The retreat is done. We had 13 people from all around the country in for a weekend. It was delightful. All sorts of worldviews, beliefs, almost beliefs, uncertainty, and lots of questions and listening. We had a blast. I mean, who wouldn't want to sit around talking and listening and singing and hanging out with passionate, engaged, curious people?

I'm going to do some more thinking about the weekend and try to see if I can get my thoughts and feelings into about 750 words. I want to think and write carefully about something that is beginning to seem very important to me. Our small and powerless faith community seems to have stumbled gracefully into a need in our world. I think our world needs a place where you can go to find peace and friendship and love, a place where you can ask questions and talk about the meaning of life without feeling pressured or threatened by religious people with a conversion agenda.

I recorded the intro to this little video this morning at a coffee shop, which is why the sounds is pretty bad. But I caught this moment with my digital camera, and I wanted to share it with you.

Here are some photos from the weekend, in no particular order. A complete slideshow is available at Flickr if you want to see it.

Along the prayer path

Labyrinth at night

I got home from Austin yesterday afternoon. My car was finally fixed. The final charge was $1000, which really stung. I was not planning for that. Well, that's what car ownership is all about. The fuel pump cost about $600, as it turns out. Is that unbelievable, or what? A tow, an $89 diagnostic fee (for over a day of their work trying to figure this out), the part, labor to install it, taxes...$1000.

In spite of the cost, the folks at Lamb's were great. They definitely lost money on this deal. I'm grateful for the kind of service they provide. Car parts are outrageously expensive. There's nothing they can do about that part of it.

But I'm home. So that's good, right?

Tonight we begin our second RLP Franciscan retreat. We have 15 people coming this time, along with a handful of our folks. That's a full house. We originally said we could handle 20 people, but 15 is as much as we want to do.

Wilshire Baptist Church donated money to purchase sheets, towels, pillows, etc. Their pastor, George Mason, has been a friend for many years. Another friend, Kerry Horn, the pastor of First Baptist Church of Covington arranged for his church to purchase 25 high quality air mattresses, each with its own small inflation system. (FBC Covington has no website) So now people coming to these retreats will have a nice mattress, sheets, blankets, pillows, and towels. If you are coming to one of our retreats, you really do just show up and we'll take care of the rest.

THANK YOU, Wilshire BC and FBC Covington!

Paul Soupiset and I will be photographing the retreat. I'll show you pictures when we're done.

Thursday morning.

I'm still in Austin, my car being as of yet unrepaired. The crank sensor proved not to be the culprit. They have ordered a fuel pump which was to arrive at the shop this morning. I assume the good people at Lamb's automotive are working on it as we speak.

I find myself somewhat less observant today, somewhat less interested in nature and speargrass and the little animals beside the road, somewhat less wont to make pithy observations about life and the blessings of the unexpected, somewhat less willing to be patient and enjoy taking a moment to smell the sizzling hot, burned flowers that might once have been roses had they not had the misfortune to be growing beside the road in the blistering heat of an Austin summer.

Somewhat less inclined to those things.

Somewhat more inclined to note my newest discovery - that I simply cannot write productively sitting in an auto repair shop or in a hotel room pondering how many times a man can wear the same pair of underwear before breaking into a manic case of the heebie-jeebies.

Somewhat more inclined to consider that we have 14 friends arriving tomorrow for a Franciscan retreat, many of them staying over for Sunday, and I have no sermon prepared. Moreover, the text I had chosen in advance is a particularly hard one. I'll try to do some thinking about that passage today.

Somewhat more inclined to frustration.

I did tell you that while I'm better at this at 46 than at 36, I have quite a ways to go.

The saving grace is the wonderful people at the automotive repair place. Not only have they been gracious in dealing with one of those situations when diagnosing a modern car is difficult, they are not going to charge me for any parts they purchased and put on while trying to fix it, even though they made it clear that the only way to do this was to start replacing things. Given that they have had to tow my vehicle back to their shop twice now when it broke down during their road tests and will not charge me for that either, they will lose money on this transaction. By the time the shop pays for two tows, the sensor, and a day's labor for a mechanic all under their $89 diagnostic charge, they will lose money. And yet they seem sympathetic and have treated me so nicely.

Now I understand why there are no less than 75 letters from customers pasted all over their walls.

When I broke down I did call a friend and ask him where I should take the car. He said, "Take it to Lamb's."

I am still inclined to be thankful for that.

rlp

Austin Texas

So the last couple of days haven’t exactly turned out like I expected. I’m sitting in a car repair shop in Austin, Texas trying to get some work done while I wait for my car to be repaired.

Some people connected with the Christian Life Commission of the Baptist General Convention of Texas read my story about our family’s insurance mishaps. It so happens that our state legislature is considering the powers and direction of the state insurance oversight department. I was asked to come to Austin to the hearing and give testimony.

The idea was to drive to Austin Tuesday (about an hour drive), tell my story, then drive home that afternoon. Well, that was the plan anyway.

Then my car broke down south of Austin. It acted like it had run out of gas, but I had plenty in the tank. Shelton Green (Political consultant for the CLC and a GREAT guy) helped me find a mechanic. I waited on the side of I-35 for about an hour and a half, waiting for a tow truck. Waiting on the side of the road in Texas in June is not pleasant, especially not at noon. I retreated to a nearby tree to wait in the shade, only to be attacked by rogue birds. Well, maybe attacked is a strong word, but they were definitely agitated by my presence and flew menacingly around my head.

The tree I stood under

This bird and his friends did NOT trust me

My car was towed to Lamb’s, a local mechanic shop, and Shelton drove me to the capital where the Sunset Commission was beginning testimony on insurance issues for our state.

Initially I was concerned that I might miss my call to testify, but that fear was clearly unfounded since I wasn’t called until almost 9 pm. From 2 pm until 9 pm, the legislators charged with analyzing our state’s insurance oversight department listened to a steady stream of lobbyists and advocates speak to various esoteric and painfully detailed insurance issues. I just wanted to tell them how easily working families can find themselves labeled as uninsurable. My 5 minute story might have been helpful since the legislators pay close attention to unpaid citizens who come to these things at their own expense to tell their stories.

Sunset Oversight Commission for the Texas Department of Insurance

Afterwards I had dinner with some new friends, various political advocates who work with non-profit organizations - the good guys. By then it was too late to get my car, so I had to spend the night.

And now....it’s 1 pm on Wednesday, and my car still isn’t ready. I have a 1999 Chrysler Concord. That’s not particularly new, but it is new enough to be run mainly by computers and various sensors. Something is telling the car it is out of gas or shutting it down for some other reason. The mechanics feel it is not a mechanical problem with a fuel pump or anything like that. They are replacing the crank sensor, which is apparently sending faulty information to the car’s computer.

