I saw my father preach the other day. His hair is now white, and the skin on his face has loosened with age, but this is the same man whose face I saw above the pulpit throughout my childhood. He stood like a captain in the bow of the ship that he loves, confident that the vessel would rise and fall with his voice and break the waves of human need as it sailed to the promised land.
The man stared at him quietly, then pulled his hands away from each other and brought them together in a sharp clap. The sound was so harsh and loud to him after living in silence that his whole body convulsed. The man clapped again. And again. And again. The time interval between claps grew less and less until it became applause. A huge smile broke out across the man’s face. It was the nicest, most sincere smile he had ever seen.
“Hello Jesus.”
Jesus’ mouth fell open in shock and surprise. His heart began to race. The man’s face grew solemn and he tilted his head a little to the right. His lips pouted with concern.
“I can tell by your face that you weren’t expecting me. I hope I’m not intruding on your little vision-quest or whatever it is you’re doing out here in this God-forsaken place.”
Part Two:
The man stepped forward, ducking his head, and entered the cave. He took a step or two toward Jesus, then stopped. His eyes moved to Jesus’ feet and side to side as he looked at his arms. Then he returned his gaze to Jesus’ face. He exhaled loudly and deliberately.
“My God, what HAVE you done to yourself?”
He stepped forward and knelt beside Jesus, who was still sitting with his back to the wall. Jesus didn’t move. The man rubbed the edge of Jesus’ filthy robe between his thumb and forefinger, clucking his tongue and shaking his head. He then looked as his fingers distastefully, as though something nasty was on them. He glanced around, spotted a nearby rock, and wiped his fingers on it.
He sighed again, loudly.
“Look at your arms, your legs. Oh my God, your poor feet. What happened to your sandals?
Jesus said nothing. He stared straight ahead.
The man laid his hand on Jesus’ cheek and bent his head down, putting his eyes in front of where Jesus was staring, trying to get Jesus to look at him. Jesus obliged him by shifting his eyes and looking directly into his.
“Jesus, you look like death. Your face is so drawn. I think I can see your ribs through your robe, or whatever is left of it.”
His long hair fell forward in front of Jesus’ face. The scent of fragrant oil was heavy in the air. Jesus reached up and rubbed the man’s hair between his fingers. He stared at the oil on his hand and brought his fingers to his nose.
The man smiled.
“Like it? It’s pure nard. A whole flask of it. It’s outrageously extravagant, I’ll admit. But the ladies do love it.”
He flashed his perfect smile again and sat on the ground a few feet from Jesus. His face became serious.
“You know, I’ve been against this fasting business from the start. I remember when we first started seeing it. Oh, it’s one thing when you’re grieving, I suppose, but these religious quests out here in the wilderness - that’s just ridiculous. Fools have been coming out here for years. What it does for them I’ll never know. Perhaps the masses need their punishments. They feel good if they can offer a pound of flesh for their sins. But you, Jesus - you know better. You know there is no sin in the body and its needs. You surprise me. I thought you were more clever than this.”
Jesus opened his cracked lips and whispered, “My friend is coming with bread.”
“Yes, I saw your friend on the way here. A nice man with loaves of bread in a little knapsack. I’m afraid he won’t be coming. He’s otherwise engaged. A little problem at home, I think. I assured him I would take good care of you.”
Jesus’ face remained slack and void of expression. When he spoke he didn’t have the energy to put much expression into his words. All he could muster was a weak monotone.
“I know you, who you are. What have you to do with me?”
“You know me?” The man rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I don’t think we’ve ever met. Well, if you know me, what’s my name?”
Jesus turned his eyes away and stared straight ahead, saying nothing.
The big smile returned. “Don’t want to say it, huh? Suit yourself. Say, I bet you’re hungry. Why don’t we eat something.”
The man got up and walked out of the cave. He returned seconds later with a fresh, hot loaf of bread. He sat down across from Jesus and slowly pulled the loaf apart, tearing it down the middle. The smell of bread filled the cave. Something in the base of Jesus’ tongue seized and his mouth tingled and filled with saliva. He licked his lips.
The man took a bite out of the loaf and chewed it with obvious pleasure.
“Oh, absolutely delicious. It’s from that little bakery by the well. You know the one? The little lady with the limp and the outdoor oven. She does make good bread.”
He took another bite, chewed it deliberately, then swallowed.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but it is supper time. And there are rules, you know. I’m not allowed to touch you or harm you in any way. Unfortunately, that means I can’t give you anything. Not yet anyway. Trust me, if I could I would have brought you a fresh robe, a bucket of water, and a sponge.”
He emphasized the word sponge in a strange way. He drew it out a little too long and hit the final consonant too hard. Jesus looked at him and there was a glimmer of malice in his expression. His smile covered it up almost immediately.
Jesus licked his lips again.
“Oh listen, there’s no reason for all this fuss and suffering. I can’t give you any bread, but you can make your own.”
The man looked around and took up a large, smooth stone, roughly the size of a loaf of bread. He tossed it at the feet of Jesus.”
“Turn that stone into bread.”
Jesus looked at him quizzically.
“I assure you, you can. You have the faith for it. You’re special. What was it she said to you?”
He paused, thinking.
“‘Set apart.’ That’s what she said. You’ve been set apart for great things, Jesus. You have the gift of faith. Great faith. I know it when I see it. With your faith you could probably move this whole mountain. You can turn a stone into bread.”
Jesus stared at the stone on the ground and said nothing.
The man became excited and began to speak faster.
“Think of it. A man who can turn stones to bread. Why, the people would flock to your side. Give them a leader who can feed them, and they will follow you right to the gates of hell if you asked them. The great rabbi Jesus who fed the hungry and the poor. Use your power, for goodness sake. Your fast is over. You made it. 40 days have come and gone. Nothing wrong with eating now.”
He paused and then spat out a command.
“Turn that stone into bread. Do it. Take it and serve yourself.”
There was a slight echo in the cave, and Jesus heard that last phrase softly repeated.
“Serve yourself.”
“No.” He said. “Perhaps I have this power of which you speak. But it doesn’t feel right to use it to serve myself. I don’t need the bread that badly. I can wait until we get to town.”
“But why not?” the man asked impatiently. “What’s the harm in a little loaf of bread?”
Jesus closed his eyes.
“Because I won’t even start down that road - the road of serving myself. Anyway, the scriptures say that people do not live by bread alone, but are fed by every word that comes from the mouth of God.”
The man had been squatting in front of Jesus. He moved away and sat with his back against the opposite side of the cave. He stared at Jesus. Jesus looked back at him calmly. The man’s face began to change a little. His smile became slightly awkward, as if he were forcing it. Lines of anger appeared on his forehead. The man sighed.
“Well, I don’t suppose there’s any use arguing with a man who just fasted for 40 days. Obviously bread’s not the way to… You know, I agree with you in principle. I still think there would be no harm in having a little bread, just to give you strength to get back to town. But never mind. Okay. Right. And good for you. I admire your principles.”
The two sat staring at each other. Then the man perked up and got excited again.
“I also admire your considerable knowledge of scripture. A man of the Word, are we? Well, I have another idea for you. A wonderful idea. A way to start your work in these parts with a bang.”
He paused.
“And the best part is, this idea comes right out of the Bible.”
And immediately the Spirit cast him out into a desolate and lonely place. And he was in this wilderness forty days, being tempted by the Satan. And he was with the wild beasts. And the angels cared for him.
