The history of Suzanne and Foy is found in "Came Grief and Compassion" and "Captain Crunch." Suzanne also briefly appears at the end of "Cutter."

Foy decided he would like to ask Suzanne to have dinner with him, but the thought of picking her up and driving her home felt too much like high school. He had no idea how adults date, having not been on a date since the early 80s.

Is it like it was in high school? Pick her up, eat, drive her home, then get nervous and wonder if you should try to kiss her? Good God, I hope not.

He dropped by Suzanne’s cubicle and asked her. She agreed to have dinner with him and seemed happy about it. He asked if she would mind meeting him at the restaurant.

“No, that’s fine. I actually prefer that for the first date anyway,” she said.

Her eyes opened wide, and she brought her hand up to her mouth.

“I didn’t mean that there would be other dates or anything. Not that that would be…uh, but what I mean is this is just two people having dinner. We both know that, so…”

Suzanne pulled her shoulders up close to her ears and sucked her breath in audibly between clenched teeth. She lightly clapped her hands a few times and then rubbed them together.

“Okay,” she said.

Foy chuckled. “Don’t worry. I know what you meant.”

Suzanne tightened her lips and nodded slowly and deliberately as a humorous admission that she was embarrassed. She pulled her lips apart with a sucking noise and said, “Yeah.”

They agreed to meet for dinner on Friday night at 7 pm at a local restaurant that was not fancy but was quiet.

*******

Foy arrived at the restaurant first. He liked arriving early. He was seated by 6:45 in a booth where he could see the front door. He tried to read a book he had brought with him, but he kept being distracted by a desire to look and see if Suzanne had arrived.

She entered the restaurant a few minutes after 7:00. She glanced around, looking for him, and when her eyes swept across his part of the restaurant, Foy waved. She moved quickly to the table, looking at the ground in front of her feet as she walked. She slid into the booth across from him and flashed a smile.

“Hi,” she said.

"Hey,” he responded. There was a brief silence. Suzanne looked around the restaurant as if she was sizing the place up. Foy watched her eyes moving around. She returned her eyes to him, noticed he was looking at her, and dropped her gaze to her napkin, which she unfolded and set deliberately in her lap. She then interlaced her fingers and placed her hands on the table as if a meeting were beginning. She looked at him as if to say, “Let’s begin.”

Foy felt as though they had crested a hill together, paused at the top, and were going to hold hands and run to the bottom. He had a momentary sense of discomfort and fear, but he relaxed easily because he knew that talking to Suzanne would be very much like running downhill. It would be hard to stop. And Foy could talk to anyone; there was always that. In that brief moment, Foy understood exactly what part of himself to let out. He slipped on his charming, socially adept persona like an ancient priest putting on a robe for the thousandth time.

“You know, when I first met you I noticed you were carrying around a bunch of printer sheets with numbers and accounting stuff all over them. I know you work in accounting, but I still don’t know exactly what you do. I probably won’t understand it, but I’m curious.”

Suzanne cheerfully told him the story of her professional life. She had gotten a college degree in English, but a natural ability with numbers and math had led her into various accounting jobs. She wasn’t a CPA but had earned many of those kinds of responsibilities over the years. She supposed that she liked her job pretty well. “It’s a living I guess,” she said.

She was fascinated that he was once a priest and asked a number of questions about that. She seemed to grant him a certain wisdom and goodness based on his history. He recognized this in her tone and appreciated it, though he would not have granted as much to someone in his same situation. In particular, she wanted to know what had caused him to leave the ministry.

Foy said he had no idea how to describe his spiritual journey through professional ministry and out of it. Then he proceeded to spend 20 minutes doing just that. He fell into the narrative of his life easily and spoke of his early love of scripture, the joy of his theological education, and his discovery of the beauty of tradition, archetype, and myth. He spoke easily, vulnerably, and with great passion, bringing himself almost to tears several times.

“The story of Christianity is handed down to us in the language of archetype and myth. That doesn’t say anything negative about the story or the history behind it. That kind of story language is understandable to people from every age and from every social and economic level. I mean, the gospels are a beautiful collection of stories that will break your heart if you let them. It’s gorgeous. It’s… And yet somehow being a minister began to feel false to me. You can’t get paid for being spiritual without that damaging you somehow. I don’t think you can, anyway. Maybe it was just me. But I got to where I couldn’t tell the difference between myself and the role, you know?”

She nodded slowly, deeply engaged in listening and thinking.

“I don’t know what it would be like to lose yourself in that role, of course. But I know as a woman what it’s like to have a pretty heavy role laid on you and a lot of expectations. And those expectations are good things that you want to be or do, but also things that you could lose yourself in. So yeah, I think I understand.”

Sometimes he would lean across the table toward her, as if he could bring her into his life by drawing their faces nearer to each other. When she spoke he rested his chin in his hand and alternated between watching the way her mouth moved and looking directly into her eyes. Foy didn’t realize that this conversation was very intimate for a first date. As a minister he had become accustomed to getting intimate with people quickly, enjoying the experience, then moving on. He finished his story with a light and humorous description of the office from his point of view, his confusion in the secular world, and the funny things that had happened to him in his new profession. By the time he was done they were both laughing easily, talking rapidly, and gracefully interrupting each other as though their conversation was a dance.

He had no way of knowing how vulnerable she was to such an encounter. He did not know how disappointing her marriage had been, for she had not spoken of it. Her parents had not had much intimacy together, so she had been ill-equipped to know what it meant to find love. And she had been young when she met her husband. After a few years she realized that she was married to a man who could not look her in the eyes and have a conversation. All attempts to draw him emotionally closer to her had failed. He didn’t have much to talk about beyond television, movies, budgets, or lawn care. In fairness to him, she hadn’t been interested in anything beyond that when they had met. It had surprised him when she suddenly wanted deep and abiding conversations with him about life and love and God and everything. The divorce was finalized about a year before Jeremy got sick, so she had gone through that experience alone.

It was strangely appropriate that they had spoken of myth, for she created her own myth in the space of one evening, molding Foy into her perfect image of a man and deciding that all along the problem had simply been that she had not found her soul mate.

By the end of the evening they had covered so much ground that neither could have mapped where the conversation had taken them. Foy couldn’t help but notice how happy she seemed, and this delighted him. In his mind - which was the mind of a writer - he saw the whole thing as a romantic story. Two lonely souls finding each other one evening. She had grieved the loss of a child while he grieved the loss of the Church. How perfect that they should find each other like this. And yet, in that way that is curiously common to writers, he stood somehow apart from it all, doling out his feelings and his language from a detached place, as if he was standing off to the side.

They hugged when they parted. Not a sideways hug, like the one at the office, but a full-on hug with arms around each other. He felt the soft crush of her body as they pressed together, and the smell of her hair filled his nose and made him feel light-headed. She was shy when they parted, and he saw everything in her eyes. And seeing it, he told himself that it was good. It had to be good because she was so happy and so was he.

The following Monday at the office, when Charlene asked how the date had gone, Suzanne replied with only four words.

“Can I keep him?”

rlp

There are 15 Foy Davis Stories. This is an ongoing project. I have no idea where it is going.

I would love it if I could find a way to give you the experience Jeanene and I had last week at Laity Lodge. We were with Milton and Ginger Brasher-Cunningham, who have been our friends since we all were newly married and just out of seminary. I was a chaplain intern with Ginger and remember the Monday after she met Milton at a retreat. She was definitely smitten!

The four of us were asked to lead a retreat at Laity Lodge, which was a great honor for me. This is where I met Dale Bruner a few years ago when he was leading a retreat.

Who knows, maybe someday some of you could join the four of us for a retreat at Laity Lodge. Stranger things have happened.

We were "retreating" with a group of mostly older Texas Baptists. We were connecting with the people who gave us our faith. There is no way to describe it, but we had a tender time and made a number of new friends.