So here I sit.

Observations from my time in Austin:

Politicians and the political process - As I watched advocates and lobbyists and citizens parade before a legislative committee, it was clear that there was no way I was going to be able to understand the complex power structures of our state political process. Sometimes the legislators seemed bored. They sometimes left and didn’t come back for a long time. But there were various aids listening and taking notes. I’ve been an insider in enough systems to recognize something complex when I see it. I decided that my story might or might not make a difference, but I came to tell it in hopes that it might. Someone is watching and taking notes. “A concerned citizen drove to Austin because his family cannot get health insurance due to being unfairly profiled.” Perhaps my testimony will end up being such a note in someone's report.

Still, the politicians definitely do sit up and take notice when an average citizen speaks. I think there were only two or three of us during the entire process. But we were treated very respectfully, whereas many of the lobbyists received some fairly pointed questions and criticisms. One of the senators called them, “suits.”

What I hope comes out of this is a greater understanding on the part of our state leaders that everyday men, women, and children are being profiled and labeled as “uninsurable” by private insurance companies. You have some protections seeking insurance with a group through an employer, but if you are seeking insurance on your own, you can be rejected for unfair reasons. With no incentive to take you, the insurance company can reject you for for any reason, real or imagined. Why should they take a chance?

This is a problem because health insurance is not a luxury item. You have to have it if you are going to get good medical treatment. No one can afford to pay for their own health care anymore. Even a simple mammogram followed by an MRI and a series of lab tests can easily cost $5000. A family of five with a health problem or two in a year can find themselves hopelessly in debt in no time without insurance. And of course, after you pay all that you have for the treatment - which will not be enough - you will never be able to afford the medication they prescribe.

Cars - The question with cars is not "Will they break down?" but "When will the next breakdown occur?" You never know when. And when it happens, you just have to swallow hard and deal with it. I hate spending money to fix cars, certainly, but I hate the loss of time even more. I don’t have a lot of time margins in my life. We have a retreat coming this weekend. I have a sermon to prepare for Sunday. And I have a lot of work to do with the blog networks I run. I did not want to lose most of Tuesday and - apparently - most of Wednesday.

It’s a spiritual exercise to take a deep breath and try to let go of worrying about things you cannot control. I’m better at this at 46 than I was at 36, but still not there. One spiritual excercise that helps me deal with this kind of stress is to intentionally pay attention to little things. Okay, I'm on the side of the highway, so what can I watch and learn while I am here?

That brings me to plants on the side of the road - While walking to my shade tree beside I-35, I stumbled through a strange kind of grass with spear-like points. By the time I got to the tree, I noticed that 8 or 10 spears of seed-laden grass had impaled themselves on my shoelaces and were on for the ride, hoping I would take them somewhere where they could continue to propagate their species. I’m always impressed with the various ways that nature has evolved to seize any opportunity to survive. In this case, these stalks of grass ended up in the trash, but their heroic effort was duly noted and appreciated.

rlp

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I've begun a writing project for The High Calling. I'm going to write about every job I've ever had. I started with my first job and am working my way from there. We'll see how far I get. I've have a LOT of jobs over the years. I grew up in a working family, and I began working in 6th grade. Along the way I've done everything from bagging groceries to driving forklifts.

This piece is about my second job. I wrote about my first job here.

My Second Job

My second job, like my lawn-mowing gig, was arranged by my father. A local daycare center needed a janitor to come in every evening and do some cleaning. There was a tile hallway, five or six classrooms, and a couple of restrooms. In return for cleaning these, I would be paid four dollars an hour for two hours of work each day. That was a little more than minimum wage at the time, so I took home about $150 a month. It seemed like a fortune.

My specific duties were clearly laid out for me. I was to empty the trash, vacuum all of the classrooms, sweep and mop the hall as needed, and clean the bathrooms. I wasn't sure what they expected me to do when it came to the tile bathroom floors and hall. Along the baseboards and around the bottoms of the toilets, the tiles were dingy and not very clean. Did they expect me to make the floors spotless or simply maintain them as they were when I began the job? ...Click here to read more.

rlp

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The following is one of the last public prayers of Carlyle Marney, a roaring and robust, liberal (his word) Baptist who was the pastor of First Baptist of Austin and then went to Myers Park Baptist Church in Charlotte, North Carolina. He died in 1978.

It is out of respect for Baptists like Marney that our church has remained Baptist, in spite of the fact that we take a beating for it. Many people show up at Covenant Baptist Church, expecting something that we are not. They generally don’t come back. One man almost ran to his car after I pulled out a rosary in my Sunday School class. And I suspect that many people see our name and pass us by, people who would have found what they needed here. For some reason I feel okay with that process. It feels like trusting. Be who you are and trust that the people who need you will find you. We were not called to be a powerful and influential church. And if we were any bigger we would have to have some sort of real administration, which would be a shame.

My love for the scriptures and for Baptists like Carlyle Marney have made me loathe to give up our name to mean-spirited fundamentalists who either don’t know our history or only live in 30 to 40 year chunks of it. So yes, we’re Baptists like Marney was. We’ll take whatever reputation that comes with that. With Christianity, really, you’re so busy trying to live that you don’t have time to worry much about what people think about your name. Your life speaks or it doesn’t. That’s all.

So this is a prayer Marney prayed from the pulpit just a few months before his death. I don’t know if this prayer exists in any book in print. I found it in a commemorative book called “Marney,” put out by Myers Park Baptist Church after he died.

If entering now the zenith of my brief arc around and within creation I should enter God’s grand hall tomorrow, called to my account for myself, I should offer this confession and defense if indeed I could do more than call down. But if able to give vocal response at all, I should say this, “Thou knowest, dear Lord of our lives, that for fifty of Thy/my years in ignorance, zest, zeal and sin I lived as if creation and I had no limit. I lived and wanted as if I had forever, without regard for time or wit or strength or need or limit or endurance and as if sleep were a heedless luxury and digestion an automatic process. But Thou, O Lord of real love did snatch my bit and ride me into Thy back pasture and didst rub my nose in my vulnerability and didst split my lungs into acquiescence and didst freeze my colon in grief loss and didst press me into that long depression at the anger I directed against myself. And Thou didst read over my shoulder my diary of that long journey when I did melt before Thee as a mere preacher. Thou didst hear.