==================Mark 1:13
Then Jesus was led up by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil. He fasted forty days and forty nights, and afterwards he was famished. ==================Matthew 4:1-2
Part One
As a boy he watched them leaving Nazareth, wearing their white robes and going into the most desolate country they could find. They would be gone for days and then return, famished and sometimes wounded. But their faces shone with wisdom and secret knowledge.
He asked his father who these people were and what they did.
“They are the Essenes. They are a holy people, and they go to be alone and with God and to seek visions and dreams. It is not a thing for a married man, nor a father, nor anyone who is a part of the community.” He waved his hand around to indicate the town.
“It is good to be one of them, but it is also good to be a man and work and have children.”
“Will I be one of them someday?”
Joseph paused and tugged at his beard.
“I don’t know. The Spirit of God will either lead you there or keep you here. It is in the hands of the Lord.”
**********
The first day his hunger was a mild but constant reminder of what he faced in the coming days. The desert was a strange place to him. He wandered the barren hills wearing the clean, white robe of a pilgrim. He picked up rocks and wild plants, holding them thoughtfully and then tossing them aside. He found a shallow cave in one of the hills and said, “This is where I will sleep.” He took a red cloth from inside his robe, tied it to a rock, and placed it on top of a boulder where his friend could see it from the path below.
The second day seemed eternally long. He said every prayer he could remember, but he heard nothing in return. When his friend arrived to drop off water, he waved to indicate he was okay. His friend waved back and set a jug of water down about 50 yards from the cave. Later boredom set in. He fidgeted, paced, and began talking to himself. At night he heard the sounds of wild animals. Scratching and snuffling and digging noises came from the darkness. He was afraid and could not sleep.
On the fourth day he was surprised when the hunger pains left him. When he tried to stand, he became light-headed. He spent most of his time sitting in the shade, quoting from the Psalms and talking out loud. It was nice to hear a human voice, even if it was his own. By the end of the day he couldn’t tell the difference between talking to himself and talking to God.
After seven days, pain returned to him. He wept during the day. At night he rocked back and forth, saying, “I cannot do this. I cannot do this. I cannot do this.” Hunger slowly took over every part of his mind, mocking him and jabbing at him with sharp pangs. He could hardly concentrate on his prayers, because he kept daydreaming about food. He felt spiritually weak and his prayers turned confessional and apologetic.
On the 15th day he was calm. He hardly moved at all. He never saw his friend arrive and was surprised when he found a jug of water at his feet.
He lost track of days after that. His friend began leaving chips of wood with numbers written on them - 20, 21, 22, 23, 24. His defecation had ceased many days before. Once or twice a day he would crawl to the ledge in front of his cave and lay on his side, urinating onto the rocks below.
On the 25th day he saw his first vision. His father wrestled with a gaunt and starving man who was wearing nothing but a loincloth. Though Joseph was much stronger and seemed to be winning the struggle, the gaunt man suddenly plunged his thumbs into his father’s eyes. Joseph cried out and fell to his knees, blood streaming from his eye sockets. The gaunt man opened his mouth and a cackling laughter came out. He fumbled at the front of his loincloth, feeling for something and not finding it. He ripped away his loincloth and there was blood. He howled in grief.
“I gave my body, and now even my manhood is gone. I have been unmade. I am fit for NOTHING.”
The sound of the last word echoed through the hills, and he realized that he had shouted it himself. He wept with his head nodding forward.
After that the visions came quickly, one after another. His dreams at night merged with dreams during the day. Every manner of good and evil appeared before him. Dancing women in scant clothing, priests and merchants, banquet tables filled with fruits, breads, and meat. Thick, purple robes and golden coins floated just outside his grasp. At the end of each day the gaunt man would come, wiggling his bloody thumbs and frightening away the people in the visions. Naked and howling, he turned over the tables of food, screaming with rage.
On the day the wood chip had 37 written upon it, a woman appeared to him. He no longer knew the difference between reality and vision. She bathed his forehead in cool water and whispered comforting words to him as though he was a child. His hands clutched at her robe and he lay his head in her lap, sobbing. She leaned down and whispered in his ear.
“The Lord God Most High has given two words to you.”
He turned his head and her face was only inches away. She was clean and beautiful and she smelled like frankincense. She smiled and said, “Set Apart.”
And then she was gone.
For 24 hours he said those two words over and over.
“Set apart.”
“Set apart.”
“Set apart.”
“Said a part.”
“Setup art.”
“Set apart.”
The words became one sound and he couldn’t remember what they meant. He could no longer hear them as two separate words.
“Setapart”
“Setapart”
“Setapart”
The new word was full of rich meaning that caused him to weep with joy. But he could find no words to describe it.
And then one morning there was a note under a rock. The note said:
39 days. Will bring food and water tomorrow evening. You will have to eat slowly. I will stay with you until you are ready to come home.
He awoke on the 40th day with the note clutched in his hands. His mind was empty and clean and smooth. He sat slumped against a wall of the cave all day and stared, relishing the quiet. No visions came to him.
As the shadows began to lengthen at the mouth of the cave, he heard the sound of footsteps. He exhaled deeply, letting go of his control. He began sobbing. His friend would care for him. It was finished.
A man approached and stood in the mouth of the cave. He lifted his head slowly, expecting to see his friend with a loaf of bread in his hands. Instead, he saw himself, except he was healthy and well-fed, as he had been when he first came to the wilderness. He dropped his gaze to the man’s feet and slowly looked upward. Those were his sandals. That was his white robe. Those were his hands. His chest. His oiled hair hanging in ringlets about his broad shoulders. His full and healthy face. It was like looking in a mirror.
The man stared at him quietly, then pulled his hands away from each other and brought them together in a sharp clap. The sound was so harsh and loud to him after living in silence that his whole body convulsed. The man clapped again. And again. And again. The time interval between claps grew less and less until it became applause. A huge smile broke out across the man’s face. It was the nicest, most sincere smile he had ever seen.
“Hello Jesus.”
Jesus’ mouth fell open in shock and surprise. His heart began to race. The man’s face grew solemn and he tilted his head a little to the right. His lips pouted with concern.
“I can tell by your face that you weren’t expecting me. I hope I’m not intruding on your little vision-quest or whatever it is you’re doing out here in this God-forsaken place.”
Paul Soupiset is keeping a journal about the prayer labyrinth we're building at the back of our church property. We've roughly leveled the ground now, though we have a lot of dead grass to clear out. Paul's latest post shows his ingenious way of laying out the labyrinth itself.
Our church sits atop almost solid limestone. There are thousands and thousands of rocks out there. I think it is fitting to build the labyrinth out of native materials. We already use these rocks for landscaping and forming various paths through the woods and between buildings. This thing is going to be cool.
A few days ago I mentioned the possibility of an open retreat for anyone in the world who could find a way to get a plane ticket here. I'll be talking to Tim and Paul about some details on this. I'm almost certain the labyrinth will be finished by then.
Stay tuned.
rlp
Note: The pictures at Paul's labyrinth journal look rather dreary. We're in Winter (or what we call Winter here). This Spring the land will be lush and green with wildflowers and all kinds of color.
A few years ago we were replacing the flooring in one of our bathrooms. I decided to do it myself, even though I”m not very “handy,” as they say. I had to remove the toilet and replace it after the tiles had been laid. This was something I had never done before.
I gathered my tools together and lugged them into the bathroom. The whole thing was exciting to me. I like trying new things; I feel rather adventuresome when I do. And every new adventure carries with it the possibility that I might be able to write about it later.
Jeanene, who is a little more practical than I, did not see the adventurous side of this chore. She saw the distinct possibility that we could end up with a hole in the floor and no toilet.