Here's a few pictures from the week:

Laity Lodge is in a canyon on the Frio River near Kerville, Texas

This is a view of the Great Hall, where most of the meetings are held

The view from our balcony at Black Bluff Lodge

Meeting in the Great Hall

In the Great Hall

Conversation in the Dining Hall

Milton did a live cooking show one night. It was amazing!

Milton in concert at the Cody Center (yes, he sings too)

Jeanene and I in the Great Hall

Closing communion service.

rlp

It’s hard to know what to do when you have friends whose children are sick or hurt or dying. You want to do something, of course, but what should you do?

I’ll tell you. Do what they want and need you to do. You have to find out what that is. When you know, just do it. Some very close friends will have intimate things to do. They will help in intimate ways. Other friends will listen and watch and be a listening ear when needed. You can pay attention. You can remember that it’s all about them. It’s not about who loves them more or who is a closer friend. Just quietly find out what you should do and then do it. And if it seems right to back off, do that. Just back off and wait. I can’t tell you how to find out what you should do. But if you are gentle and cautious and more quiet than loud, and if you’re trying hard to find out what you should do, you’re probably okay.

I currently have two friends in this situation.

Rohan is a man who did a lot of the work on this blog. He works with Tim at Jethro in Australia. He has a daughter who was born without eyes. Her name is Caitlyn. I am in no way a close friend of the family. But I know the work Rohan has done, so I feel that I know him in some small way. I know about Caitlyn. I’ve prayed for Caitlyn. The family has a website for her, and it seems to be a really nice thing for them when people visit and drop them a note to let them know. Rohan has recently written about their first year with Caitlyn.

Maybe it helps them feel less alone when people drop by to read. And when you have a child who is sick or hurting or facing some kind of challenge, you can feel very alone sometimes.

If you are a praying person, you can read about Caitlyn and pray. If not, you can read about her and think and nod. You can send a quick note of encouragement. Those are small things but also good things.

I think I will write Caitlyn’s name into our church prayer book, the one I look at every Sunday when we pray for people. She can join Zane, who is a young man that we pray for because his father asked us to, even though we’ve never met him.

So I'm putting Caitlyn in the book with Zane. That’s a small thing for me to do. Don't be ashamed of doing small things. I think most of the really great things that happen are small things.

I’m also sad to tell you that Thomas Bickle has died. Thomas is the son of two dear friends. (I don't think any of us are ready to say "was" yet.) I am not one of their very closest friends, but I’ve always considered Sarah and Scott to be kind of secret, special friends. The kind you don't see much because life didn't put you close to each other geographically, but when you do see them it's great. Especially Sarah, whom I’ve loved as if she was a little sister for years now, ever since she was in 8th grade and I met her at a Bible study. Sarah wrote a guest blog here about her last days with Thomas.

For Sarah, I watched the phone in case she called needing to talk. That was my small thing. And going to the funeral with David Gentiles was something I was supposed to do. I felt that inside. David had to speak at the funeral. I only had to sit and watch and listen and allow myself to be sad with them.

When you have friends with sick and hurting children, you don’t have to be a hero. You just have to find the small things you should do, and do them.

Be small.
Be present.
Be watching.
Be listening.
Be quiet.
Be gentle.

Remember those things and you’ll be fine.

rlp

Clarification:

Some comments on my last post have made me realize how badly I wrote something. When I referred to people who are outside of Christianity as not having scriptures, I was thinking of people who are outside of the worldviews of organized religion. Of course I know that other religions have their own scriptures. I wrote that quickly and really just as a quick update. It was written poorly and not what I intended.

When will you hear something about the results?

I had hoped to spend some time this week working with this, but I really wasn't thinking clearly about my calendar. I leave Tuesday evening to go to Laity Lodge to lead a retreat with Jeanene and our friends Milton and Ginger Brasher-Cunningham. A number of you know Milton from his blog. The four of us will be leading a retreat through Saturday. If I can get internet access there, I'm going to post some photos, etc. during the retreat. But I'm not going to take the time I need to process all the emails. That will be a project for the week after. I'll keep the hell@RealLivePreacher.com open for a few more days to gather any more emails that come in. Then I'll wade into it all and try to make sense of it.

rlp

UPDATE: I've shut down the hell@reallivepreacher.com email address. So don't bother composing something and sending it there. I have numerous emails to go through with a good representation of a number of views.

Thanks to all who responded.

Greetings everyone,

I have received a number of very good responses to my post on hell. I'm most pleased to say that every single one of them was polite and careful. My experiences with more conservative theologians have often been unpleasant. Perhaps this is because I was always a little outside of the norm in my Baptist seminary training. I tend to have a knee-jerk reaction, expecting to receive a lot of anger and suspicion. This is not the case with these emails.

My intent is to spend some time with all of these emails next week. Lord only knows where I'll find the time for that, but that is my intent. And then I plan to summarize them and present the information here.

One word for those outside of the religious traditions of Christianity. You have things a little easier in that you have no scriptures to study. You simply think about what you might believe and choose what seems best to you. I don't resent the fact that I have to struggle with the Bible. It's a pleasure for me to do so. But struggle with it I must. It is the anchor that keeps us grounded. Each age must struggle with how to make the New Testament teachings work within its culture. So Christianity will vary from place to place and from one age to another, but Christians in 2008 struggle with the exact same scriptures that Christians in 1008 struggled with.

I would imagine that our struggle seems rather silly to you. Hell makes no sense, so why believe in it? I guess I'm asking you to be a little patient with us as we work with our traditional scriptures, using our traditional way of study. We call it exegesis - taking meaning out of the text - though in all honesty, no one can avoid reading our cultural beliefs into the text. Perhaps the most dangerous form of this is when we read the cultural norms and desires of the current Church into the text. The dance between our desire for exegesis and the unavoidable prejudices of our culture is itself a mysterious process. The process should teach us great humility, though it often leads to anger. That is heartbreaking to me.

I am reminded of something that my dear friend, now deceased, Rabbi Yonah* once told me. I asked him if he thought I should become Jewish. He said, "Heaven forbid. You don't want to be Jewish. I have to abide by 613 commandments in my daily life. Currently you have only the Gentile requirements of your tradition. God is obviously using Christianity in this world. I would stay with Christianity."

And that was that. He did not complain about his greater religious obligations, and he always sought ways to celebrate my tradition of faith. I always loved the way Yonah stayed faithful to his tradition without pressuring me to join him.

So while we take a look at the scriptures together next week, I invite you who are not within our tradition to watch if you wish. I intend to make the discussion open. And if our struggle with the New Testament doesn't make sense to you, perhaps you can think of us the way I thought of Rabbi Yonah. Our arms are open. Our discussion is open as well. You are welcome to watch how we do this.

rlp

*Yes, that is "Jonah" from the book and my early essays. I changed his name back when I was anonymous. He's dead now, and there is no reason not to use his real name.

UPDATE: I've shut down the hell@reallivepreacher.com email address. So don't bother composing something and sending it there. I have numerous emails to go through with a good representation of a number of views.

Thanks to all who responded.

I have begun a study of the what the Bible has to say about hell. I’ve read all four gospels and written down every passage that seems relevant. I have looked up every reference to “hell” and “hades” in the New Testament and read them. I’ve read the book of Revelation to see what it has to say. And I’ve looked up some other passages. My intent is to continue studying the rest of the New Testament until I feel I know everything it has to say about hell.

Maybe you can help me. I want to know why you believe what you believe about hell.

Hell was a serious part of the religious tradition I was raised in - evangelical Christianity. It was just part of the deal. You either believed in hell or you were some kind of liberal who was just too much of a boo-hoo crybaby to accept hard Biblical truths. As a liberal, it was said that you trusted your heart and your feelings more than holy scripture. And that was said to be a very bad thing, because once you start letting your own ideas and feelings determine your beliefs, you’ve basically invented your own religion.

Now there are three basic components to what might be called the traditional view of hell. And you have to believe in all three of them to hold that traditional view.