Naked I came into the world, how I am dressed at the conclusion makes no difference. A pair of jeans or a Glasgow robe, it makes no difference. Meantime, well I mow, I cut wood for winter, I clean drainage ditches, I preach what is happening and look to see what God will do in the earth. I watch out always for babies and little rabbits in front of my mower and old folks nearby and black snakes worth preserving, and little puppies on the road, and the young-old who stutter and laugh and can’t hear too. The cry of us all, “Come Lord Jesus, come.

rlp

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I'm away in Sherman Texas this week, attending our annual youth camp. Our church works with a group of, what we might call progressive Baptists in Texas to put on a camp for our 7th to 12th graders. On nice feature of this camp is that the pastors of these churches are strongly encouraged to attend. This is our church's second year to be a part of the group.

Last year I agreed to be in charge of the camp newspaper, a job no one wanted after the person who had done it for years left the group. Though no one else wants to do this, it fits my personality and talents. I love it. This is my second year as camp newspaper editor.

I have 9 reporters working with me. I made them press credentials. They fan out across the campus and write silly and funny things. I have a satirical piece in each issue and fill in whenever someone doesn't show up with their story by deadline, which happens pretty often.

If you want to keep up with me this week, I've put our camp newsletter online at SoulMusicCamp.com. Our theme for the week is "Soul Music," and Kyle Matthews is leading us. There is a brief blog at SoulMusicCamp.com with links to each day's edition. You'll probably recognize my slightly off-beat sense of humor and a heavy influence from The Onion.

I won't be writing this week, obviously. I miss that. But our kids are worth it.

I do have a new piece out at The High Calling. I'll link to it tomorrow.

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A perfect example of why The Onion stands alone atop the vast mountain of satire wannabees...who are... you know, playing...I don't know, satire King of the Mountain or something.

Wait after the end for the outtakes. It's worth it.

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The following post is a part of a joint blogging project at the High Calling Blog Network, a network I helped create and facilitate. Read about the animal writing project.

When Jeanene and I were 25 and had been married about a couple of years, we got a dog. It’s sort of a cliche, but yes, a dog was our first child. Perhaps we needed to practice. And so Linus came into our life. He was a salt and pepper Miniature Schnauzer, the runt of the litter.

I tried to think of fancy words to describe the depth of Linus’ love, but fancy words seem to diminish him. Linus loved us as dogs love their people - with complete and utter abandon. He adored us. He was always overjoyed to see us arrive at home. He never wanted anything more than to be where we were. His greatest thrill in life (apart from eating which I’ll admit did seem to be his first love) was being allowed to sleep on the foot of our bed, wrapped in odd positions around the lumps in the covers made by our feet. And when three sisters were born, one after the other, Linus patiently accepted them with grace and good humor, though he was always fiercely loyal with his love and gave it completely only to the two who raised him from a pup... Click here to read the rest, see the cutest puppy picture ever, and read Linus' eulogy, which I wrote in 2003.

The story so far:

Our little church has put on a number of Franciscan spirituality retreats, geared for our bunch, meaning not compulsively organized and pretty much an easy gathering of friends for conversation, prayer, and personal growth. On a whim, I thought, “Why not invite people who read this blog?” The response seemed good when I asked you what you thought. So we put three on the calendar. The first was last weekend (June 6-8).

This first retreat had less people than are signed up currently for the next two, which was perfect since we’re still figuring out the best way to do things. There were 7 people from around the United States (Washington State, New York, North Carolina, and a few from other parts of Texas). There were about 10 people from our church involved, some participating in the entire retreat and others who dropped in for parts of it.

The people who came were all delightful. It was such a joy to meet them. One woman pitched her tent on the church property and slept outside. Others slept on inflatable mattresses here and there. One person brought fancy chocolates from Seattle, so we had an impromptu chocolate tasting, my first.

Things were said and some information was given. People relaxed and spent time together. Most of the really wonderful things were not things we could have planned. I like our basic approach of trusting that living in the moment together is a virtue in itself and leads to the best moments. Such as:

-Mandolin music
-Chocolate tasting
-Midnight labyrinth walk by candlelight
-Conversation... Lots of it.

I was surprised at how immediately open everyone was. We had planned about 15 minutes for people to introduce themselves. Once everyone started talking, we ended up going over an hour. I immediately knew that some of these people needed to be here...desperately. A few had some rather important and difficult crises that they were dealing with. It seemed like they needed a safe place to relax, talk, share their stories, and yes, to pray and pursue a monastic, spiritual journey.

We were honored by their presence and so happy to provide a place where this might happen.

Whenever people get together, there are logistical details, of course. We used borrowed air mattresses this weekend, but a church here in Texas has volunteered to help us buy some really nice ones. And another church may purchase sheets and pillows and stuff. Ultimately, we hope to be able to say, “Just come. Bring nothing. We’ll feed you and care for your needs. Just find a way to get here and we’ll do the rest.”

I think this weekend was a good start.

And that brings me to the end of what I want to say, which brings me to Sumana. Everyone who came was, as I said, delightful. But Sumana was so delightfully unique. A very smart woman with, as she says, “Hindu leanings.” Her parents are Hindu priests. She grew up steeped in that tradition. Her natural curiosity, her love of life and mystery, brought her to us. She said she was a tourist in Christianity for the weekend. “I’m not a Christian, but you have such beautiful things. I’m always wanting to touch your pretty things.”

I felt grace coming from Sumana. I felt my own religion affirmed by her desire to find goodness in all things. I loved having her at the retreat. And at the end, when she came forward to receive communion with her head bowed, respectfully seeking to join us, I almost burst into tears. It was as if she said, “I don’t know all the details, but I’d like to join you as a fellow seeker after God.” I almost felt like this was finally coming true.

Technically communion is a ceremony reserved for those who have committed themselves to the way of Christ. But I dare anyone to spend a weekend with Sumana and not serve her communion. I double-dog dare you.

What can I say? It was wonderful. We get to do it again at the end of the month. The second retreat is getting full. I think we have 14 so far. Stay tuned. Who knows what this kind of thing can lead to?

rlp

Chocolate Tasting

Breakfast with Ben

Sumana & Me

Dinner on the Riverwalk

Dinner on the Riverwalk

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Christianity has a heavy presence in the United States. You can feel the weight of it like a quilted cloak draped over the people, bending their heads forward and pressing on their shoulders. The air is thick with Christian words. Bible phrases fill our literature and are baptized into our culture, peppering our speech with feeble reminders of a lost faith.

- She’s the salt of the earth.

- It’s only a drop in the bucket.

The Christian Church in America is so symbiotically enmeshed with our culture that their hearts beat as one, and some people hardly know the difference between the two. The words of faith and religion have burrowed deep into the flesh of our language. They rise to the surface like shards of glass from a festering wound, reborn as oaths, obscenities, and vulgar expressions.

- Jesus Christ!

- Oh my God!

Are the people who say these things praying?