“Well you know,” I said, “If worse comes to worse - I mean, in China and some places I hear they just have holes in the floor and...”
“Don’t even go there,” she said. "This is America, and this family is going to have toilets.”
“Okay okay. I was just saying.”
Removing a toilet is a pretty simple affair. You unhook the water stuff - pipes or whatever they call them. Then you take off a couple of bolts and pull the thing out of the floor. I did all of this and was quite proud of myself, I must say.
About an hour later my wife seemed surprised to find me at the computer, tapping away.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m writing about replacing toilets,” I said. I took my hands off the keyboard and turned to face her.
“You can’t believe how satisfying it is to do something physical like this. Replacing a toilet is physical. It’s a kind of, well I don’t want to say spiritual thing but...yeah okay, kind of spiritual in it’s way. There’s a physicality to it. You know, that whole “doing away with the division between sacred and secular” and all that.”
I turned back to my keyboard.
“Also, it gives me something cool to write about.”
She paused for a moment before speaking.
“So you’re writing about replacing the toilet.”
“Yep.”
“But you haven’t actually replaced the toilet, have you? You pulled it out of the floor, carried it outside, dumped it on the porch, then went straight to the computer. How can you write about something you haven’t really done?”
Jeanene was saying words - and I could put them together and understand what she was saying...sort of. But really none of this had any meaning to me. I mean, I was writing. For me everything lines up behind writing in importance, at least while I’m doing it. What does reality mean to a writer? We make reality, don’t we? We do the work of writing and in return for our labors, we get a free pass when it comes to reality. I thought we all understood that.
I slowly turned to face her.
She repeated her question. “How can you write about something you haven’t really done?”
“Well, because I’m a writer and thats kind of what we do. I don’t know, I sometimes just seem to know about things. I can sort of see ahead or imagine it or something. I don’t know how it works; I just write the stuff down.”
“You write things even though you have no real knowledge of them. You have no experience, but somehow you “see” reality. Is that what you’re saying?”
I thought for a moment.
“Yes.”
“Don’t you see what bullshit that is?”
I squinted and looked away. And then this little truth began to make its way into my brain. It was like when someone is calling your name, but you’re too wrapped up in what you’re doing to hear them. So their voice sounds real soft and distant. You’re kind of aware that someone is talking, but not really. Then you pull your mind away from whatever it is you’re doing and you can suddenly hear them and their voice is really loud.
I could hear this stunning new truth now. Loudly. You should actually finish replacing a toilet before you act like a know-it-all and write about doing it.
I got it. It was a revelation. I had hardly dabbled in the task, yet here I was writing all this stuff about physicality and other things that have very little meaning. Putting the toilet back is about 8/10 of the job, but I was already writing about it.
It was all clear to me. I laughed.
“You’re right, this is complete bullshit. Do you see how hilarious this is? There’s a gaping hole in the floor of our bathroom and this dripping toilet on the back porch - real classy. And me in here writing about it instead of actually doing it. That is so funny. I see it now. I see the irony of it.”
I paused, laughing and shaking my head. Then I froze again with my mouth partly open.
“Oh, I am SO going to write about this. I’ll write the whole story. Very funny stuff. I’ll just erase all this about spirituality and physicality and all that. I’ll just tell the story. Yeah yeah yeah, that’s what you’re supposed to do. At its core, writing is simple storytelling. Oh, this is going to be awesome”
I turned back to the keyboard and began to type.
We were replacing the flooring in one of our bathrooms. I decided to do it myself.
“Hey, what was it you said when you first came in? It was perfect. You had that really great, sassy attitude. I want to get it down just the way you said it.”
Last Thursday I had arthroscopic knee surgery. I tore the meniscus in my left knee almost two years ago. I wish I would say I was doing something exciting. The truth is I was helping some friends move. I never felt it tear, but it's given me trouble ever since. The surgery went fine. The doctor found some other cartilage issue and drilled a couple of holes in my femur. I'm not sure why he did that, but I was coming out of the anesthesia and don't remember much. I'll find out details at my follow-up visit.
Today was my first day walking. The three holes they punched in my knee for the surgery hurt worse than the knee itself. Looks like I'll be fine.
I spent all day working on this blog, which frustrated me. I'm itching to write. But the move over to a new server with new software has been harder than I thought. And I haven't even done most of the work. I'm serious when I tell you that I don't know what I would have done if I hadn't met Tim Miller at Jethro.
Most of the cool things about the new Drupal site are behind the scenes. Things that make it easier for me. I worked over the menus on the left. I got my Foy Davis and RLPDV and archive links the way I like them. Some of the stuff links to the archives. I doubt I'll ever get around to importing all that stuff.
One new thing about this blog is the way I'll handle subscriptions. The details are in a new page I created. On the old site I maintained a page for subscribers. Well, if you use the word "maintained" loosely. One problem was I had to basically lay out the html every time I wanted to update it. With the new site, it will be much easier for me to maintain some secondary content as a way of thanking the folks who subscribe.
Tomorrow I have some stuff to do in the morning. I hope to get some time to write later during the day.
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Last March I wrote about someone stealing part of a prayer labyrinth at a church here in San Antonio. At that time Paul Soupiset was working on his Moleskine watercolor Lenten journal (which I HIGHLY recommend you seeing). One of of his Lenten pictures was inspired by his thoughts about building a prayer labyrinth at the back of the property at our church.
It looks like that dream is going to become a reality. A natural clearing has been levelled and some preparatory work done. There are a number of us who have volunteered to work on the labyrinth. Paul is blogging about it the process of this in a series of pictures during Lent.
This thing is going to be absolutely stunning. First of all, our church is buried in the woods. You'll have to follow a rather secretive and non-advertised prayer path out back that has no label and was made almost entirely by the vision and work of our 3rd to 6th graders. The path leads you through the woods to the back of the property where there is a simple pile of stones that forms an altar. And soon a labyrinth.
Here's a little video I made of the prayer path. The kids along with their very cool Sunday school teacher Ben have doubled its length since then.
Sorry about the video being jumpy
So now I want to let you in on a little secret. It's a dream that Tim Heavin (our other minister) and I have talked about. What do you think about having a Franciscan retreat at our church that would be open to anyone in the world who wanted to come? It would be rustic. We'd sleep on the floor and do contemplative prayers and singing at various hours of the night. Also hang out at the fireplace and talk about...everything. By then the prayer labyrinth would be finished, so people could try that too. What if all you had to do was get a plane ticket to San Antonio and you could stay at our church? We'd all eat together at the church, so you wouldn't have to worry about that. Then we would take people back to the airport and say goodbye.
Here's another cool thing. We wouldn't care if people were Christians or not. That's not the point. Anyone who is interested in exploring a monastic way of living could experience that for one night. We'd be thrilled if atheists and people of other faiths joined us. Imagine the conversations around the table.
I mean, do you think something like that could work? In this crazy world where we keep creating ideological and theological/philosophical barriers that keep us a part, do you think we could do something that would bring us together?
Look, I try not to be critical of people preaching or doing Bible studies. It's not good for me, spiritually. But honestly, sometimes there is something so gosh-awful and funny that I can't help myself. And this guy is smug enough that I'm not worried about hurting his feelings.
For you professionals out there, check out this guy's brilliant exegetical work. An entire sermon on this phrase: "I will destroy him that pisseth against the wall."
The mission trip plan was not complicated. Five of us would be dropped off at the University of Wisconsin, where we would walk around and tell people about Jesus, hopefully leading some of them to accept Jesus as their personal savior. The other five would go to a local community college and do the same thing. The following day we would swap campuses.