First, and somewhat obviously, you have to believe that hell is real. There has to be a literal hell, a place where certain people go to be punished. There are two schools of thought among those who believe in a literal hell. There are the actual flames and brimstone people, who believe sinners will be burned slowly and excruciatingly in hell. This is an unthinkably horrible notion, but they believe that’s what the Bible says, so they have to accept it no matter how terrible it is. And there are the “it’s probably just some kind of sad and lonely separation from God” people. The people who believe in flames tend to look down on the separation from God people, who seem a little liberal. Not liberal enough to reject the whole idea of hell, but certainly liberal enough to be suspect.

Second, you have to believe that non-Christians are the ones who are headed for hell. It is often a little surprising when people find out that in traditional evangelical theology, it is not bad people who will go to hell. Hell will be filled with people who did not become Christians. And this is true even if they never heard of Christianity. Yes, it is believed that even a young woman raised in a primitive culture in an isolated jungle will go to hell if she dies without becoming a Christian. That’s why we have to get missionaries over there, chop chop. To save her and others like her. True, our arrival will destroy her delicate culture and expose her people to deadly diseases and other Western things that will undoubtedly be harmful, but all other concerns pale when compared to eternal torment, do they not?

Third, to have a traditional belief in hell, you have to believe that hell is eternal. That’s what hell-believing Christians say. Once you go to hell, it’s forever and ever and ever and ever and ever. Forever. And ever. Planets will be born and die while you are in hell. Solar systems will spin into and out of existence. Galaxies will slowly grind through each other and twist outward into the expanding universe. And there you will be, hopefully just bored out of your skull, but if those who believe in literal flames are right...well, I don’t even know how to think about something like that.

Evangelicals have no way around this horror. Catholics invented the idea of Purgatory, which is not found anywhere in the Bible. It is a temporary place of punishment. If, as Robin Williams said, you had to smoke a turd in Purgatory for 1000 years, that would be awful, but at least there would be an end in sight. Evangelicals, who claim to limit themselves to what’s in the Bible, do not have such an easy out.

So that’s hell in a nutshell. That’s what we were taught. It is a literal place where you are sent. You are sent there for not being a Christian. And once you are condemned to hell, it is forever. There are no second chances.

Now let’s make a turn and talk about something else. One thing is for sure - you wouldn’t believe in hell unless the Bible was so clear about it that you were left with no choice. No one really WANTS there to be a hell, right? Please tell me no one wants hell to be real. Because if you are the sort of person who likes the idea of hell, you might be the devil yourself. While conservative seminarians discuss whether or not the devil exists, liberal seminarians are discussing whether or not you really exist.

If you ask me, a person would have to be pretty sure of himself before he would tell people they were going to hell. If you say that hell exists, and it is for non-Christians, and it is fire, and it is forever, you better be sure of yourself. Because I can’t imagine a worse blasphemy if it’s not true. That would really make God angry, wouldn’t you think? You running around and ruining God’s reputation like that.

It’s funny - hell Christians always act like we who don’t think everyone is going to burn in hell are the ones taking a chance. “Uh oh, you’re getting liberal. Aren’t you afraid God is going to be really mad at you for not believing in hell?” Well, maybe. Maybe I’ll smoke a turd in some back closet of heaven for being too nice. But if you’re wrong, you and people like you have trashed God’s reputation for 2,000 years.

I think I’ll take my chances with the liberals.

THE CHALLENGE:

Okay, so here's the deal: if you believe in hell, I want you to help us understand why. I invite anyone who believes that non-Christians are going to an eternal hell to make your case. We’re going to play by your rules too. Bible arguments only. Don’t explain why you think there should be a hell. Don’t tell us that your preacher told you there is a hell. Show us in the scriptures you say you love so dearly.

Because if you’re talking about hell, you better damn well be able to open your holy book and show us why. And if you can’t...well, maybe you shouldn’t be talking so much.

THE GROUND RULES

1. Email only - We’re not going to slug this out in the comments with crazy people dropping in crazy stuff and other people getting pissed off and replying. ANY COMMENT LEFT ON THIS POST THAT MAKES A CASE FOR OR AGAINST HELL WILL BE DELETED OR EDITED. ANY COMMENT THAT IS ABUSIVE OR DISRESPECTFUL OR FLIPPANT WILL BE DELETED OR EDITED. This is a serious inquiry, and I want those who respond, whatever they believe, to be treated with respect.

Make your case and send it to me by email. Send it to hell@RealLivePreacher.com. That email address will function while we’re engaging in this exercise.

2. New Testament only. You can’t drag verses from the Hebrew scriptures about Sheol into this discussion. Sheol isn’t hell. Even conservative scholars agree on that. If you are building a serious Christian theology, you have to use the New Testament.

3. You can’t base your argument on statements like "he will be cast into the outer darkness." You can use those kinds of statements to a certain extent, but you can’t build your whole case with them. You can’t get your ideas about hell from Paradise Lost and bad television, then read those ideas back into an ambiguous phrase that could mean all sorts of things. You need to make a good, solid New Testament case.

4. You may need to answer any opposing scriptures that I send back to you. If you send me one passage that seems to suggest something, and I email back 10 opposing passages that are clear and right from the mouth of Jesus, you have not made a good case.

5. Remember, you need to provide scriptural evidence for all three elements of hell.

a. You have to give scriptural evidence that hell exists.

b. You have to give scriptural evidence that it will be non-Christians who will end up there.

c. You have to give scriptural evidence that hell is forever.

I’ll tell you right now, b and c will be tough for you. And of all three, b is the most critical, in my opinion. Imagine how embarrassed you will be if you show us that your own scriptures say there is a literal hell, but you are the one going there for your lack of love, compassion, and care for the poor.

I’m just saying...

5. The last rule is for me. Serious responses will be treated with respect. I have no desire to laugh at anyone or poke fun. I’m in earnest. I want to know how you justify your beliefs. I will feel free to post anything that is sent to me, but I won’t use your name if you don’t want me to. If I’m not satisfied that you made a good case, I simply won’t post it. You’ll have to trust me on this.

Bring me your scriptures. I want to know the truth. I’ve been reading the New Testament, looking for the truth about hell. I’m still doing my study, but maybe you can help me. Serious cases made by a serious students of the New Testament will be posted here. And I’ll invite you to come by and converse with us in the comments if you like. Or if you wish to remain anonymous, that’s okay too.

I have my reasons for doing this. I think it’s high time we got this whole thing out in the open.

Real Live Preacher

This weekend is our final scheduled Franciscan retreat. This one is for clergypersons. Tim and I wrestled with whether or not to do a retreat for clergy. On the one hand, we know very well how much it helps ministers to get away and let go of that role. There are some unique issues involved with ministers and their work. On the other hand, we didn't want anyone feel left out. Eh, we didn't know what we should do, so we just did what seemed right to us in that moment.

So anyway this will be that retreat. We had 3 cancellations, leaving us with 10 attending. Great number. In truth, every number is good. If you aren't trying to make money but are just inviting some friends over, less is actually kind of nice. Feels good to just let that be whatever it will be.

We have a retreat blog located here. I intend to keep this blog going as a way to keep in touch with those who come. Perhaps after this I'll provide links to the relevant blog postings of those who have attended.

Will we do more? I don't know. I think so. I like it. The Covenant people involved have had a good time, though 3 in 3 months is perhaps a bit much. And it seems to have been a good thing for those involved. We probably will. I'll post something when I know more.

I'll be back Monday with something new here. See you then.

rlp

There is only one righteous way for you to be saved if you’ve spent too much time in the Church. You must lay your religion down. Lay it down hard. Drop it. Leave it on the trail and walk away from it. And you have to mean it. You can’t fake this. You have to renounce religion and leave it for good. As far as you know, you’ll never pick it up again.

After that you can walk freely in the wild places where faith can still be found. As you walk, stretch out your arms and touch the foliage on either side of the trail, because these trees are the borders of your faith and this earth your true home. And every leaf jutting into your path is itself a fossil, laid down before the ages, suddenly exposed and within hand’s reach along the cut-edges of the trail.