When your holy names are born again into the rarified order of words used to express rage and anger, you know you’re deep into the culture. Down in the cultural unconscious, right on the edge of the place where myths are born. And these quasi-religious phrases may well outlast the American Church. Words and phrases are notoriously long-lived, surviving for generations after all remembrance of their original meaning is gone.

And that would be fitting, since words will likely be our undoing. Much of American Christianity is all about words. Hollow words of theology that have all the depth and meaning of political slogans. Words delivered with a smile by ministers who dance behind their pulpits. Words that create false gods of hope and fear. Words that build up straw men and beat them down, while gently excusing the listeners from anything that remotely resembles radical living. Christianity has become a word factory, churning out half-baked ideas and spewing them across the bobbing heads of people who are looking for easy answers. The Church is Constantine reborn in our time. She mouths words of salvation and shakes her baptismal waters over the people who are marched beneath her arched weapons.

But good words must have good living beneath and behind them, or they will ultimately come to nothing. Words without living are just marketing, which has its place if you’re selling hamburgers or shoes, but not if you’re seeking the meaning of life.

I know about the danger of words, for I am a word man myself. I am a writer and a preacher, which means my words end up on paper and in the air, which means they hardly exist at all. Remember: even if my words touch your heart, having said them or written them gives me no special credits in heaven. My life is what matters, as is yours.

It should not have been this way, my brothers and sisters of nature, science, and the world. Christianity should have soared like a bird on the winds of real living. Christianity should have been a heavenly choice, a chosen path, the way of a pilgrim. You should have been warned of the difficulty of the Christian journey perhaps, but never lied to and never coerced. Those who seek to follow in the way of Christ should have taken up a rule of living like monks of old and never laid that rule on the shoulders of anyone who did not freely ask for it. Instead of demanding respect and threatening with fires of hell, we should have been the humble servants of all who crossed our paths.

I speak these words of criticism as a committed insider in the American Church. I speak them with love, but more importantly with great hope, for I always have been a dreamer. When it comes to the Church, you have to be able to see what she might have been and might still become. And strangely enough, you have to see this and believe in it, though you know the Church will never live up to it.

I have been discouraged by the Church many times. And I have even wondered if being a minister was the right choice for me. Thankfully, the Church as a whole is not my responsibility. I am a part of one small community, meeting in a little stone building in San Antonio. We have words to say, of course, various affirmations of faith and statements that we write. But our lives will either speak for us or not. And that is a bit scary, considering how imperfect we are. We try to represent the spirit of Christ. We try and often fail. Sometimes we love the people who come to us seeking solace, and sometimes we have failed to love them as well as we should. We stand before a fireplace on Sunday mornings, singing and speaking, sometimes making a mess of the words, not to mention the living that should stand behind them.

We are waiting to be redeemed. We are waiting for the gift of redemption. And while we are waiting we stand ready to bring whatever goodness we have into the world, as if we might prime some heavenly pump that might start some larger process and things might begin to become what they ought to have been.

rlp

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Well, here we are just days away from our first RLP Franciscan retreat. Our labyrinth is finished. I've created a website for it. There is no way we could thank Paul Soupiset enough for his design work, physical work, and the beauty of his vision for this thing. Two people have found the labyrinth via the web so far and come to walk it.

And Paul finished our retreat booklet, which is stunning. Seriously, this is unbelievable to me. It's got all kinds of information in it, including the details of our prayer services, etc. Every person who attends the retreat will get one. You can get all the information at our Retreat Blog. Whether you are coming to the retreat or not, this retreat booklet is very cool.

All of this for anyone who can get here and for nothing more than a modest volunteer donation to cover the price of food. Anyone who has trouble affording the transportation may forego the donation with our blessing and in complete anonymity.

I'll post pictures after the retreat, of course. And links to anyone attending the retreat who has a blog and offers thoughts of their own.

rlp

I think Matt Sturges has fixed the problem I was having with comments. If you are still having trouble leaving a comment, please let me know.

Email me - hello[at]RealLivePreacher.com

Part One
This story was originally
written in two parts. I've kept the part one page here to preserve the comments.

Click here to read the entire story.
 

I've gotten some emails from people who are having trouble leaving comments. Their comments may have been falsely tagged as spam. Is anyone else having this trouble? If so, send me an email. I'm trying to decide if it is a problem or just isolated incidents.

Email me - hello[at]RealLivePreacher.com

rlp

About a decade ago I glanced into my middle
daughter’s room and found her sitting on her knees, looking out the window with
her favorite toys lined up on the windowsill. They were all there: Her blanket -
which had a personality and a loose seam for a mouth, various plush animals, a
number of Disney characters, a group of small horses, and an assortment of other
figures. She had turned her little friends toward the glass as if they were all
looking out into the front yard together. She was talking with them, perhaps
drawing their attention to something in the yard, or maybe holding court on any
number of intimate subjects.
I immediately froze and did not make a sound.
This was my second child, so I was an experienced enough parent to know a
precious and unrepeatable thing when I saw it. I leaned against the door frame,
then let my body slide slowly down the frame until I was on my knees.
She talked to her toys, jabbering about one
thing and then another. She moralized, corrected, parented, acted out parts. She
was lost in the Kingdom of Shelby, a place made up of bits and pieces of her
life tossed about in her mind and dreams. Her kingdom was not governed by rules
or laws or physics. The glue holding Shelby’s kingdom together was her own frail
and developing view of the world. It was an infantile worldview without borders
or categories, at least none that you or I would recognize.
I say “was” because Shelby is now a teen-ager,
so she has been banished from the Kingdom of Shelby except at night when all the
old things return from the deep waters and shadowed forests of dreaming.
All children have their own play world, and
they are able to lose themselves in it. The state of play exists before
consciousness. It is an indescribable and intensely personal thing for a child
to be deep in play. And if they find they are being watched, they will come back
from that world and become shy or start performing. Either way, the magic is
lost.
I was getting a peek into the Kingdom of
Shelby, and you can bet I wasn’t going to miss the show. I listened, leaning
against the doorframe, absolutely enraptured by the sounds of her play. I
suppose I was as lost in the moment as she was.
I would have stayed for hours. You couldn’t
have dragged me away. Eventually a prolonged silence caused me to open my eyes.
She was looking at me with a smile.
“Hi Daddy.”
She was friendly, but clearly waiting for me to
leave so that she could go back to her world. I had intruded, and it was time
for me to go. Shelby was a kindly landowner who would let you pick an apple and
give you a cold drink if you wandered onto her property, but she would
definitely show you the way to the gate.
I knew that about her. And I knew there was no
use trying to prolong the moment or – God forbid – trying to recreate it.
I was drawn to my little girls in those days in
ways that are quickly fading as the three sisters grow into young women. Our
biological connection showed itself in my love of the smell of their scalps, my
physical and intense need to hold them, and my desire to feel their small bodies
pressed against my own as we watched movies together on the couch. And I always
had a strong attraction to the sounds they made. Their voices were a kind of OM for me, a sound
from below all sounds, a noise from the foundation of my existence. Hearing my
daughters play was a joyful thing, and the ache of its absence will never heal. It
is a wound I will carry as long as I walk this earth.
The best things are like this, aren’t they?
They are savage and untamed. Like a great sunset, they can be discovered by
chance and enjoyed, but never owned. Like love they can be received but not
bought. The best things in life ride a ticklish wave along the surface of your
skin, leaving raised hairs in their wake. They move through the world leaving no
visible sign. You cannot follow them, nor anticipate their direction and wait
for them in a blind.
You will come across spontaneous, unique
moments of joy like this now and again. They are Life’s gifts to us all. They
come to the washed and the unwashed, to the common and the sophisticated, to the
rich and the poor, to the just and the unjust.
Moments of savage joy are there for all of us
to find. If you haven’t seen one lately, you only need to slow down a bit and
keep your eyes open. I can give you no counsel beyond that. But if you come
across a moment of wild, untamed joy, for God’s sake eat it; drink it; hear it;
receive it. This is the stuff of life. It doesn’t get any better.

