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In his book "Meeting Jesus Again for the First Time," Marcus Borg describes the confusion and trauma that occurred when his childish images of Jesus collided with the scientific worldview of our culture. As I read his words, I felt like he was telling my own story. How well I remember when that collision began.

The year was 1969. I watched the moon landing that July in our living room in El Paso, Texas. My parents made me watch it. They said, “Someday you’ll be glad you saw this.” I saw a stark, black horizon and a man with a strange bounce coming down a ladder. I was mildly interested, but not old enough to appreciate the changes that science was bringing to my world.

At the end of the summer we moved into a small home in Forth Worth, so that my father could do some post-graduate work at the Baptist seminary in town. I began second grade that fall at Hubbard Heights Elementary, which was about half a mile away. My best friend Mickey and I walked to school together every day. I admired Mickey because he had to pack his own lunch. Usually it consisted of ketchup sandwiches and candy bars.

Hubbard Heights Elementary

I got the G.I. Joe Astronaut with space capsule that Christmas, which was a huge thrill for me. Space toys were replacing Cowboy toys. Roy Rogers was out, and Apollo was in. I played little league baseball for the first time that Spring. It was my first experience with organized sports. I was the catcher for our team, but I didn’t have a catcher’s mitt, which bothered me greatly.

Mickey and I both fell in love with the same girl at school. I don’t remember her name, but she had brown hair and wore it in pigtails. I was too shy even to wave at her and was standing around wondering how to proceed when Mickey, showing a surprising streak of romantic sophistication, swooped in and gave her a small bottle of perfume. Somehow that sealed the deal, and the two of them walked around the playground whispering for a week or so. I was annoyed but at the same time impressed with his savoir faire. He knew you should give a girl perfume, AND he knew how and where to get perfume. He was completely out of my league.

Our family went to Gambrell Street Baptist Church, which was across from the seminary and a fairly well-known Baptist church in that city. Martin Estep, whose father was a famous Baptist historian and professor at the seminary, was in my Sunday school class. He had leukemia, and we were told quietly that someday soon he would die. The idea of a child dying was so far outside my view of the world that I didn’t know how to receive the information. I just filed it away and forgot about it.

Martin loved dinosaurs and was allowed to bring toy dinosaurs to church, which was against standard policy, but no one made an issue of it, perhaps because his situation was so grim. Many Sundays Martin and I played together with his extensive collection of plastic and rubber dinosaurs.

Years later, long after Martin had died, I attended that seminary and had his father for a number of history classes. I told him I remembered Martin and his dinosaurs. He looked off in the distance and said, "Yes, Martin did love his dinosaurs."

I knew about dinosaurs, of course, but had never considered how they fit into the story of creation that I heard at church. Up until that time, the only story of the origin of the earth I knew was the one found in Genesis. God had created the world in six days, resting on the 7^th. He had created human beings on one of those days, but there was some kind of a glitch, and then Adam and Eve were on the outs with God. That’s why Jesus had to come to the world.

Children have a capacity to hold many thoughts and views at once. Truly, we all have this capacity but it is particularly pronounced in children. So I played dinosaurs with Martin, thoroughly believing that they existed millions and millions of years ago, while at the same time holding to the simple view of creation taught to me at church.

And then one day at school, I discovered a strange book, a book filled with new information and stories I had never heard before.

In second grade I had just discovered the joy of reading. The first book that thrilled me was Matt Christopher’s “Catcher With A Glass Arm,” the story of a boy who was a catcher, like me, only he had a real mitt. Sadly, his arm was a bit lacking, and this created the drama of the story. I also read my mother’s old copy of “The Bobbsey Twins” by Laura Lee Hope, falling in love with it immediately. I read that book 15 or 20 times over the years, even when I was in high school.

My second grade teacher had a collection of books in the corner of the room, which we were allowed to browse and read if we finished our work. One day I pulled out an ancient looking book from behind the others. My memories of this book are very dim. It had an old, cloth cover. I suspect that it was published in the first half of the 20^th century, but it might have been published at the turn of the century. The book was about ancient humans - cavemen and cavewomen, as they were called at the time.

According to this book, many thousands of years ago, people lived in caves and wore clothing made from animal skins. They made their own tools and arrow points, and they lived before modern technology, even before Jesus and the people of the Bible. I remember being absolutely fascinated by the book's theory of how cooking began. The author theorized that a tree might have burst into flames after a lightning strike, cooking a squirrel or some animal in the trunk. Primitive humans chanced upon this tree and found that they liked the flavor of cooked meat. This is a ridiculously simplistic view of how human technology develops, but at the time it made perfect sense to me.

I don't know why, but I became obsessed with this book for many months. Every chance I got I pulled it from the shelves and sat on a little carpet in the corner of the classroom, poring over it. I believed every word of it with the same level of innocent trust that I had given to my Sunday school teachers.

This simple book didn't address the incredibly complex questions of human prehistory or evolution, but it suggested a history of the world and humanity that was different from what was in the Bible. And these new ideas seemed to make sense to me, even then.

That was the moment the collision began. It was the moment that my Biblical worldview first collided with the modern worldview of science. The violence of this collision wasn’t immediately apparent. It was more like two galaxies slowly passing through each other.