I was very uncomfortable about the whole thing. The idea of walking around striking up conversations about Jesus with strangers was frightening, so I was feeling high levels of anxiety. However, I had no way to think about that anxiety other than to consider it a personal weakness. If I loved God, certainly I would love these people enough to want to tell them the good news about Jesus. Of course I would. Otherwise they might go to hell. I felt that if I was a good Christian, I would be excited and happy about the task ahead. That I was instead plagued with a stomach full of butterflies was something that I would simply have to overcome. And I was determined to do so.
And so it was that on a March morning in 1982, a van rolled to a stop somewhere on the campus of the University of Wisconsin and dropped off five idealistic college students. The van drove away, and we were left to our work. We would be picked up late that afternoon.
It had not occurred to anyone to do any cultural research to see if the folks from Wisconsin might have some customs or social expectations that differed from ours. In most parts of Texas, strangers can and do greet each other. It doesn’t happen all the time, but sometimes a total stranger will ask you how your day is going. A friendly response is expected. Usually that’s all that happens, but you can strike up a conversation if you’re of a mind to do that.
In the North and Northeastern parts of our country, people are more hesitant to start conversations with strangers. This doesn’t mean people are less friendly there. It simply means the social morays and boundaries are a little different. In crowded urban areas, personal space might be the only space you have. As it turned out, walking around the campus of the University of Wisconsin trying to start conversations with total strangers was not the thing to do.
I think we were all a bit hesitant and unsure of how to get started. People were everywhere, walking quickly to class. I did the only thing I knew to do, something that might work on the campus at Baylor. I walked up to people, introduced myself, and tried to get them to talk to me.
"Hi, how’r ya’ll doin? My name’s Gordon Atkinson. I’m up from Texas, just visiting the campus. Say, have you heard about Jesus?"
I did not get the response I was hoping for. A good number of people just ignored me completely, walking by without any sign that they had heard me. Others flinched and drew back, somewhat alarmed. They walked away looking back over their shoulders or whispering to their friends. “Who the fuck is that guy?”
We tried. God knows we tried, but no one would listen to us. Soon it was apparent that a handful of religious zealots were walking around campus, and people began to actively avoid us. I hated every minute of it. But still I felt that this was the right thing to do, so I forced myself to engage people, only to get the same response every time.
I particularly remember opening a door for a young woman. I held it open with my right hand and and motioned her through with my left. I had a big smile on my face. I thought she might talk to me after that. She froze in front of the open door and looked at me with obvious suspicion. She moved away and left the building through a different door, walking away quickly which her books clutched to her chest.
That’s pretty much how the day went. We were ignored or stared at. A few folks got verbal and told us to fuck off.
By noon, I was done. I was emotionally shredded. I couldn’t make myself talk to even one more person. I went into the cafeteria and hid there drinking milkshakes for the rest of the afternoon. As the day progressed I felt more and more miserable. I knew that Jesus must be disappointed in a pitiful disciple like me. The apostle Paul endured a stoning and beatings to tell people about Jesus. But I couldn’t bring myself to talk to college students because I was embarrassed.
The guilt and shame were horrible. I tried to drown my feelings of sorrow by slurping down several milkshakes. It helped a little - a good milkshake always does - but not much.
That evening the van returned and we wearily climbed aboard. In the whole day only three people had managed to have even a single meaningful conversation. And that was with one guy who was intrigued by our accents. He kept asking the girls to say “ya’ll.” He was mostly just curious about why we would do something this boring and awful during our Spring Break.
We got back to where we were staying to find the other group jubilant and celebrating. When we arrived they rushed over and told us with great joy that five people had accepted Christ that day at the community college.
I took the news rather hard, though I knew I should have been happy that five souls were saved. Their success only served to accentuate my own disappointment in myself. Maybe they were more persistent and focused on their task. Or perhaps they had faith enough to keep them trying. I was pretty sure no one on the community college team had spent two or three hours in the cafeteria drinking milk shakes.
I wanted to be happy for their success, so I shoved my own feelings aside, forced a smile on my face, and joined in a time of prayer and thanksgiving for what the Lord had done that day. By the time we were done praying, I felt better. What did it matter how the Lord’s work got done? We had brought the gospel to five people. The whole trip was worth that, wasn’t it?
The next day the other team went to the University and we went to the community college. The other team had set up tables with literature in the cafeteria and had done a puppet show the day before. I know that sounds lame, but it was actually pretty funny. They had expensive muppets, like the ones on Sesame Street, which they made sing and play instruments. I had seen them do it before. I liked the idea of sitting at a table so we could engage people who were curious instead of trying to hunt them down all over campus. I sat down and a few minutes later, two mentally-challenged young men in aprons came over, asking about the puppets. I told them the puppets wouldn’t be there that day. They were visibly disappointed.
Their names were Philip and Roger. The community college had a program to teach food service skills to mentally-challenged people. I assumed these two guys were in that program. They were extremely friendly, so I chatted with them for a few minutes.
Suddenly Philip said, “I’m not going hell. I’m going to heaven. Did you know that?”
I looked at him, quizzically. Then Roger spoke up.
“Me neither. I’m not going to hell. I’m going heaven with him.” He pointed at Philip. They were both beaming with happiness over this.
I got a very bad feeling inside. I didn’t want to believe what I was suspecting. I asked them a couple of questions.
“Philip, how do you know that you’re going to heaven?”
“The puppet lady told me. She said that if I said the prayer, I wouldn’t go to hell and would go to heaven. And I did.”
“Me too,” said Roger.
I spoke carefully and seriously. “Philip, do you remember the prayer you said?”
“No.”
“Do you remember even one word of it? Do you remember just one word from the prayer?”
His face went slack as he thought for a moment.
“No,”
Then he smiled and said, “I’m going to heaven.”
“Me too,” said Roger.
I forced a smile. “Yes, I know you are.”
I turned away from them and whispered softly to myself. My lips were barely moving.
“Please, tell me we didn’t do this.”
I asked Roger if anyone else had said the prayer. He pointed out three others, all of them mentally-challenged people who were in the food service education program.
I was so angry. Someone on the other team had manipulated these vulnerable people into saying a prayer, just so they could claim to have led people to the Lord. I had felt so guilty and ashamed that I hadn’t had their faith and persistence. I had worked so hard to put those feelings aside so that I could celebrate with them. But it was all a lie.
When the team gathered that evening I said nothing. I was the only one who knew what had happened. It probably would have been good to bring it up and talk about it, but I didn’t.
I was starting to feel a deep kind of sadness. A sadness that had little panicky undertones to it. It was the feeling of having your foundation shaken a little bit. It’s the feeling you get when something you’ve always accepted might not be true. It had never occurred to me that when the Church puts such high stock in converting people, things like this are bound to happen.
And it got me thinking about some other numbers I had heard reported over the years.
-----“35 saved last night at the revival. Praise the Lord.”
-----“14 souls saved at Vacation Bible School last week. Thank you, Jesus.”
-----"Our church baptized 150 people last year.”
It’s a question of numbers and time. If becoming a Christian is a thing that can happen in a single instant in time - in one prayer - then you have something that can be counted. And if something can be counted, we will count it. Because we like numbers.
Numbers look good on the church’s year-end report, though one wonders why a church would want or need such a report. But numbers are not good in any way that really matters.