rlp
 

In 1986, having been married to me
only one year, my wife was casting about for an interesting birthday present.
She wandered into a coin shop and found a case of coins from antiquity. She
already knew me well enough to know that I would be fascinated by them. The
owner didn't know much about the coins, only that they were from Rome, and he
was pretty sure that one of them dated from the time of Christ. That's the one
my wife bought.
She was absolutely right about my
reaction to this gift—I fell in love with this coin the minute I saw it. I
couldn't believe that I was holding something so old in my hands...

Click here to read the rest of this essay at

The Christian Century online.

My Dupondius - click for closeup

Archive of Christian Century Articles by Gordon Atkinson

a

Christian Magazine 

Christian Writing
rlp
 

It’s not hard to find creative energy at work
in our world. If you want a real challenge, try to find a part of creation that
is static and dead. Try to find something that is not in flux and actively
working with God to create reality. Everywhere you look you will find creation
in all of its forms, both living and nonliving, working to create the world in
cooperation with God.
Every tree grows with compounding, fractal
surprises. Branches split and bend toward the light. After a few divisions and
turnings, the various possibilities of form are so numerous our minds cannot
count them all...

Click here
to read the rest of this essay at

The
High Calling.

rlp

We left Sevierville and drove up into the
mountains on Sunday morning to see our friends married. As we left the town
behind, I found myself relaxing. The city streets gave way to mountain roads.
Small farms and aging barns were scattered here and there. Vegetation pressed
in tightly on either side the road as though the mountain was trying to take back
what it had lost. Everything was green and wet and rich and fertile. We saw that it was good and a good place to get married.
I said to Jeanene, "Isn't it interesting that
they pronounce the town, "severe-ville."
We met our friends there in the mountains. We
hugged them and talked about everything. Ron and Erin moved among us, laughing
and talking. The contrast between the mountains and the town below was so severe
that it hung in the air like something you can smell. It made you light-headed.

Then there was the wedding. It reminded me
of things I have learned over the years about weddings. Listen. You don't
have to give in to the sharks of the love industry. You really don't. And it's
easy. Just say no. You do not have to spend thousands and thousands of dollars
on dresses and caterers and flowers and banquet halls and fancy cakes and the like. There are sharks
out there waiting to sell these things to you. They would have you
believe that the beauty and meaning of your wedding will be found in the
trappings. Do not believe them. They are liars.
Now if you have the means, and a fancy
wedding is important to you, that is well and good. But do not think that you can buy
a beautiful and meaningful wedding. Real beauty and meaning are not
for sale. Never have been. And if you try to buy what cannot be bought, you may
not know when to stop trying. If you pass the point of diminishing returns, your affair
will come off looking like a king trying to buy the moon.
But I speak mainly to those of modest means and
sincere desires. What you want cannot be bought, but it can be had if you seek
it with passion. I have officiated at many weddings over the last twenty years.
In all of those years, there are two that stand out in my mind. Both
were surprisingly simple and elegant. One of them took place this last weekend
in the Smoky Mountains. I'd like to tell you about it.
Let's begin by listing the things that were left out of this wedding. I want to be careful here. None of these are
inherently shallow or in bad taste. Not at all. The point is, the bride and
groom did
not feel any obligation to include things in this wedding that did not appeal to
them.

• There were no bridesmaids and groomsmen
  wearing useless dresses and rented tuxedos and trailing off to the right
  and the left of the altar.
• There was no best man or maid of honor.
  The only ones up front were the bride, the groom, and the minister.
• The parents apparently bought no special
  clothing for this affair. They wore suits and dresses from their own closets, and they looked wonderful.
• There were no fancy decorations. The
  wedding was outside under a small, wooden gazebo. The beauty of the natural surroundings was far more
  than any of us could comprehend. Flowers and other soft things were growing
  everywhere, all perfectly matched and hanging from the trees with that
  casual elegance that artists seek.
• They did not invite everyone they know and
  everyone their parents know. They invited their families, of course, and
  each invited a few very close friends. The only people present were those
  who would truly celebrate with them, and that was enough.
• Complications. Because the wedding was
  simple and those in attendance were relatively few, things were very
  uncomplicated. Everything went well because there wasn't a lot that could go
  wrong.

Now let me tell you what the wedding had that
made in wonderful and elegant, in my view.

• Simple beauty. I don't want to pound the
  simplicity drum too much, but...yeah. Simple is good. Simple is also affordable
  and accessible to all of us.
  Simple allows the real meaning of the day to shine. This wedding was
  delightfully simple.
• Intimacy. Because the wedding was small
  and because all of the people there were either family or close friends,
  everything was very intimate and personal. You can feel intimacy. It's hard to describe it, but you
  know it when you feel it.
• This was a fun wedding. The night
  before, everyone had dinner together. Family met friends and friends met
  family. The groom cooked the meal, and everyone sat around talking for a
  long time. People laughed. People told stories. People connected. The day of
  the wedding was fun. It was relaxed, and you knew the people around you.
• Meaningful. This wedding meant something
  to all who were present. We know Ron and Erin, and we know their commitment
  to each other and to their faith. We know that this marriage stands a good
  chance of being a forever thing. They are no certainties in this regard, but
  this union had a good start. The day was taken seriously. Promises were made
  before God and to each other. Loved ones bore witness. It meant a lot to us.