Who laid bare these leafy walls? Who cut this covenant trail and left these leaves exposed to my eyes and my hands and my mind?

If fear has seized your heart, and you want to look back at what you left behind, hear this: There are no religions of The Word. Because if there is a Word our frail ears can’t hear it. What we have are religions that clamor after The Word and talk about The Word and market The Word and brand themselves as keepers of The Word. It’s all best guesses and hearsay, and if you can’t own up to that and still keep faith with your brothers and sisters, you’re just fooling yourself and maybe that’s okay with you. That’s all some people want - to be nicely and gently and comfortably fooled.

I know the Bible, for I have spent half a lifetime looking there, but it cannot give you The Word. And if you treat those words as if they were The Word, then the Bible will be dead to you. The stories will turn their faces away from you, fold their robes over their shoulders, and go to sleep.

So you won’t have the Bible to cling to. I’m sorry.

Part two of "Queen's Gambit" was originally published here. All three parts have been combined into one, but I've left this file here to preserve the comments.

If you were extremely wealthy, you
could try to see everything. You could hop into a car and zoom across the United
States, stopping in major cities and seeing the famous sites. You could pay a
cabbie to wait for you while you hurried to the top of the Empire State Building
for a quick look. Then you'd hop back in the cab and say, "To the Statue of
Liberty, and step on it!"
You could bounce along the south
rim of the Grand Canyon, stopping for a few moments at each viewing point before
heading for Monument Valley. You could drive across the Golden Gate Bridge,
snapping pictures and reading a brochure that tells you how many people have
jumped off the bridge and how hard it is to keep it painted. You could move to
Washington, D.C., and spend a year going through the Smithsonian Institute,
taking notes and pictures of everything as you strolled through the buildings.
You could do these sorts of things
for years and years, checking off each famous site in a little notebook before
hopping a train to the next exciting destination. Eventually your notebook would
be thick and full of notations that no one, including you, would ever read...

Click here to read the rest of this essay at

The Christian Century online.

Archive of Christian Century Articles by Gordon Atkinson

a

Christian Magazine 

Christian Writing
rlp
 

My friend Milton
posted this picture of the Hubble Deep
Field Image the other day. The pretty little smudges are galaxies.

Click for larger image
In case you don’t know the story of this image,
it represents a “keyhole” view of the universe. The Hubble Space Telescope
focused on one small patch of the sky for about 10 days, pulling in ancient
light from across the universe. This image is only a speck in our sky. It’s
about the size of a dime when viewed from 75 feet away.
And this little speck is absolutely filled with
galaxies. About 1500 can be counted using an enlarged image. 1500 galaxies in a
single dot of our night sky.
The universe is so large that it causes my mind
to reboot whenever I try to think about it. You can’t really think about the
size of the universe in any accurate way, of course. It's far too big to
understand. But here’s a way you could try to think about it:
Our solar system exists on a spiral arm of the
Milky Way Galaxy. The Milky Way is about 100,000 light years across and contains
between 200 billion and 400 billion stars. There is a star that is relatively
close to us; Alpha Centauri is a mere 4.4 light years away. Given the size of
our galaxy, we’re practically on top of each other.

Click for larger image
Voyager 1, launched in the late 1970s, has only
recently left our solar system. The two Voyager spacecrafts are the fastest
things humans have ever made. Currently they travel at a speed of about 1
million miles a day, which is pretty damn fast. Still, it took a good-sized
chunk of your lifetime for the fastest thing we have to make it out of our own
solar system.
The Voyager mission does not include traveling
to Alpha Centauri, but if it did, it would take 70,000 years to get there at its
current speed. So says a combination of Wikipedia and my calculator.
Chew on that for a moment. Our two stars,
almost touching in the photo. Seventy Thousand Years.
When I consider the stars and the universe – or
more accurately when I consider my inability to consider them – I experience a
strange combination of physical, emotional, and spiritual reactions.
First I feel a kind of mild vertigo, the sort
of thing that you would expect to feel if you suddenly found yourself in the
middle of a shaky rope bridge over a deep canyon. Our world normally feels so
big and solid to me, and my place in this world seems entrenched and
well-established after 45 years of living. But suddenly, I am a speck of dust in
an instant of time so brief that it can’t be measured. My feet feel light, as if
I might float off our spinning planet any second. I want to throw myself on the
ground and grab two fistfuls of grass for good measure.
My mind reels. Everything seems to be
shrinking.
Then I feel a sorrowful panic. Christianity
has already shrunk in my lifetime from being the shining center of all truth and
purpose to something less than that. Even looking at things from the inside,
even willing to give the benefit of every doubt, Christianity seems like a
bumbling, prosaic movement which is, as often as not, violent,
anti-intellectual, and xenophobic.
But I love Christianity so much. Or at least I
love what it could be. I want to hug it. I want to throw my arms around the
beautiful language of salvation and redemption. I want to curl up in the warmth
of my faith community, the people I love so deeply in this world. Truly they are
like family to me. I feel I could get drunk on our ancient symbols, myths and
stories, the ones that speak in luscious tones vibrating through a million
voices across the centuries.
So first vertigo, then panic, then longing.
After that I generally calm down a bit. My tiny mind and delicate emotions
cannot bear even my small thoughts of the universe for more than a few minutes.
I relax. Sometimes a shrinking reality can be a comfort. My sins, the things
that I have done wrong and the ways that I cannot be what I should be, also
shrink. I feel I can forgive myself for them, small man that I am. Why the hell
not? Look at the size of the universe!
This forgiveness is the Grace that Christians
speak of. The main story of our faith tells us that we must be forgiven and can
be. Funny how it takes science to bring that reality to my guts.
For some reason, this experience always ends
with a crazy happiness that I cannot easily explain. I become giddy with the
knowledge that ultimate reality is so far beyond our grasp. This lets me off the
hook, to a certain extent. We’ll never know reality. We’ll never even map our
solar system, you and I. We’re small people, but we have grasped the idea of
existence. We know love, seek knowledge, and recognize goodness and evil.
Our saintly scientists, single-minded and
incredibly committed to the search for truth, draw down amazing pictures from
the ancient light in the sky. These pictures help me to know that it is okay to
be nothing more or less than what we are.
People. Human beings, strangely warped and
trying to understand that. Trying to worship what cannot be known, trying to
learn, trying to find our place in the Cosmos.
rlp

Learn about Voyager
 

I’ve been a part of the Christian Church all of
my life. I’ve watched how things work within the faith, and I’ve been
particularly fascinated by the ways we Christians use and abuse the New
Testament.
The New Testament - the uniquely Christian part
of the Bible - is a messy collection of books and letters. No one can be
absolutely sure what parts are important and what parts are the cultural
containers that hold the important parts. In First Timothy, Paul instructs
Timothy to drink wine regularly to help with his stomach problems. It seems
unlikely that this should be understood as a universal command for all
Christians throughout the centuries. And I’m not aware of any church that treats
that passage in such a way.

Not that a glass of wine at night isn’t
a splendid idea and something I might like to suggest for some of my more
“intense” brothers and sisters.

So from the start, we have a collection of
documents that is unclear and can be difficult to interpret and understand.
That’s a good thing to know before we go any further.
From what I’ve seen, only very serious
Christians take the time to actually read the New Testament for themselves. This
collection of sacred writings taxes scholars, so it is certainly a challenge for
everyday people. We do the best we can, but no one can understand all of the New
Testament. And even those who have read the whole thing will have forgotten most
of it by the following Tuesday. The New Testament is too much to hold in your
mind.
What most Christians do is read selections of
the New Testament, usually in a haphazard manner over a period of years. They
pick out the parts that seem important or relevant to them and focus mainly on
those selected scriptures. Most people get guidance in this selection process
from whatever Christian tradition they follow. Pentecostals from Georgia find
some parts of the New Testament particularly compelling. Episcopalians in Boston
might focus on other parts.
But we all share this in common:
we pick and choose scriptures, cobbling together something we call a theology.
The word theology literally means “God words,” and a theology is a series of
belief statements about God and Jesus and how Christians ought to live.