For me this trip marked the beginning of some new ways of thinking. It wasn’t the last mission trip I went on. And there was a lot of deconstruction still ahead for me in the years to come. It was painful, but it was the beginning of my spiritual journey to find the place where authenticity and faith exist in harmony.
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In March of 1982 I was a sophomore at Baylor University. I was a religion major, which meant that I was following a track of study designed to lead me nicely into seminary. I was getting my first taste of serious biblical study and theology. In addition I was beginning other studies common to liberal arts degrees - philosophy, anthropology, psychology, and the like. It was a mind-opening time for me.
I was also very involved with an organization called The Baptist Student Union, also known as the BSU. Some people said, “Don’t let the BSU BS You,” which I’ve always thought was pretty funny.
BSU was a Christian organization on campus that had Bible studies and worship services. We also did various ministries of one sort or another. We were a spiritual community of college students who were sincerely trying to be faithful and serious Christians. The community was very important to me, and I still treasure many memories from those days. I especially remember one of the BSU directors, Shawn Shannon, who was smart and funny and engaged with life. I had a profound respect for Shawn, both for her intelligence and her commitment to Christ. She was very helpful to me when I began to struggle with various doubts and concerns about Christianity.
Most of us in the BSU had been brought up in the world of evangelical Christianity. We were taught that everyone should become a Christian. This was what God wanted. We had a number of phrases that we used to describe the moment of conversion. You made a “profession of faith,” or “accepted Jesus as your personal savior,” or “asked Jesus to come into your heart.” These days I avoid that kind of language because it doesn’t communicate very well, but in that time and place, those phrases worked for us. We understood them to mean that you believed Jesus had died for your sins, and you were seeking to live as a disciple of Christ - a follower of his teachings.
We were also taught that if a person did not become a Christian during his or her lifetime, that person would go to hell. Hell itself was highly debated, at least in my circles. There were those who felt hell was literally a fiery place where poor, unrepentant sinners roasted for all eternity. Yes - devils, pitchforks, lakes of fire, that sort of thing. Many Christians I knew couldn’t stomach the idea of God burning people, particularly those nice Buddhists who had never even heard of Jesus. Some of these Christians believed hell was some kind of separation from the presence of God, a kind of a gloomy existence in the hereafter that no one could explain or define.
But whatever hell was, fire or gloom, it was a not a place you wanted to be. Particularly if you considered you could go to heaven instead. The exact details of heaven were never clearly laid out for us, but it was supposed to a pretty sweet place. In order to go to heaven, you had only to say a simple prayer, confessing your sins and proclaiming your belief that Jesus died for you.
Various religious leaders - pastors, Sunday school teachers, Bible study leaders, and others made no bones about this fact: It was our sacred duty to tell people that they needed to become Christians. We called it “witnessing,” and it was a thing we were all supposed to be doing. All the time. Wherever you were, at any time or place, if the opportunity arose, you should tell people about Jesus. There were even training classes you could take to learn how to get a Jesus conversation started, if you were a shy person and needed help with things like that. It was serious business and the implications were obvious. If you don’t tell people about Jesus, they might end up in hell. And you would be at partly to blame for that.
Leading someone to Christ was kind of the holy grail of Southern, evangelical Christianity. That’s when you told someone that Jesus died for their sins, and they believed it and prayed to God confessing their sins and proclaiming that belief. If you led someone to the Lord it was such a wonderful thing because that person was now going to heaven and was also going to enjoy the benefits of living as a Christian here on earth.
This is what my people told me. And they were good people. They were people from the churches I grew up attending. They were the people who knew my name and gave me hugs and were truly happy to hear about my life. They were the gentle adults who were warm and present and demonstrative with their love. This was my world and the only way I knew to think about life.
Consider what this kind of thing would mean to a sensitive, well-meaning young man who truly wants to do the right thing in life. He wants to make God and Jesus happy, certainly. And he wants to please the authority figures in his life by being a good Christian. Consider also how impossible the task is. No matter how hard you try, you will always be leaving streams of hell-bound people in your wake as you travel through life. It’s easy to see how that could be a lot for a person to carry around. I’m just saying.
Okay, so going back to March of 1982. A Spring Break mission trip to Milwaukee was organized by the BSU. I don’t know why Milwaukee was chosen, but we were told that “up north,” a lot of people didn’t go to church at all and weren’t Christians.
Clearly these people needed our help. So ten BSU students and one BSU director bought plane tickets and headed for Wisconsin.
If you were to ask me how I would define the spiritual life, I would be very uncomfortable. I’m not sure what I would say. I’m not sure how to define something like that. My greatest discomfort would come in thinking that someone might ask me to define it. Who am I to define something as mysterious and broad and individual as spirituality?
I’d probably try to avoid the question if I could.
I don’t know, maybe there’s a book you could read or something. Do you know anyone else who might know about this? I know this sounds crazy, but I’ve never tried to put a definition to that idea. I’d just be pulling stuff out of the air and making it up right while I was talking to you.
But if you said, “That’s okay. I just want to know what you think. Right off the top of your head is fine. I won’t hold you to it or quote you or paste it all over the internet or anything. But yeah, what do you think it means for a person to follow a spiritual path?”
If you said that, I’d probably agree to give it a try. I’d interlace my fingers and drop my hands into my lap. I’d close my eyes and let go of my head so that it slowly dropped forward until my chin was almost touching my chest. Then I would take a deep breath and shut out everything in the world except your question.
This is what I would say:
If there is an intelligence behind the universe, behind all that exists. If there is an intelligence that put these forces in motion, the forces that cause tides to pull and the plates of the earth to shift. The forces that pull matter together in swirling galaxies and blast energy outward when stars die. If there is an intelligence behind all of this, I know nothing about it. Any ideas I have about this intelligence will be wrong. Any name I give it, Hashem or God or Allah, will be a false name. Whenever I think I have come to understand this being, my understanding will have to be broken down and rebuilt, only to be broken again.
Yet in my ignorance, I can serve Hashem with acts of goodness in Hashem’s name. I can honor even the possibility of Hashem’s existence with my prayers and worship and life. I can follow the Christian spiritual tradition with its story of death and redemption, but not arrogantly, as if I have found the key to unlock the reality of Hashem. Instead I must follow the Christian path humbly and broken, for it is the only path I know.
Always there will be breaking and disillusionment. Always I will be building, and never will I achieve understanding.
And so I build and tear down. That’s all I know.
Tomorrow I will tell you the story of a time when I was terribly disillusioned. My way of honoring God was broken like the stones of a sacred city and scattered across the plains.
I will tell you this story because on the spiritual journey, disillusionment is as important as enlightenment.
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When I was young, the youth leader
of our church would occasionally ask for someone to give a testimony during the
worship service. All the kids would get quiet, shuffle their feet and squirm.
For some reason I would feel the responsibility of the group shift slowly to my
shoulders. The silence became more and more uncomfortable until at last I would
give in and speak up.
"I'll do it," I would say,
dragging the words out to make sure that my reluctance was duly noted. The
moments leading up to the dreaded event were horrible. My anxiety would peak, my
stomach would turn upside down, and I would bounce my right knee up and down
furiously on the ball of my foot.
The first trick I discovered was
telling myself it would be over soon...
Reaching levels of spiritual suctitude never
before imagined.
A couple of months ago I got a thick publicity
packet from a media company I had never heard of. Fox Faith is, in their own
words, "a branded distribution label from 20th Century Fox, created to house and
distribute its growing portfolio of morally-driven, family-friendly
programming." The FoxFaith website further notes that only movies with overt Christian
content will be considered eligible to be assimilated into their borg-like
existence included in their friendly family of films.