I found myself looking at Erin and imagining
the three sisters getting married someday. I'm going to be very flexible at that
time. Whatever Jeanene and the girls come up with will be fine with me. But they
couldn't do it any better than it was done this last weekend in the Smoky
Mountains.

Congratulations, Ron and Erin. It
was a pleasure. Truly.
rlp

I'm trying so hard to find something nice to
say about
Sevierville, Tennessee.
Trying....trying....trying....
Nope. There's nothing nice to say. What a
horrible place is Sevierville. I'm sure the people of the original town are nice
enough, but the town is no longer in their control.
Sevierville is nestled in the Smoky Mountains of
Tennessee, surrounded by stunning beauty and a national park. You would think
that this natural beauty would be the focus of the town, but it
is not. Instead, Sevierville has become the
most awful collection of outlet stores, themed buffet restaurants, melodramatic dinner
theaters, tourist shops, flashing signs, and general
tackiness that I've ever seen.
Everywhere you look in Sevierville, bloated
tourists are rushing from the buffet line to the outlet malls and back again. No
sales gimmick, gaudy sign, or alliteration-laden jingo is too cheap or
over-the-top for the streets of Sevierville. And judging by the dreadful,
bumper-to-bumper traffic that stretches the full length of the town, it's
working pretty well for them. While your car inches forward you can gawk at the
action taking place at one of the go-cart tracks or watch
commercials flashed from expensive signs, begging you to visit Jerry Bob's
toupee and gospel pickin jamboree. Buffet included. Kids eat free.
I'm telling you, it was one of the most
depressing things I've experienced in some time. I COULD NOT WAIT to get out of
Sevierville. Well, actually I could wait. I had to wait since it took an hour
and 45 minutes to drive the 15 or so miles from Sevierville to the Interstate.
But while I was trapped in Sevierville, I
thought I'd take a few photos. No indigenous Seviervillians were harmed in the
taking of these photos. The truth is, none could be found. Perhaps they are
extinct.

I chose what
appeared to be the most embarrassingly awful of the outlet stores to
sample, just to get a feel for the town. This store is filled with
over-priced gadgets like the Batter Pro, which batters food in 10
seconds.
  

A
couple of things caught my eye in a convenience store. First, can it be possible
that the inhabitants and visitors really like Mountain Dew this
much? An entire case was dedicated to this caffeine-laden drink. And if you'll
notice, the single case wasn't enough. The case next to it has a couple of rows
of Mountain Dew as well. Second, ketchup flavored potato chips. It's a nice
idea, I guess. Or you could just dip them in ketchup yourself.

These guys were out on the strip,
advertising the big Jesus show at the Miracle Theater. There were camel rides
for the children out front, and the legendary country and western band,
"Alabama" has its own steak house right next door. Ride a camel, see a miracle
show, and eat a steak - all in the same parking lot.

Click for larger image

The Miracle
Theater's 30-foot-tall sign includes moving video clips and
can be seen from several blocks away. Miracles can be
witnessed at 2 o'clock and 8 o'clock weekdays.
Click images for larger view.
Well, perhaps that's enough
bashing of Sevierville. But seriously, it was so disheartening to see a
beautiful mountain town transformed into Tackyville. A friend of mine lived
near Sevierville some 25 years ago. She tells me that it used to be exactly
what you wish it was now. A sleepy little mountain town resting in the bosom
of the Great Smoky Mountainsâ„¢.
rlp
Tomorrow -
a small wedding in the Smoky
Mountains. Why we came to Tennessee.

I'm in Sevierville, south and east of
Knoxville. The

wedding is Sunday morning up in the mountains somewhere near
here. The flight was uneventful. Sadly, we did not get to stop and meet Will
Campbell, as I had hoped. Maybe next time.
We rented a car to drive from Nashville through
Knoxville and down to Sevierville. I hate interstate highways with a passion.
The way to avoid them is to double the time you need to arrive and drive on the
smaller highways. We chose Highway 70 which runs east from Nashville to
Knoxville. It brought us through small towns and rural settings that were
beautiful. Why would anyone drive on the interstate unless there was no other
option?
Ah, rural Tennessee. So much to see that you've
never seen before.

Click for larger view
There were churches on every
corner, much like in Texas. A few of them sporting signs that were of interest
to me. One was a chilling quote from the book of Amos with no explanation
offered. It simply said, "Prepare to meet Thy God." This sign in particular
made me smile:

But enough about signs and sows.
Let's move on to something more important - BBQ. As I mentioned

Thursday, Jeanene and I wanted very badly
to sample some BBQ from east of the Mississippi. As you can see from the
comments on Thursday, opinions about BBQ are diverse and passionate. Originally
we wanted to follow directions to an interesting BBQ place in Knoxville, but we
were running late. So we kept our eyes open as we passed through small towns. We
saw no BBQ anywhere. Finally, someone in a tractor supply store in Crossville
told me theys a little place down the way. We followed her directions to
Lefty's.

Lefty's seemed promising to me. A
recommendation from someone in a tractor store, a parking lot full of pickup
trucks, a rusty sign, and about 5000 caps hanging from the ceiling. The minute I
got in the door, I knew I was gonna have me some BBQ!

Click for larger view
Now pardon me if I get a little
pedantic here, but I've learned a thing or two about BBQ, and I'd like to
enlighten you if you don't know no better. There is Texas BBQ, which is mainly
beef. We are into brisket, heavily seasoned and cooked until the outside is
black but the inside is tender. Sure we serve pork, but it's in sausage form.
But when you go across the Mississippi, it's all about the pig. And don't think
that the difference is a minor thing. Passions and even tempers run high
regarding this subject. When I told the people at the Crossville Tractor &
Supply that I was from Texas and wanted to try some good Tennessee BBQ, about 5
people weighed, in including one fellow from West Tennessee who shouted (Yes
shouted) "There ain't no good BBQ east of Memphis." He was ignored by everyone
in the store and treated like an outcast and a savage. The man behind the
counter gave me a look that said, "What are you gonna do?"
So when we got to Lefty's, Jeanene
and I decided to try both the pulled pork BBQ and the pork ribs. For good
measure, I ordered some cornbread and a bowl of pinto beans. There were two
bottles of sauce on the table. One of them had a piece of red tape around the
neck and was supposed to be the hot one. Being from Texas, I scoffed at their
definition of hot. I called them mild and slightly less mild, but the heat of
the sauce isn't really an issue.