Now it is true that a few extraordinary
Christians over the years have tried to understand and organize everything in
the New Testament. Some have created great, hulking volumes of systematic
theology that no normal person could ever read or understand. But trying to
create a systematic theology is rather like a physicist trying to come up with a
unified theory of everything. It’s a great idea, but so far no one has been able
to pull it off in a way that satisfies everyone

If what I’ve written makes you angry,
please note that I’m being descriptive. I’m simply describing what I have
seen. If you know of a monk-like person who sat on a pillar for 40 years,
can quote the entire New Testament from memory, and has now perfectly
integrated all of it into his theology and life, then your exception is duly
noted. Good for you, and good for your monk friend.

So our little slanted, incomplete, biased, and
selective theologies are the best we can do. Given how our theologies are
formed, it’s a constant wonder to me that people are surprised and even angered
when they meet someone whose ideas about God differ from their own. I’d be more
surprised if I met someone who shared my own beliefs, point by point, all the
way to the end. Now that would be strange.
Oh, and there is one other thing. There are
parts of the New Testament that are just embarrassing and otherwise inconvenient
to our modern lives. We just ignore those parts and go on about the business of
creating little theological systems that suit us.

That last paragraph is going to get me
at least 20 scorching emails. Tut, tut, please settle down.
I’m only telling you what I’ve observed. In
my experience, people either ignore or conveniently avoid reading parts of
the New Testament that are inconvenient for them.
Again, the exception of your monk friend
is duly noted.

Now this is important to remember:
all that I’ve described so far is what the best and most serious Christians
do. Your average Christian might never read the New Testament at all. He or she
likely doesn’t even know the names of the 27 writings that comprise our canon of
scripture. These people show up at church now and again. They listen to what the
minister behind the pulpit is saying and take that as gospel truth without
asking any significant questions. Ironically, these are the people who are often
the most dogmatic and outspoken about Christianity. Oftentimes it is these
people you see waving Bibles around, shouting and screaming about how every
blessed word of the Bible sprang straight from the lips of the Almighty.
Anyone who has actually slugged it out with the
New Testament, reading it carefully and trying to piece together the truth about
God, Jesus, and how we should live, will be so filled with humility and grace
that they will probably never yell at anyone about anything, much less the
Bible.
Now I’m fine with this whole process. I mean,
it’s not like we have a choice. This is the best we can do. So I’ve made my
peace with the reality of the situation. And that’s probably why I’m less
dogmatic and picky about the details than some.
But what truly amazes me is what happens when
two Christians find themselves in a dispute over some doctrinal issue or passage
of scripture. Suddenly they forget how messy the New Testament is, how
contradictory and convoluted parts of it can be. They forget that their own
theology is a product of very selective reading.
Forgetting these things, they run back to their
studies in search of verses of scripture that support their position. They pull
out books and commentaries; they scan denominational pamphlets or find help
online in locating these verses.
Suddenly, single verses are seen to support
whole theologies. Some verse from First John now has the power to shore up an
entire worldview. Some obscure phrase from Jude is thought to have the final
answer on how men and women should relate to each other. And some phrase that
Jesus used in a parable now means that people who disagree with you and your
ideas about God will roast slowly over an open fire in the pits of hell
throughout all of eternity.
These furious exchanges of quotations are like
people lobbing mortar shots at each other from trenches. Those involved only get
angrier and more entrenched. I guess eventually they get tired and stop. One or
perhaps both camps claim victory. No one generally learns anything constructive
from these battles.
How do I know so much about this? Because I
used to be right in the middle of those fights. In college and seminary, I stood
on street corners, arguing and fighting with fundamentalist street preachers. I
remember once dragging the Greek New Testament (I had all of one semester of
Greek under my belt) down to the street corner to show a sweating, shouting
evangelist an aorist verb.
He stared at the Bible for a moment, then
looked back at me. Then he shouted, “Your pride will be your downfall, and you
will burn forever in the LAKE OF FIIIIIRE!!!!!
I mean, what can you say to that?  "Nu-uh!"
So now I’m gently sliding into middle age. I’m
tired of fighting over the Bible. Honestly, I couldn’t care less about most fine
points of theology. I know a little too much about how the New Testament was
formed, and I know a little too much about what’s in there and how hard it is to
keep it straight.
I have much simpler questions for people now.

“You reading the New Testament? Trying your
best to understand it?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you trying to follow Jesus as a
disciple, trying to understand what he said and live the way he did, where
possible?”

“Yeah, I’m trying.”

“MY BROTHER!”

rlp
 

"Virtual Pastors please picky church-goers"
BRILLIANT!

NOTE
Added 8-18-07: This is satire. The
Lark News is like the

Onion. Some comments made me realize that
not everyone knows about Lark News.
 

My friend Cynthia and I have conversations
about clarity in writing. She is mostly a poet, so clarity is not her main goal,
though she needs a measure of it. I am an essayist and story-teller, so clarity
is a serious goal for my writing. If you want something really good, combine
simplicity with your clarity. Now you're starting to discover quality.
I came across this video, which I love for its
simple clarity. It makes things clear.
The main point of this video - when it comes to
global warming, we need to be making column choices and not spending all of our
time arguing about rows.
Check it out and pass it on to others if you like it.

HINT: If you
are watching a video online and it keeps stopping, pause it for a short time,
and let the download get ahead of you.
rlp
 

I got this CD in the mail from AOL on Friday.

Wow, AOL is offering unlimited dial-up internet
access for $9.95 a month. What is this, 1999? Should I expect to hear from
Compuserve and Prodigy soon? For a minute I wondered if this was one of those
pieces of mail that got lost and is only now being delivered, many years later.
It's been a long time since I

poked fun at AOL here. I'm an internet
old-timer. I remember when all the websites had grey backgrounds and blue
hyperlinks. And I remember when just having aol.com in your email address was an
invitation to start a flame war. So I just can't resist laughing at these guys.
Look, I know people still use AOL dial-up. And I pray for those poor souls,
really I do. But from a business perspective, does this rapidly shrinking
customer base warrant bulk mail advertising? How many thousands of these things
do they have to mail just to get one dial-up customer? This cannot be making
them any money.
But then I never really understood AOL anyway.
AOL always seemed to me like the Disneyworld of the internet.
********
Speaking of things I don't understand, this
church is about two miles from my house.

Solemn High Mass at 10:00. Yeah, I'll bet they
have a REAL solemn mass. Real somber and serious-like. I hear the Low Mass is
for people who can't understand 4th century Latin and have to settle for 17th
century Latin. Lightweights!
Okay, I'm serious - who names their church
after Saint Edward the Confessor? I'm just saying, that sounds a little harsh,
doesn't it? Imagine Sean Connery saying it: "Saint Edward the ConFESSuh."
So who was this
Saint Edward character? He was the son of Ethelred the Unready. I
think having a father named Ethelred would screw up just about anyone, which is
why Saint Edward is the patron saint of kings, bad marriages, and separated
spouses. No, I'm serious. But that brings me back to my original
question. What church would want to be named after the patron saint of kings,
bad marriages, and separated spouses? I mean, why? There's a huge surplus of saints
out there with more being added all the time. Why Edward?
I don't know, so I'm thinking I might have to
visit this church. Sundays are pretty much out of the question for me,
obviously, so I can't hit that High Mass. Damn! But I could take in a Low
Mass some Tuesday morning. Yeah, I'm going to do that.
Stay tuned...
rlp
 