Now if our church got a promo piece from
Fox Faith, you KNOW these people are spending millions on publicity. Hell, it
takes a private investigator to even find out that Covenant Baptist Church
exists.
But Fox Faith somehow found our little church in the woods, and so I found myself
staring in disbelief at a slick, press release for a movie called, "THR3E."
View the official THR3E website
Ooh, it's from ONE of the producers of
X-Men! It must be really good, you know, like X-Men and everything.
This is your typical "seminary student teams
with a criminal psychologist to track down an insane serial killer with a twisted
plot and a shocking ending" film. It took me about 30 seconds to realize what is
going on here. 20th Century Fox noticed the incredible financial success of
The Passion of
the Christ, and decided to get a piece of the latest niche market - conservative
Christianity. To be fair, the market is not so much
conservative Christianity as it is uneducated Christianity. There are many
brilliant, conservative Christians with both brains and good taste. FoxFaith
isn't interested in these people. FoxFaith is looking for the Christian masses
who will flock to any movie, provided the dialogue is filled with their favorite
theological and political buzz-words.
Combine the lowest forms of laugh-track laden,
trite and simplistic television programming with the outrageous antics and
insanity of television Christianity. Mix in a million billion dollars of
advertising and marketing power, and you're beginning to understand what FoxFaith
is all about.
The most expensive cheese in all of history.
Hallelujah, let the revival begin. Lord have
mercy, it's only a matter of time before this heathen nation falls at the feet
of Jesus and begs for his tender mercy, born at the cross and delivered to you
via the family-friendly folks at Fox.
Can I get a witness?
So today I got another promo package, this time
for an upcoming movie called, "The Last Sin Eater." No, seriously.
View the official Last Sin Eater website
"In 1850's Appalachia,
10-year-old Cadi feels responsible for her little sister's death, so she
searches out the one man she feels can take away her sin - The Sin Eater. But in
her quest for redemption, Cadi uncovers a dark secret that threatens to divide
her family and community. Ultimately, Cadi shows them the truth in Jesus,
reminding us that the human condition is beyond human remedy: only Christ
provides for the absolution of sin."
Okay, that's about enough of that.
Listen, I'm just a guy with a bad haircut from
a small church you've never heard of, but I hope you'll listen to me for a moment
because I have something important to say. When it comes to God, religion, spirituality,
whatever you want to call it, ignore just about everything you see on television
or in movies. If you are serious about making a spiritual connection with a
power greater than ourselves, try the following suggestions:
Let go of big things and embrace little
things.
Ignore loud things and listen for quiet
things.
Put aside obvious things and seek out
hidden things.
Forget easy things and learn hard and
ancient things.
Stop saving your life and start losing it.
Let your thinking and believing become
doing and serving.
Quit trying to arrive and become at home on
the journey.
Lose your road maps and find a wise guide
to walk with you.
Love the idea of God with all your heart, soul,
mind, body, life, work, and strength. And while you're at it, try loving other
people as much as you love yourself. You won't be able to do either of these,
but trying will be very good for you.
Do these things all of your days and forever.
Do these things and live.
And may Fox Faith and everything like it go
straight to hell.
rlp
This guy
is a friend of mine. I went to his wedding; I've slept at his house; I've petted
his dogs, and admired him from afar. Milton is a seminary trained minister, and
one of the smartest and most passionate I know. And he doesn't give a rip for
things that don't matter, which means it's never been easy for him to find a
place in church. That's because churches so often emphasize and obsess over
things that don't really matter.
So now Milton is a chef. And like everything he
does, his work is deep and thoughtful.
You want to hear a deeply spiritual man, one who has
serious theological training and can cook like the guys on TV, talk about lent,
ashes, and how reducing our lives to their essence is like preparing a demi-glace
sauce?
You probably won't read
anything better this Lenten season.
rlp
It’s been just about a year since I’ve written
about my ongoing struggle with depression.
So how are things, you ask?
Just fine. Good. Mostly good. I think good.
I’ve been on Wellbutrin for over a year now. Three little white pills every
morning. I don’t ask questions; I just take them.
I think this is the way I’m supposed to feel. I
remember feeling like this before. I get happy and excited about things now. I
get sad sometimes, but the sadness seems appropriate. It comes and it goes. I’m
an introspective kind of guy, so a certain amount of ennui is in my makeup.
So, good I think. I’m feeling good.
But I have lost something over the last two
years. What depression took from me was my simple way of thinking about the
human psyche. Depression has made things messy for me, and it has made me much
more forgiving and gentle when I meet people who are emotionally out of control.
I used to think that the human mind divided
neatly into two spheres, a right and a left. It’s a metaphoric division, of
course, but yeah, two sides that one imagines could be pulled apart like two
halves of an orange. Left brain and right brain. Your basic dualism. That sort
of thing.
We think and we feel. We have reason and we
have emotion. Of the two kinds of human experience, the emotional part was not
to be trusted, as far as I was concerned. Not in relationships; not in daily
living; and most of all, not in the spiritual realm. I have always had a deep
fear and loathing of overly emotional religion.
Emotion, it seemed to me, was very arbitrary.
It often led you in the wrong directions. It made you do things that did not
make sense. Whereas the rational part of the human mind was careful and
reasoning and able to see truth, even through a fog of emotion.
I proudly labeled myself as a cerebral person.
I spent a lot of time thinking and talking and arguing and reasoning. Not so
much time feeling things. I thought I was in control of all that silly,
emotional stuff. I felt numb, mostly. And I assumed that you weren’t feeling
things unless you, well, FELT them.
Oh, you feel things. Here’s a shocker. No one
feels things in more dangerous ways than the person who thinks he feels nothing.
That’s the guy you have to watch out for.
Jung said it this way: If you do not come to
terms with your shadow side, the opposite of your strengths, you will be ruled
by that shadow side. I believe that now. In my case, all of my unexplored
feelings were sucked into a vortex of anger. Of course, I was too sophisticated
to let my anger out in healthy ways. So I ate my anger. I ate it dry. It was
like swallowing unshelled peanuts. It did not sit well in my gut.
That’s when depression exploded my simple ways
of thinking. You can say whatever you want about the emotional side of human
beings, but emotions rule the day. They dictate our actions FAR more than we
think. People live right out of their guts. We are primitive in that way.
When my depression became critical, it rose
from beneath me like a dark wave. It tossed me about, laughing at my feeble
words of protest. It kicked my ass, but good. I was unable to act in ways that
made sense. My feelings of sorrow and panic washed away my control like a
tsunami washes away the hammocks hanging near the beach.
I hid my sorrow as long as I could, and then I
began to pick compulsively at the skin on my right hand until it bled. It hurt
so bad, and I would swear I would never do it again. But then my left hand would
start creeping over to my right hand. I couldn’t stop it.
So much for Mr. Cerebral.
And then, just to make sure that my worldview
was completely shattered, that one stone was not left standing on another, and
that salt was sown in my fields, I began to think crazy thoughts. Depression
made me think crazy things.
THINK them.
I
Thought
Crazy
Things
I had thoughts that were not based in reality.
Do you know how frightening and horrifying that is to a person like me?
At one point I decided that my wife of twenty
years no longer loved me. I thought that, baby. THOUGHT IT.
And I thought that the people in my church
didn’t like me anymore and were probably talking about how to fire me without
totally devastating our family. I figured they would be nice in the way they did
it, but yes, people were talking about me and trying to find a way to get rid of
me.
Um, that’s some crazy shit. I am many things,
but unloved and unappreciated are not among them.