Click for larger view
The two of us together couldn't
finish what they set before us, but we took a good run at it and ate enough to
render an opinion. The ribs were so tender they fell off the bone. The pulled
pork was delightful, and the cornbread made us both swoon.
So what's my opinion on the whole
east vs. west BBQ issue? Well, I'm wondering why anyone makes such a big deal
about it. It's all good, pilgrims. If you are from east of the Mississippi and
you like BBQ, I assure you that some fine Texas brisket will be an absolute
delight for you. And if you like Texas BBQ, I promise you'll gobble up Tennessee
pork ribs and pulled pork. The sauce is pretty much the same as far as I can
tell.
So whether you're in Texas or
Tennessee (or anyplace else that serves BBQ), sit down and eat your fill. Let it
be a cultural experience. Without downplaying the subtle nuances that are
important to all connoisseurs, it's close enough to the same stuff, if you ask
me. I mean, it's not like you're in China and someone set a plate of

duck feet down in front of you. So eat up,
enjoy, and let it all be good.
Tomorrow: We discover
Sevierville.

There is a young woman in our church, a woman
whom we all dearly love. She found our church a few years ago and has been a
faithful and loving member of our community ever since. She plays piano on
Sunday mornings and is a deacon. Her name is Erin.
Now it came to pass that Erin met a man named
Ron, and the two of them fell in love and decided to get married, just like in
the storybooks. Because of Ron's job, this means Erin will be leaving us and
moving to California, which is a sad thing but also a nice thing, since we like
thinking of Erin being happy even if it means she has to go to California.
I'm officiating at the ceremony, which is a
great joy for me and an excuse to get out of town. The wedding is to be simple, outdoors, and in
the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee. Jeanene and I will fly to Nashville tomorrow
and rent a car to drive into the mountains. The wedding is Sunday morning. We're
looking forward to the trip and considering it a mini-vacation. The three
sisters are staying with my parents for the weekend.
It appears that I will also get a chance to meet

Will Campbell, who lives outside of Nashville,
is quite a famous writer, and is the only person who
endorsed my book with a blurb on the back cover. Will Campbell's endorsement was the most
affirming thing to happen to me in connection with the RLP book. This is pretty big stuff for me;
I hope I don't turn into a complete idiot when I talk to him.

Jeanene and I have not been to the Smoky
Mountains. I hear it is beautiful there. We intend to drive slowly, take lots of
pictures, and find a famous BBQ place that will introduce us to the style of BBQ
that is so popular east of the Mississippi. In case you don’t know this, Texans
think they have the best BBQ in the world. Those east of the Mississippi say
otherwise. I’m a peaceful man and generally appreciate all kinds of food. It is
unlikely that I’ll be tempted to make comparisons. When in Tennessee I will eat
their BBQ and love it, I’m sure.
Speaking of BBQ, we will be driving out of
Nashville on I-40 going east to the other side of Knoxville, then taking 66
south to Sevierville. Does anyone know of a great and famous BBQ place
on that route? Remember, I want the good stuff, the stuff you Eastern folks is
always a-braggin on.
Now, as for the blog, there are two
possibilities. One is that I will have Internet access where we are staying and
will blog my way through the trip, posting pictures of Jeanene and I, Will
Campbell (If he’ll let me), mountains, small towns, and sundry plates of BBQ or
other interesting regional foods.
Or I won’t have Internet access, in which case you
won’t hear from me until Monday when I will post a journal complete with
pictures and everything as mentioned above.
See ya soon!

rlp

I’m alone this morning, and I’m wondering some
things.
The roles I play in the world are strong,
powerful, and demanding. They require much of me. Perhaps all of me. If these
roles were gone, what would be left?
What if I wasn’t Real Live Preacher? What if I
wasn’t that guy who writes good and has that blog that everyone reads? If I
wasn’t driven to produce, what would become of my soul? Would my mind remain
without form and void and with darkness upon the face of my deep? If I hadn’t
spoken Real Live Preacher into existence, what of Gordon Atkinson?
What if I wasn’t the pastor of Covenant Baptist
Church? What if I never had to proclaim truth, be an example to the flock, or
set my own needs aside for duty’s sake? What would be left of my Christianity, I
wonder? What would happen to me without such a powerful motivation? Are fear and
obligation the only things keeping my faith frosty?
What if I wasn’t father to the three sisters? What if there were
no hands buried wrist-deep in my torso, clinging to my heart, seeking anything
with purchase, squeezing my ribs like the bars of a cage?
“Please don’t leave us, daddy.”
And finally, what if I was not husband to
Jeanene? What if I was alone? What
if there was no other person whose vision and body and life I shared? What if
there was no warm and soft woman to whom I did cleave and become one flesh?
Imagine if all of these things were gone and
you were to stand before the shell of my body. My creativity undifferentiated,
formless and weak. My neck calcified and my head forever unbowed. My breast
ripped open and the little hands gone. My legs pulled up to my chest with my
arms hugging them in loneliness. What if you were to stand before that body and
call me forth as a demon is called, resentful and struggling, out of the
darkness?
I fear you would shrink from the homunculus
that would emerge, soft and wet and pale and blinking, its mouth desperately opening
and closing. You would not want to lay your hands on me, but you might nudge me
with the toe of your shoe.
And you would say, “There’s not much left of
you, Gordon Atkinson. You really did give yourself to those things, didn’t you?”
Yes I did. For better or for worse, I gave
myself away.