My youngest daughter is a big fan of the
Nintendo game, Animal
Crossing. It's a virtual world for kids. She plays it on a small,
Nintendo DS with her best friend Rachel. When the two of them are together,
their Nintendo DS units connect by infrared, and they can visit each other's
virtual houses and interact in the Animal Crossing world.
It's a fairly standard fantasy-world game.
Lillian has a character that interacts with other characters in her virtual
town. She earns money and adds rooms and furniture to her virtual house that is
now practically a mansion. It would be hard to overstate just how invested she
and Rachel are in the Animal Crossing world. They love their characters and
collect treasured items which they store in their houses. All of the characters
except Lillian (and Rachel if their DS units are connected) are simple computer
bots that respond to conversation with wooden, predictable answers. But these
computer characters have rudimentary personalities, and I've noticed that
Lillian's character makes "friends" with some of them and doesn't like others.
Sometimes she'll say something like, "Bob the squirrel is SO irritating."
A few weeks ago Lillian announced that she had
won the prize for having the best flower garden in her Animal Crossing town.
Apparently there is a garden-of-the-month contest. The game system has a
calendar and operates in real-time, so a garden-of-the-month contest takes
place, literally, every month. I get a little tired of hearing about the Animal
Crossing world, but I try to be nice, so I said, "Oh, good. Did you buy a bunch
of nice flowers and plant them around your house?"
"No," she said. "I win the flower contest every
month. It's no big deal."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, the night before the contest, I go
around to all the houses in town and stomp on everyone's flowers. So I always
win."
Now this got my attention. My first reaction
was pretty negative. I looked at her quizzically, like I couldn't believe what
she had said. She noticed my look and said, "Dad, they're not real people. It's
just a computer game."
"Well, yeah," I said. "I suppose so. But I
don't know, don't you feel a little bad about doing that?"
She didn't even look up from the game. "No. Why
should I?"
I must admit that I have no idea how to respond
to her. Something about it strikes me as wrong. On the other hand, I once played
a computer game where I was a soldier and had to shoot a bunch of people. I hate
to admit it, but I enjoyed it. I don't know what that says about me, but
whatever it says is true, I guess.
There is no shortage of science fiction movies
and books dealing with the ethical questions surrounding artificial
intelligence. We are nowhere near developing anything remotely close to A.I.,
and we may never get there. Artificial Intelligence may turn out to be beyond
our abilities as a species. But if we developed artificially intelligent
machines, I suppose a whole new area of ethics would open up. How exactly should
we treat these computer beings?
But I'm wondering what we do with the limited,
virtual realities of our own day. If you have a Second Life
character, for example, should you bring your spiritual values with you into
that game? Should your Second Life character be a practicing Christian or
Buddhist if you are one of those in real life?
You might think these ethical questions are
mostly hypothetical, but I read that England has proposed that
computer-generated child pornography should be illegal, reasoning that obscene images are
obscene, whether the characters are real or virtual. The pornographer's
counter-claim is roughly the same one that Lillian made. If the characters
aren't real and no one is getting hurt, why is it illegal?
I think human life has always been ethically
complicated. I normally shy away from the idea that modern life is so much
harder or more evil than in days past. You always hear people complaining about
how hard things are these days. But I wonder if the complexity of the
post-modern, information-driven world is introducing an ethical complexity that
we are not ready to handle.

rlp
 

Stranger Than Fiction
I watched this movie because a number of people suggested it when I

posted about movies recently. I hadn't
watched it because, frankly, I haven't enjoyed Will Ferrell's movies, though I
liked him on SNL. If you've avoided this movie for that reason, let me urge you
to watch it right away. I absolutely loved it. It's a quirky film in the way
that
"I heart Huckabees" was quirky. It's just...different. Ferrell plays an
uptight, lifeless IRS agent who finds out that he is nothing more than a
character in a writer's novel.
I thought it was wonderful.

The Straight Story
Okay, David Lynch directed a G-rated, Disney movie? I had to watch this
movie if only to find out what would come from that strange alliance. The
Straight Story is based on the true story of a man who rode his lawnmower across
a state to visit his brother. Richard Farnsworth plays the old man with the
lawnmower. I've loved Richard Farnsworth ever since he played Matthew Cuthbert
in Anne of Green Gables. I take one look at Richard Farnsworth, and I'm on the
verge of crying. I keep seeing Matthew collapsing and dying in Anne's arms.
This is a sweet and tender film. It's worth
your time.

rlp
 

Hugh Elliott is reading through the New
Testament and writing about it over at Bible Versus.
I'm mentioned him before. It's a fascinating thing because Hugh is not a
Christian and is purposefully not reading commentaries or any of that. We talked
on the phone about this whole project. He could call me and talk about the
stories, but he doesn't so that I don't pollute the experiment with my
interpretations. I'm the polar opposite of Hugh. Raised in the church, seminary
degree, and spent the last 20 years wrestling with the gospels and reading
commentaries.

His latest entry is his reaction to one of
the strangest stories in the gospels. It is sometimes called the story of the
Gadarene Demoniac(s). As is often the case, his opening line is hilarious. Hugh
is reacting to Matthew's version. If you are interested, I once wrote a

dramatic account of Mark's version of this
story, which is longer and has more details.

rlp
 

First, thank you for your kind comments after
my last post. I have strong but mixed feelings about writing in such a way about
myself. I don't think anyone has yet figured out exactly what blogs are or what
they should be. In my case I think of Real Live Preacher, first of all, as the
place where I post/publish very serious works of writing. My essays are precious
to me, and I put everything I have into them. Writing is the only area of my
life where I can truthfully say I've done my dead-level best. I can't write them
any better.
But RLP is also a blog, and another part of my
writing here is less polished and more personal. I also venture into the journal
side of blogging, which is cool in its own way. I write specifically about my
life, and I try to be honest about myself and my own struggles. That doesn't
mean my struggles are easier or harder than anyone else's, of course. And
sometimes I struggle with things that other people don't even understand. The
point for me is seeking honesty, both in writing and about myself and in the
place where those intersect.
So now I've opened my life to a lot of people,
and some of them have begun to truly care about me, which is a
precious and incredibly generous gift for them to give me. But that opens up a whole new
level of complexity doesn't it? Ideally, honest, personal writing would have a
nice separation between the writer and the reader. In order to write without
worrying about the reaction I might get, I enter a state of denial. I write as
if no one is going to read my words until after I'm dead. That really is how I
think about it, or maybe how I don't think about it.
But of course we all know that I'm not dead,
and since you care about me, you want to leave comments and encourage me. Again, that's
incredibly kind of you. What a gift! But there are so many of you...yikes! And
truly my problems are such run-of-the-mill, normal, human kinds of problems. I
don't mean to suggest that I need a telethon or anything. Yesterday I saw a blog
entry that just said, "RLP is in pain. Pray for him!" It had a link to my last
post.
And I was like, "No, no, no!" Then I
felt bad because it was such a kind thing to write, so then I was like, "Well,
okay, sure, thanks, but why don't we put whatever compassionate energy we have
into some hungry children or something like that, you know?"
You get this, right? So it's okay. There is a
tension here, but I can live with it if you can. I can write honestly about
myself if I know that we all understand that a blog is the story of one person's
life, told imperfectly and awkwardly at times, but in the way that seemed right
in the moment. It's weird, I almost don't think of Real Live Preacher as my
life. It's just a life. Just someone's life chosen at random. Don't you think
this has got to be inducing some kind of serious schizophrenia in me? I don't
know. What do I know? I just write stuff as it comes to me.
Okay, but wait, because there is another, more
serious, complicating issue that comes with this. And this is actually the
harder issue for me. See, almost everyone I know in real life - I mean the
people who know Gordon Atkinson - now are aware of Real Live Preacher and read
this blog at least occasionally. And that's fine with me. Mostly I just write
stuff and then never speak of it around my friends unless they bring it up, and
then I try to change the subject. But reading a posting on a blog is an awkward,
crummy way for people to find out that a friend is sick or hurt or depressed or
got fired or whatever. So I always know that when I write about a personal
struggle, my mom will probably call me, worried. My sister will get worried.
People in the church won't know what they should or shouldn't say. And I start
feeling like a lousy friend, brother, son, husband, father, pastor, whatever. I mean, don't the
people in your life deserve to hear stuff straight from you?
And I think that using a
blog to send messages to people in your life is a VERY unhealthy thing to do.
It's creating a dysfunctional communication triangle with two people and a blog.
That's not straight, honest communication. I try never to do that. I never
consciously use Real Live Preacher to send a message to anyone. Only I guess it
probably seems like I do to my friends and family. I'm really sorry for that,
but I can't call everyone I know and tell them what I'm going to write ahead of
time. And even if I could it would be such a grandiose, self-absorbed kind of
thing to do.
Let's face it. Here is a hard truth:
There is no good way to write about yourself
with any depth and honesty if people who know you and care about you are reading
your words while you are still alive. There is no way to do this without causing
problems. At least I haven't figured out a way yet.
So here's what I've come up with...for now. For
those of you who only know me through my writing, you can do whatever you want.
Send comments, pray for me, whatever feels right to you. I don't care if it's
one comment or a hundred. I'm going to try not to be embarrassed and to accept
that this is a unique situation we're in. I understand your compassion, and if I
were you I'd probably leave comments and send email to me. You go right ahead.
I'll read them all, and they do matter to me. I love you for that.
For those of you who are my friends (in real
life) and family and especially those of you who are a part of my faith
community, I'm sorry if my writing makes things a little awkward between us. I'm
trying to push the edges but also not go too far. I'm trying to write about one
man's life, and mine is the only life I know well enough to write about. If I
write about something and don't bring it up when we talk, I'd love it if we
could both just let it go and not worry about it. If I need to talk about it,
you know I will. But if you are worried about me, having read
something at Real Live Preacher, feel free to ask me about it if you want to. If
I write about it, you can ask about it. That's only fair.
I can't think of any physical or social thing -
no amount of possessions or wealth or power - that is as important as relationships. Our relationships are our most important treasures. I want mine to
be straight and honest and healthy.
You probably didn't need to read any of this.
But I needed to write it, so that I can try to keep it straight in my mind.
Ironically, I'm probably the most confused person in the weird, online world of
Real Live Preacher.
Thanks for listening,

