body parts. It also hurts to know that that activity is happening all over the world. These types of attacks are frustrating and tiring; the relentless coverage, the speculations, the rumors, and the innuendo are primed to strike both fear and resolve into the hearts of humanity.

There is something great at stake here, I am just not sure what it is yet.

I don’t know what to say about London. I don’t know what to say about Madrid or New York or Auschwitz or Darfur or Iraq. I can’t smile and pretend that they haven’t happened. I don’t want the “hug the terrorists” or “send them to therapy.” I also don’t think sending troops in to “eradicate the evil” works either. There is no theology of terrorists to my knowledge; there is only theodicy – the problem of evil.

All of humanity is abused by these acts of irresponsibility, both the initial acts and the consquential acts. Evil is not just a problem over there, but over here as well. This is what I struggle with, what are we meant to do with these acts theologically? What is the responsible response?

I expressed my frustration concerning my confusion over this event with a minister friend today. He has the same issues. How do we respond to this event faithfully? How do we dare hope in the face of evil acts and intentions? How do we love and turn the other cheek without opening ourselves to a termination of our existence?

When will we get it? When will we awake and realize that following God has more to do with losing than with gaining? It is no surprise to me that people flock to hear a preacher preach the theology of prosperity, mindless drivel that it is. What is a surprise is that these same people claim to read the same bible I read.

For some reason, there is an entanglement between the culture driven life and the Bible these days. The result is a watered down theology that would make Jesus hide his head in shame. The largest church in America, Joel Osteen’s church, is probably one of the greatest examples of this trend.

There is something about a preacher telling people that if you just smile enough, whatever you want will come your way. Well, what happens when it doesn’t? What happens when she dies? What happens when he cheats? What happens when the bill collector comes? What happens when the smiles fail…

I would imagine that the fall hurts tremendously.

When the fall happens, who picks up the pieces? Does Joel, or does he stand behind the hand-blown glass panes in the windows of his mansion that he smiled his way into and wave at those below him? I know there are some good things about his church; at least I want to believe that all of the 30,000 people are not vacuous mindless drones of the “don’t worry, be happy” theological disaster waiting to happen.

However, I could be missing a verse or two in one of the gospels. The ones where Jesus says: “Blessed are those who get theirs, for they shall have whatever they want.” Maybe I missed the part where Jesus smiled his way out of Pilate’s audience and skipped down the main street throwing out blessing upon blessing to the wealthy middle-class of Jerusalem.

With what happened in London today, I can understand why this empty-headed theology works for some people. In a world inhabited by people who enjoy killing other people, why not run out and get what is coming to you? Why not hoard and smile and live behind gated fences and drive suburban assault vehicles? Why not loathe your neighbor as you loathe yourself?

When you can go to church and not hear about the devastation of sin on this world; when you can enter into this plastic society of “I am just faking this smile so that I can get what is coming to me;” when you can leave a worship service feeling uplifted every single Sunday, why not buy into it (literally and figuratively)?

If you can convince yourself that faith does not have to deal with what is happening in this world, then more power to you, just don’t bring that crap to my front door.

This world is a chaotic mind-blowing mess. Ever since the first soldier entered a concentration camp during World War II, we have realized that as an “enlightened” race we have it within ourselves to destroy each other. From that point on, there is no use denying the role and power of sin in our lives, globally, communally, and individually. To believe and teach otherwise is irresponsible and reckless...

grace and peace

Why don't you make some science too!

Hat tip to Streak at The Parish...

grace and peace