rlp

I was a Sunday school boy growing up. My
parents took us to church every Sunday, and that weekly event included an hour
of Bible study designed for children. We never missed unless we were very ill.
As far as I knew, Sunday school was a normal part of childhood along with
regular school, visits to grandparents, Little League, and playing in the
backyard.
My father was a minister who often preached in
other churches, so I sampled plenty of Sunday schools over the years. They were
pretty much the same wherever you went. There would be a Bible story, of course,
and lessons drawn from the text. There was usually some sort of craft project
that often involved dried macaroni and might or might not be connected to the
Bible story in some abstract way. There was singing on occasion and sometimes
games.
When I was in second grade, my family attended
a church adjacent to the seminary where my father got his degree and where I
would receive mine years later. Our class was outfitted with standard Sunday
school equipment. Heavy wooden tables and chairs, large cardboard building
blocks colored to look like bricks, art supplies, puzzles, books, and fist-sized
plastic animals that came in handy if the lesson was on Noah’s ark.
That year there was a boy in my Sunday school
class named Martin. Martin loved dinosaurs and had leukemia, which we were told
was a grave and serious thing to have. Martin sometimes brought toy dinosaurs to
Sunday school, which made me a little jealous since I was not allowed to bring
toys to church. But Martin had a serious illness, so it seemed right that some
exceptions were made in his case.
Our Sunday school teacher told us that God
gives a special gift or talent to every person, and that it was our duty to
discover our talent and put it to use for God’s glory. The whole thing made
perfect sense to me because Martin knew the name and habits of every dinosaur,
so he had obviously identified and begun to utilize his God-given talent. I
wondered what mine might be and began trying to discover it.
There was a spare piano in a darkened room at
the church. I stole into the room and sat on the piano bench. I thought God
talents would reveal themselves fully developed and ready for use. I pounded on
the keys, imitating a piano player and hoping to hear music. A passing adult put
her head into the room and told me to quit banging on the piano. I was
frightened and embarrassed and slipped down the hall, hoping never to see her
again. Clearly piano playing was not my gift. I tried other things but found no
talents of any kind. After a week or two, I lost interest and went back to
living my normal and seemingly untalented life.
One afternoon I found a length of bamboo in the
alley behind our house. It was thicker than a fishing pole but slender enough
for me to grasp it easily. I thought it made the perfect spear and spent half an
hour running around our backyard, yelling and hurling the spear here and there.
Lying in the grass in the center of the yard
was a large leaf. I spied this leaf and drew back the spear until my fist was
beside my right ear. With a shout, I threw the spear at the leaf. By some
miracle of chance it pierced the leaf and stuck quivering in the ground.
I was thrilled with myself and jumped up and
down with excitement. Then it occurred to me that I had found the secret talent
that God had given me. Somehow it was ordained under heaven that I should be
able to throw spears with perfect accuracy. My faith in my newfound talent
needed no further testing. The obvious miracle of the leaf was proof enough, and
the lack of practical applications for such a talent did not occur to me.
I decided to immediately begin using my talent
and enlisted the help of my little brother in setting up a public exhibition
reminiscent of William Tell. My brother was about to enter kindergarten and was
remarkably trusting. I positioned him in the center of our yard and backed up
about 15 paces.
“Don’t be afraid, Hugh. I’m very good with
spears. I’ll throw this spear, but it won’t hit you. It will fly right by your
face. I’ll barely miss you. I can do this because I have perfect aim with
spears.”
Hugh stood obediently in the yard, and I drew
back my arm with complete confidence. At that moment my father walked out the
door and into the backyard.
My father knew nothing of my passionate search
for my talent. He knew nothing of the bamboo spear and the miracle of the leaf.
He only knew that he opened the door of our house just in time to see me hurl a
sharp stick at my younger brother, striking him an inch or so below his left eye
and causing him to collapse on the lawn, screaming in pain.
When the spear struck my little brother, I was
shocked and horrified. For an instant, my childish view of the world hung in the
air like a cartoon character who has walked off a cliff. Then it plummeted, and
I never saw the world in the same way again.
When a child’s view of the world is shattered,
it is a violent emotional event. The mind reels and confusion reigns for a time.
Nothing is as it seemed. If this thing you believed is not true, what other
things might not be true? In that instant I gained years of wisdom. Now the
whole idea of being able to throw spears accurately seemed reckless and foolish
to me. I understood the grave risk I had taken. My brother and I fought
ferociously at times, but I had no desire to hurt him.
Of course I didn’t have much time to consider
these things because my father was headed in our direction. He covered the
ground between us in about 2 seconds. He attended to my brother who, as it
turned out, was bleeding a bit but not seriously injured. When he was assured
that Hugh was okay, he turned his attention on me. I remember that his eyes were
locked on mine and filled with anger.

“Gordon
Douglas Atkinson, have you lost your mind? What were you thinking? Don’t you
realize you could have put out his EYE? Don’t EVER EVER EVER do anything like
that again!”
Those were the days when conscientious parents
spanked their children. It was what good parents in our part of the world did.
We won’t debate the question of spanking here. What I will say is that a bamboo
pole broken twice over your father’s knee makes an effective paddle and is a
powerful disincentive against repeating the offending behavior. We went round
and round, literally.
When it was over, my brother was hustled into
the house to be further cared for by our mother. I was left in the backyard. My
bottom and my legs were hurting, and I had a strong but unclear sense of
injustice. The whole thing was complicated and not the sort of thing a boy can
easily explain to an angry father. Obviously hitting my brother in the face with
a spear was a very bad thing to do. But I knew in my heart that I had arrived at
the moment of transgression innocently and with good and honorable intentions. I
believed that I had a talent. I felt like I was doing the right thing by seeking
my gift and faithfully using it.
I never told anyone about thinking that spear
throwing was my spiritual gift. I was happy to forget about it and move on. I
was not a cruel boy, so I suppose my parents counted it as some kind of
aberration from the norm. And yet, this event had a powerful impact on me and on
my thinking. From that point forward, I was mistrustful of miraculous claims
made at church. After the event with the spear, I allowed that what you heard at
church might be true, but you should check these things out carefully before you
put your life on the line. After all, people can get hurt.
It was a small and quiet change in my
viewpoint. But it was important. It was one of the many moments that shaped me
and made me who I am.

rlp

These are the mind games you play.
I have some writing tricks, but I never say
that I’m going to put aside writing for a time in hopes that I can bluff my muse
into giving it up. That’s like a cheap line in a single’s bar. That’s like
telling a headstrong toddler that you are going to leave him in the grocery
store.
“I’m leaving, Trevor. I really am. I’m going
now. Goodbye Trevor.”
Here is a tip for you: Never try to bluff or
seduce your muse. Instead, court her. Learn to love her. This is a marriage, not
a one-night stand.

There are days when I want to hurt people. No,
that’s not true. Let me think about this. Okay, I’ve got it. There are days when
I like the idea of hurting people. I give them such a tongue lashing
while I drive to the coffee shop. Before I arrive I set everyone straight,
establish my boundaries, and confront the enemy. And because I’m a writer,
somehow I believe it’s all real.
Here is another tip for you: You need to win a
battle before you write. So win one - even an easy one - and get all
that stuff out of your mind.

There are days when I want to hurt myself.
My mind betrays me, and I start to believe crazy things.
On these days the worst is all I can see. A mist of anxiety floats over me like
mustard gas on a battlefield. I
look up and see it dropping softly into my shell
hole.
Anxiety is a pre-emergent creaticide. It
spreads itself over your root bed. It chokes your seedlings and scorches the lungs of your muse.
You have to get rid of your anxiety. I don’t know how you will do it. Maybe
you’ve learned to deal with anxiety in other areas of your life. Do whatever it
is you do, but do it now.

There are days when nothing can move me, so I
move myself. I give my body because my soul cannot be found. I give my
body because I am a husband and a father and a pastor and a writer. Not doing
what I have to do is unthinkable; somehow I know where that would lead me.
You should heed the call of duty, but you
should also know that nothing kills your muse faster than clapping your feet
into cast-iron shoes and dragging them through the earth. If you are in that place in life, I don’t know what to tell
you. Maybe not write.

There are these days, and they are not
good writing days. So here is a final tip for you: Let these days go because
there will be other days. Life is made up of days, and they keep coming, one
after the other.

rlp