So I was wrong about all of it. The simple
division between thought and emotion, the control I thought I had by denying
things I felt, and my arrogant pride in thinking that I understood myself well
enough to have clear thoughts.
That’s what depression took from me.
What’s left? Let’s see…
A lot of humility and grace. I feel sorrow when
I see men whose faces are hard and whose anger is beyond their control. I wish I
could make them little boys again and hold them in my lap.
A new respect for people who deal well with
their emotions, trusting them and experiencing them and nurturing them.
Gratitude for how I feel. Feeling good is very
nice. I like it. I like to see my daughters and feel happy about it. I like to
look forward to doing things instead of just doing them because duty calls.
Silliness. I’m such a silly person. You can’t
believe how silly I am. I’m the silliest person in our whole family. Just a
silly, giddy, goofy, funny boy.
Spiritual joy. I feel a deep, wondrous joy
about my spiritual journey. Paying ritual homage to the power/intelligence
behind the cosmos is a rich and meaningful thing to me. It is closely tied to
humility. In the absence of any hope of figuring things out all by myself, I
join myself to pilgrims across the ages, singing songs, reciting poetry, and
telling sacred stories under the stars. Depression stole the joy from my faith,
and I'm glad to have it back.
And last, love. Love was left behind after the
depression went away. I’ve rediscovered love, and it’s like finding a baby bunny
hiding under a zucchini leaf. You may pick her up and hold her, but be very
careful. She’s trembling. But isn’t she the sweetest thing you’ve ever seen in
all your life?
rlp
I think that this will be my last depression
entry. I’ve said enough, and now is the time for living. If something happens
and I get in bad shape again, I’ll be honest and tell you about it. Until then,
if you don’t hear from me, assume that no news is good news.
The exterior of my house is very pleasing to
the eye. It’s a modest, prairie home that is aging well and is comforting to
look at. The porch is large, with chairs and a couple of swings. On the porch I
am the perfect host - chatting, making people feel welcome, and carrying drinks
around on a little tray. I’m very engaged in the conversations, actively
listening, and moving smoothly from one group to the next.
People like the outside of my house and the
front porch. I take great pride in that.
But I don’t invite many people inside my
house. I need to know you pretty well before I let you see the interior, though
I do have a variety of photo albums available on the porch. These photos are a
carefully chosen selection from the various rooms inside my house. I’ve included
a few safe, but slightly intimate photos of my private rooms, so that you’ll
almost think you’ve been inside.
“Wow, these are great photos,â€
someone on the porch says. “So intimate and beautiful and daring.â€
“Thank you,†I say with a big smile. “More
lemonade?â€
The people I allow inside are surprised to find
that the interior looks nothing like what you’d expect in a prairie home.
Through the front door is a large, open room that looks like a warehouse. Mounds
of papers, books, and dirty plates cover the tops of tables and desks. Even some
of the chairs have things stacked on them. Here and there are half-finished
projects, some buried under piles of financial statements, unused calendars, and
receipts. There is sawdust and trash all over the floor. Everywhere you look
there are chewed pencils.
In the warehouse I rush back and forth in a mad
panic, slapping things together, scribbling on papers, and stuffing things into
envelopes. A phone is cradled on my shoulder, and I am shouting apologies into
it. These apologies are as messy as the room, stitched together with lies and
half-truths.
If I see you in my warehouse, I am deeply
embarrassed and want to hustle you out of there as quickly as possible. I want
everyone to think that things are as calm and peaceful inside as they are on the
porch.
There is a door in one wall of the warehouse
that leads to the family room, which is a kind of secret club. There is a very
large lock on this door. Jeanene and I and the three sisters are the only ones
with keys. Occasionally one of the girls rushes through the front door, dashes
across the warehouse, and fumbles with the lock while looking over her shoulder
in a panic. When the door opens, she slips inside with an audible sigh of
relief.
One corner of the warehouse is more cluttered
than the rest of the room. As you approach it, the mess gets more extreme until
you think it can’t get any worse. Then you see the hidden, circular staircase
that leads to a room below. Soft music floats up the stairs along with scents
of patchouli and rosemary. Flickering lights from a fireplace below leap out of
the hole in the floor and beckon to you to enter.
The stairs lead to my sanctuary. Because of the
chaos above, it is astonishing that this room is perfectly neat and tidy, though
it is obviously well used. Famous paintings are on the walls, and elegant,
wooden shelves are filled with fine books with leather covers. The couches in
front of the fireplace look deliciously comfortable, and you can smell pipe
tobacco coming from tins on the mantel.
There is a home theater in one corner with a
fabulous collection of movies and music. Fountain pens, inkwells, and heavy
paper sit neatly on several wooden desks. All of my writing is done in this
room. Finished works are stored here in perfectly organized filing cabinets.
I’m very proud of this room. In truth, it is
the room I hope most defines me. When people visit here, I look up and
acknowledge their presence, then go back to whatever I was doing. I sometimes
find it difficult to engage people in my sanctuary; indeed I can barely hear
their voices.
There is a circular, hobbit door in one wall of
the sanctuary. It leads to a different sanctuary, one I abandoned in 1984. This
room is filled with juvenile literature, science fiction, a record player, and
an astonishing variety of sporting equipment. There are beanbag chairs all
around and shag carpet. 70s and 80s rock and roll posters fill the walls. On one
wall there are some framed pictures of girls in prom dresses. Their names are
carefully carved into the frames. The colors of these photographs are fading,
but they were clearly hung, long ago, in a place of honor and with great care.
Last year I entered this room for the first
time in many years. I looked around a bit, smiled at the pictures of the girls,
and then gasped when I saw my worn and beloved baseball mitt. I picked it up,
smelled it, and took it with me when I left.
There is also a secret door in my sanctuary. If
you push a hidden lever near the fireplace, a bookcase pops open to reveal a
hidden room. There is only one person who knows how to push this lever. When she
enters the room, her eyes sweep across the walls and shelves and then grow wide.
She giggles and puts her hand over her mouth. Something on the other side of the
room catches her eye. She stares at it intently. Her head tilts a little, and
she squints. A smile slowly grows on her face. It is the Mona Lisa smile of a
woman who knows that she is the one.
In the far wall of my hidden room is a door
that has wedges and spikes pounded under it and around the edges. The door
itself is scarred and splintered in places. It looks as though there has been a
fight over whether to open it or keep it closed. From inside there is a furious
pounding. Someone wants to come out. Someone selfish and extremely sensual,
someone rude and very indulgent. Someone who would sacrifice anything for the
pleasure of the moment. He needs pleasure, and he doesn’t give a damn about
anything or anyone else. He’s angry as hell to be locked inside. You can hear
him howling at night. And he swears that one day he will have his revenge.
On the floor, in a corner of my sanctuary,
there is a heavy, wooden trap door. In the center is a black, iron ring. This is
the door to the caverns beneath my house. It is very difficult to open this
door. It takes a lot of courage and an enormous amount of strength. You have to
grab the ring and pull with all your might. But sometimes this door pops open by
itself, especially at night. If you walk by and find that it is open, it will
slam shut as soon as you approach it.
Below the trapdoor are steps leading down into
the darkness. Mysterious and frightening sounds rise from below. There is the
sound of running water, the insane laughter of demons and lunatics, and grinding
noises, like large gears slowly turning. Sometimes you hear the groans of slaves
and prisoners who are apparently trapped below the house.