gordon
 

My love was born at my mother’s breast and in
my father’s strong arms. It was a sucking, insatiable, infantile love. I was
happily curled in the warm embrace of pure need.
My love was shaped in early days by my need
to perform. I worked hard at home, in sports, and at school. I had a first-born
child's natural sense that people would love me if I excelled.
My love turned inward and became hidden and
personal with a series of best friends. Michael and Mickey and Lance and
Steve and Mark and Kenny. We claimed the rights to our own lives and our own
loves. We stood
together against the world with our secret clubs and inside jokes.
My love thrashed against my arm like a tethered
falcon when I discovered the beauty of ponytails and freckled smiles. A series
of little girls first turned my head and then turned my guts into jelly. The falcon
burst its tether and screeched, circling and diving, causing me to throw myself
to the ground in a panic. Bonnie and Carmen and Kathy and Tracy and Diane and Laura and Julie and Elma.
How I ached and longed and cried and failed and watched from afar. Waves of
feeling rose up in my chest and cast me face-down upon my bed. There was no end
to it and no relief because it felt so good and it hurt so bad.
In time I learned the proper words to coax the
falcon back to my arm. I slipped the tether around its foot and paraded it about
for a few years with an imagined sophistication. Oh yes, I had it all figured
out for a time.
And then I went to college and met a woman with a swinging ponytail
and brown eyes that were tender and crinkly when she smiled. She sat across from
me at the Baylor cafeteria, and when she talked she revealed a certain,
indescribable spark of personality that proved irresistible to me. My falcon took
one look at her, snapped its tether, and disappeared over the horizon, never to
return.
I became foolish again, like a small boy. She
carried a basket instead of a backpack. Suddenly I loved baskets, the weave and
feel and smell of them. She had pale skin, so pale skin became the loveliest skin
in the world as far as I was concerned. Once I was able to pick her out of a crowd of young women in
shorts because I recognized her knees. She had a smile that could light up my
heart and brown eyes that were too beautiful and powerful for me
to understand. I wanted to keep her. I wanted her to be mine.
I wanted to hold her and defend her with my life against anything in the world
that would harm her.
I had her for a few months, and then I lost her. I
was inconsolable and fell into a time of loneliness. I could not feel love for any other woman. I worked. I paid my bills. I
prepared to go to seminary.
Then an unexpected letter arrived, causing my
heart to thrash about in my chest. There was a near-collision in a supermarket
aisle, and then we were sitting on the floor of her apartment, both frightened. She of hurting me and I of being hurt. But our
hands moved across the carpet like small creatures with wills of their own. Our
fingers entwined, and all the powers of joy and fear and pain and love came
together in that moment.
My love became our love. I felt like I had
arrived, but the story of my love was only getting started. I now understand that we knew almost nothing of
love at that time. For our love had not yet faced the 12 labors of Hercules.
We had to survive financial crisis and the slow
loss of the passion of youth. We had to survive the exhaustion of work
and responsibilities. And then there came three children, three sucking vortices
of need. We had to cling to each other, blue eyes locked on brown, swearing
before the heavens that we weren’t going to let these three angelic demons take
everything from us. For it is the nature of children to take everything and the duty of parents not to let them.
Years passed, and we aged together. We learned to love our softening bodies with their new demands and needs. Sometimes, when we were very tired, we would
say that it was the two of us against the whole world. Friends would change, the
children would leave, but our secret club was forever.
Then a tragedy happened. I woke up in a bathtub filled
with ice. There were stitches on the left side of my chest and a note that said,
“Sorry, but we needed your heart.” I arose, dripping cold water on the floor. I
had the face and the look of Gordon, but there was something absent from my eyes.
My trademark silliness was gone. And I could not feel any of the happy things. I
couldn't feel love or joy. I was numb inside and sometimes angry for no reason.
I carried on by the powers of
obligation, duty, and shame. I put one foot in front of the other. I smiled at
home and at church. I said the right things to the children. I tried to force myself to
be myself, but that never really works. Jeanene learned to live with the zombie
version of Gordon, which is its own kind of tragedy.
The doctor called it depression, and he gave me
pills. They worked pretty well for a long time. I was happy and my boyish
silliness returned. Jeanene and I began reconnecting. Our hands had to crawl
across a carpet of fear to find each other, but they did and things were good.
This is so hard to write, but I fear something
is wrong again. I’ve slowly lost the ability to feel happiness or love. Once
again I have all of the words and none of the feeling. My need to be alone is
becoming overpowering. I come home and want to go to bed or sit in a corner. The
idea of interacting with people is painful even to think about. Jeanene and the
three sisters obviously know something is wrong.
Damn it! I don’t want to do this again. I’m
going to have to go back to the doctor and start the process over again. I hate
the idea of medication. I hate thinking of myself being dependant on medication.
“Did you remember to pick up your medication?”
“Has anyone seen my medication?”
“Did I take my medicine yet today?”
Medication medication medication medication.
Fucking medication. MY medication. Like it’s some treasured personal possession.
Like it’s now an essential part of me, like a leg or something.
But I'm going to the doctor. Yes sir. I'm not
hesitating this time. I already have the appointment. And I'm going to do
whatever he tells me to do. If he gives me pills (and he will) I’ll smile and
say, "Thank you, sir. May I have another?"
Because this is the story of my love. Do you
understand what I'm saying? This is my love. My love for God and for ideas and
for truth and for our church and for writing and for my friends and for the
three sisters.
And for Jeanene. It's her love too. I have to
remember that. I owe her my best effort to be the man she married.
If I am allowed to live a full live, then half
of the story of my love is yet to be told. And I definitely want to be present
and alert for part two.

rlp
 

Notice:
I've changed to a new server for the hosting of Real Live Preacher. We made the
switch last night. There seems to be a couple of small issues. I think some
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to get things sorted out in the next day or so.
rlp

The opposite of integrity is hypocrisy.
Hypocrites will betray their own words and commitments for personal gain.
Hypocrites will say what they must to gain a desired position, then do what it
takes to benefit themselves.
A person of integrity, on the other hand, will
claim only what is true about himself and only do what is right, regardless of
the personal cost. This is the bad news about integrity. It often does not pay
in the short run....