I’ve only gained the strength to open the trapdoor
in the last ten years or so. In 2002 I began opening it regularly and going down
the stairs. I bring up strange artifacts and set them on the mantle, where I
puff away at my pipe and gaze at them in wonder. Sometimes I write about the
things I find below. But it’s hard because when you write about what’s below,
you cannot pass judgment. You can only describe what you have found. So many
people do not understand that.
There are many other doors in the house. Some I
have opened and others I have not. There is even a mysterious hallway that leads
out of the house to places unknown. I do not know this house yet, but I am
exploring more of it with each passing year.
These days a lot of people have been stopping
by my front porch. The photos are there, of course, but lately I’ve been going
down to the sanctuary and bringing up things I have written. I nail them to my
front door or leave them on tables beside the swings. Sometimes I look out the
window and am amazed to find that people are reading my work. All of it. Every
blessed word.
A dear friend, one who spends time with me in
front of the fireplace, recently asked me where God was to be found in my house. I tamped tobacco into the bowl of a simple
wooden pipe and considered the question.
“It has taken me many years to discover the
answer to that puzzle,†I say while lighting the pipe.
“As it turns out, God can be found in every
room in this house. In all of them. And I am slowly learning to be comfortable with
that.â€
rlp
Prairie style home
Retreats are things that religious people -
especially ministers - do sometimes. I went on a retreat last week. I wrote
about the food, which was fun, but what has really been on my mind are the
people I met, the conversations we had, and what happened to me in Georgia.
Everyone at the retreat was a Disciples of
Christ minister in Georgia. Except me, of course. I'm a Texan and still proud of
that. I'm a Baptist and not so proud of that, but okay with it.
I was the leader guy of the retreat, but you
have to think about that concept loosely. These are people who lead retreats and
preach and walk with people on their spiritual journeys all the time. You don't
need to talk to people like this. You should get the conversation started and
then join in. That's what I did, and it made it seem like I wasn't leading
anything or anyone.
There is a certain collegiality among ministers
when we get together, in part because we can have a hard time being ourselves at
church. We have a tendency to become icons and symbols of the community. Many
churches want an icon and many ministers get lost in that role. How you live in
the role of preacher/pastor is an esoteric journey itself. There aren't many
how-to manuals. You have learn things the hard way. When we get together, it's
very relaxing. Suddenly the shepherds are all together in a flock, watching out
for each other.
I became aware that something was happening
inside me on the first night. I was experiencing a rush of joy and a slow creep
of sadness. After the shattering events of the takeover of the Southern Baptist
Convention by Falwellesque fundamentalists, many fringe Baptists like myself
have felt rather alone. I'm aware of some ministers who are kindred spirits here
in Texas, but we aren't organized well enough to get together regularly.
Disciples of Christ ministers come in many
varieties, of course, but I find that as a whole they are more theologically
open than Baptists. In truth, I fit better with these guys. However, I love the
church I serve. I don't know if there are other Baptist churches that would have
me, but I'm not looking to go anywhere, so that's not an issue at this time.
So what happened to me on the retreat? I think
I could say it this way: I did not feel alone. I felt, instead, surrounded by
ministers who are on the same journey. And even now that I'm home in Texas, I
still don't feel alone. It helps just knowing that these people are out there.
To my new friends in Georgia: Thank you for
making me welcome. It was so good to be with you.
This is a very
cool bunch of ministers. Relaxed, open-minded, in love
with the journey, able to walk with you and not try to drag you along.
So many people have sent me emails telling me how badly they wish
they could find an authentic minister and a church that will bless their
journey and not shout them down. Take a look. Here they are.
If ONLY I could find a way to hook you up with them.
rlp
Okay, I'm here. I'm at a Disciples of Christ
camp outside of
Gordon Georgia, of all places. The plane
trip was uneventful. I did get a kick out of something though. Landa met me at
the airport and had a sign with my name on it. I've never had that happen
before. It made me feel all fancy and everything, like someone in the movies.
Landa and I had a great conversation on the drive to the camp. She was a Navy
chaplain at one time and has served as a minister in several churches.
Landa and the Sign
This retreat is for a group of Disciples
ministers who get away yearly to unwind, relax, and talk about the things we
ministers talk about when we get together. I'm thinking that tomorrow we're
going to deconstruct Real Live Preacher. If you take my expressed purposes in
starting this blog (I want to say whatever the hell I want to say. I don't want
to be your minister. Leave me alone and let me be myself) and compare it to the
present reality of the blog, you wonder what the heck actually happened. Maybe I
never really knew what I wanted.
I'm going to invite them to talk with me about
it. We'll see where the conversation leads us.
Oh, and I do have Internet, obviously.
Broadband, right in the room. Not the most primitive of camping experiences!
rlp
ps - I ate at a Huddle House
for the first time with a couple of new minister friends, Patrick and Courtney.
There might have been a knife fight in the parking lot; we're not sure. And I
saw Gordon United Methodist Church. I've got to get a picture of that!
I fly to Atlanta tomorrow and will be back late
Wednesday night. I'm speaking at a Disciples of Christ clergy retreat near
there. I don't know if I'll have internet access. I might with my mobile phone.
I'll take some pictures and try to post some things. If I can't get online, I'll
tell you all about it when I get back.
Take it easy,
rlp
This conversation happened last night in the
car. My wife and I both work, and I mean we work HARD. (I count my writing as
work. Shut up. It SO is work!)
Anyway, we often have no energy to prepare
dinner, but we love sitting down to eat with the girls. So we go out to eat
probably twice a week. Last night we went to a little Chinese restaurant near
our home. We just “discovered†it and are still in the honeymoon phase, raving
about their Moo Goo Gai Pan and such.
For some reason Shelby was trying to remember
some character from the Bible. Jeanene was driving.
AND....ACTION!
Shelby – Hey, who's that person
in the Bible? Their name begins with like a G or something?
Me – God?
<Laughter all around>
Shelby – No, not GOD. Someone
else. A regular person.
Me – Goliath?
Shelby – No
<Silence all around>
Me – I can’t think of any other
Bible people whose names begin with G. <Looking at Jeanene> Can you?
Jeanene – No.
<Silence all around>
Reiley – Gimli?
<Silence. I turn around and look at her. OMG,
she was serious>
Reiley – Oh, sorry. What am I
saying? Gimli is from a different bible.
<I turn around again>
Me – A DIFFERENT bible?
Reiley – Well, The Lord of the
Rings is KIND of like a bible, if you think about it.
AND....CUT!
Hmm.
So there you have it, folks. The preacher’s
daughter and her OTHER bible. Nice.
Wow, that last thing I wrote certainly got a
lot of attention. I quit responding to the comments because it was just too
much. But I'm happy that some conversation happened. This is a HUGE issue for
the church and our culture. I'm always amazed at how angry people can get and
how sure of themselves they are. Me, I've always had a hard time being sure of
anything. I have some rather extreme epistemological needs. I'm not even
completely sure I'm actually sitting here writing this to you.
I haven't posted anything else because I rather
felt like ducking my head and staying out of sight. Well, that and I got myself
tied into an essay that just would not cooperate. This one is for Christian
Century and only tonight have I finally tamed it. It started out being about the
heat in South Texas, and ended up being about illegal aliens and a friend of
mine named Roger who has a ranch down south.
That happens to me quite a lot. An essay just
takes over and sometimes the original stuff gets cut. In this case, about half
of the heat stuff had to be cut since the essay turned and was about something
else.
I'll send it to Christian Century tonight. If
they don't want it, I'll post it here in a day or so.
Be ye kind to one another.
This guy
extreme epistemological needs. I'm not even