Click here
to read the rest of this essay at

The
High Calling.

Click here to read other High Calling Bible
study/reflections
by Gordon Atkinson
rlp

Part One
In interviews given while on death row, Ted
Bundy seemed confused over the great concern about his crimes. He just didn’t
get it. He couldn’t understand why so many people cared about a few missing
girls. “After all,” he mused, “there are so many people.” *
This point of view, or perhaps I should say
this lack of a point of view, is fascinating to me. I want to understand it. It
seems important that I understand it.
I date my interest in serial killers to the
summer of 1973 when my family moved from the desert climate of El Paso to the
oppressive humidity of Houston. The weather change was like a slap in the face.
I remember sitting on the curb with my brother and wondering how air could
possibly feel like this. Wet was the word. Everything was wet, sticky, and
green. The ground was squishy beneath the grass. The air was hot and heavy with
moisture. It pressed itself upon you, squeezing your head until perspiration
oozed from your scalp and collected on the ends of your hairs, binding them
together in little clumps. Even the water in the pools was warm. It felt like
diving into a bath.
I was eleven that summer and about to start
junior high. Only two months earlier I had been kneeling on the ground of my school
playground, one eye closed, shooting marbles into a big circle. I didn’t know it
then, but that world was gone. Adolescence was about to roll over me with its
smells, hair, and powerful feelings. Who can stand before the awesome power of
puberty?
“Your time in the garden is over, buddy. But
while I have your attention, take a look at the incredible fruit hanging from
the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. Looks good doesn’t it? Trust me on
this; it IS good. Like girls and peaches.”
That summer they began digging up bodies on the
other side of town. Elmer Wayne Henley and Dean Corll had been killing teen-age
boys for quite some time. They strapped them to homemade torture tables made of
plywood and handcuffs. They did unspeakable things to them, unmoved by their
pitiful cries for mercy, until finally the boys would die and then be buried
under a boat shed. Every news channel in town was camped out at the burial site.
Information and video came pouring out of our television sets and into our
homes. Even the children could not be protected from it. What they didn’t see on
TV, they heard from their friends.
These things happen in our world. They are
horrible to consider, but particularly shattering when you are young and have no
idea that anything like this is possible. I listened to the part about the
plywood and the handcuffs. After that I couldn’t keep the images out of my mind.
Laughing men sticking knives into naked boys and slowly peeling off their skin.
It was unthinkable. A nightmare and a horror movie, but for real and right in my
own hometown.
And then there were the television images of clay-colored
bodies pulled one-by-one from the ground. Twenty-seven of them in all. Stiffened,
body-shaped clumps of soil that came out of the earth with a sucking sound and
were put into the backs of ambulances that came and went, shrieking, from the
crime scene.
That wetness again. The wetness of the crime
produced its own kind of horror. Tears and blood and sex and trembling flesh and
Houston earth. The wet, sliding sound of a shovel plunged into clay. In all of
its stages, life is wet work. The beginning of life and the ending of life and
even the retrieving of bodies.
This horrible thing laid hold of my mind like
my grandfather’s strong hands, twisting the legs off cooked chickens. He would
twist the leg until the flesh popped and the tendons broke free. Then he would
hand you the greasy drumstick with little tubes and shreds of fat hanging from
it and a white, knuckled bone sticking out the bottom. Tuck in.
I used to look away when my grandfather would
seize a chicken leg and start twisting. But once you’ve seen a man twist the leg
off a bird, you know what food is and what life and flesh are. You understand
that it comes down to this. You’ve taken up this knowledge or had it thrust upon
you, but there is no laying it down again. No going back to the garden.
And once you’ve seen wet bodies spaded from the
earth and laid before weeping mothers, you know what life is and that sometimes
it comes to this.
Here is the knowledge of good and evil, little
boy. Tuck in.
What I’m trying to tell you is that there were
some weeks in late July of 1973, when this knowledge came to me and would not
leave. I swam in the wetness of Houston and death. I lived in a humid world of
ugly knowledge, chunky, raw, and uncut.
I remember staring at the newspaper pictures of
Elmer Wayne Henley and Dean Corll. I was both fascinated and repelled. Why would
grown-ups do this to little boys? And perhaps more disturbing, how could they
have enjoyed it?
Mercifully, school started and the news
coverage slowed and then stopped. Junior high gave me more than enough to occupy
my mind. There was a girl I loved at church, another I kissed at school, and one
I worshipped from afar. There were football and the locker room and whispers of
sexual things. It’s strange, but now that I think about it, adolescence was wet
too. Wet kisses I hungered for. The sweat under my arms that I suddenly noticed
and became obsessed with. The spray of antiperspirants and the splash of my
father’s Old Spice. The fights and the fears were wet. Love was wet. The longing
and the sorrow and the desperation were wet.
Henley and Corll faded from my mind, and I
thought no more of them. I lived in my body and in the present, as teen-agers
tend to do. But the questions never left me. And they remain with me. I am still
fascinated and repelled by serial killers. They are the bogey-men of the modern
world. Because of them, we still fear the darkness. They are legendary and
powerful in our minds, though in person they are weak and pathetic. And having
entered the God business, so to speak, the existence of evil in our world has
become something of a professional concern.
What is the deal with these guys? They hide in
the shadows and prey upon us. The pain and suffering of others does not repel
them or awaken in them any human compassion. No, pain and suffering excite them.
They get erections when they stand in the presence of a tortured and suffering
human being. Watching it helps them achieve orgasm. How is this possible?

rlp
Coming next: Some thoughts and observations
after twenty years of trying to understand evil.
* "Ted Bundy: Conversations With
a Killer "
    by Stephen G. Michaud and Hugh Aynesworth

"A Christmas Story You've Never Heard" - 
Coming November 2006
Okay, most of you know that I wrote a
dramatized version
of the Christmas story back in December of 2003 and put it online. In 2005 I recorded it
as an audio book with the help of my musical genius friend, Ben "One Take" King. This fall that story will be
released in print as the first ever Con Safo
book.
Being a Con Safo book, the last thing we want
is anyone famous quoted on the cover. So there will be no spiffy
quotes from impressive and famous people. The back cover will say, "What
people you've never heard of are saying about A Christmas Story You've Never
Heard."
I think it's kind of catchy.
Would you like to write a blurb for this book?
The requirements are that you not be famous and that you have either read or
listened to the story. (Currently available at Itunes) Just write a short
endorsement and email it to
blurb@ConSafo.com.
If your blurb is used, I'll include your name
(if you want me to) and the address of your blog.
Con Safo - Stickin it to the man!!
rlp
Also coming in
November of 2006, the audio book that is the second installment in the Christmas
series - The as yet untitled story of the shepherds.

Someone left a a beautiful blue
box on the front porch of our church recently. A note on the top said, "For
Gordon." I opened the box and inside was an elegant, blue fountain pen with gold
bands.
The pen was left by an Episcopal
priest named Cristopher whom I met in a coffee shop several weeks ago. We had
one of those, "You're a minister? Me too! Isn't preaching wonderful except when
it's awful?" conversations that ministers often have. The next time I saw him
there, I noticed he was writing with a fountain pen. And since he is
left-handed, there was ink smeared all over his hand.
Writing with a fountain pen is a
choice. And to do so as a left hander, meaning you will always be dragging your
left hand through wet ink, indicates a serious commitment. It's like me using my
grandfather's pocket watch, which loses about 6 minutes a day. It's not
practical, nor does it make sense in an age where cheap, quartz watches lose
less than a second a month...

Click here to read the rest of this essay at

The Christian Century online.

Archive of Christian Century Articles by Gordon Atkinson

a

Christian Magazine 

Christian Writing
rlp