But when galaxies collide, nothing stays the same.

rlp

Or: "Life Inside My Head"

A few years ago in the office of doctor M. Jones - San Antonio

“It’s a simple test, really. It’s the one we often give to children and adolescents. It measures your ability to stay focused and on task.”

I nodded and he went on.

“It’s pretty gosh-awful boring, but that’s the point, right? Okay, you will either see or hear a number 1 or a number 2. You’ll either see it on the computer screen or hear it. When you see or hear the number 1, push the number one on the keyboard. If you see or hear 2, hit the 2 key. Got it?”

“Yep, easy enough.”

“You need to concentrate hard and don’t wait to hit the key. Hit it as fast as you can because the program is measuring, among other things, how long it takes you to respond. It’s not just about hitting the right key.”

“Okay.”

The program started and a number one appeared on the screen. I hit number one on the keyboard. Then another one appeared and I hit it again. Then I heard a voice say, “two.” I punched number two on the keyboard.

One, One, Two, One, Two, One, Two Two Two…

This really isn’t fair because [One] I’m an adult and I can simply override whatever impulse [Two] I have to daydream or let my mind drift. I mean, it's not like I'm a kid anymore or anything. [Two] It’s only like what, 20 minutes? I can [One] just force myself to pay attention.

At this point I had not missed a single number and was pretty proud of myself.

One, Two, Two, One, Two, One, One…

This isn’t going to do any good. I’m hitting them [Two] perfectly. Bam, bam, bam. What good is this? I need [Two] a test for adults. I’m going to look like a person with a perfect [One] attention span and I’m not that. [Two] Oh, this is boring as hell. [One] I mean, I can do it no problem, but damn. I think I’m getting a headache. [One] Yeah, there it is, that little pain. I wonder if [One] concentrating like this is going to make it worse. [Two] Hmm, so far there has never been more than three of the same in a row. [One] I bet they won’t do four in a row, but if it was really random [Two] there would eventually be four in a row, right?

I rolled my head around and felt a little clicking in my neck. I tend to think that will help headaches but it never does.

Two, Two, One, One, One, Two, One…

What a completely boring and awful voice. They [2] should have gotten a computer voice [2] like Stephen Hawking or something. [1] But whatever. Fine. Oh, my head is killing me and this [2] chair hurts. Stop it! Pay attention! You haven’t missed any yet, but [1] you will if you aren’t careful. Totally concentrate. Let’s knock the hell out of this test.

One, One, Two, Two, One, Two, One, One…

Try repeating each one out loud in your head when you [Two] hit the key. That will work. That will keep you focused. Have to be focused to [One] do that.

2 – “Two!”

1 – “One!”

1 – “One!”

R-A-M-A-D-A-I-N-N  (boom boom), Ramada Inn. [2] Oh man, I haven’t thought of that [1] in years. That flashing neon sign when I was a kid [1] in the car coming home from church on Sunday nights. [2] I used to spell it out as many [1] times as I could before the light changed.

R-A-M-A-D-A-I-N-N  (boom boom), Ramada Inn - say it again now [2] R-A-M-A-D-A-I-N-N  (boom boom), Ramada Inn.

Oh crap I think I missed one. You stupid idiot. This [2] is a kid’s test. Ah, one won’t matter [1] or anything. People always miss one [2] or two. [1]. Just stay focused. You're fine. How long has it been? Why [2] doesn’t he have the clock showing [2] on the computer? How hard would that be just so I could know how much longer? I wonder if I’m halfway done yet.

***

After twenty minutes I finished and sank back into the chair, exhausted.

“You okay?"

“Yeah, I started getting a headache or something. I mean, I stayed with it but the headache might have slowed me down a little. But it’s nothing. Never mind.”

The printer spit out my results, and he looked closely at the paper. I sat forward. I always want to do well on a test, no matter what kind of test it is. I watched his eyes going back and forth like the head on the old dot matrix printers. Back and forth.

He looked up at me.

“So, how did I do? What does it say about me?”

He shook his head and blew air out of his mouth.

I knew it. I’m so good at this that I’m going to have to explain to him that I really really do think I have a concentration problem. It’s just that I’m an adult, and I can make myself do things. So whatever high score I got shouldn’t count because shouldn’t we do this in a normal life situation?

“Okay, how can I say this? If you were a seven-year-old boy, I would be trying to think of a nice way to tell your parents that you will probably never learn to read.”

rlp

Covenant Baptist Church Advent Set
3-sided rectangle with diagonal aisles and 2-chair offset rows
Click for larger view

I've been setting up chairs at our church since 1991. When I began, we were meeting in temporary places—a school, a fire station, and even a bar for a time. Setting up chairs and taking them down after worship is routine business for migrant churches.

I have handled many chairs over the years. There were the fancy wooden chairs at the Duck Blind Lounge. I used to set them up in three rows around three sides of the dance floor, facing the bar. If you got bored during my sermon, you could check out the variety of beers available on tap or look at the sign that told you when happy hour began.

You don't see that in church very often...

Click here to read the rest of this essay at The Christian Century online.

Archive of Christian Century Articles by Gordon Atkinson

Note: This is much longer than I normally write. Don’t read it unless you think you might be interested in what a day in my life looks like. Anyway, here it is.

6:45 am

Wake and make breakfast for the two younger sisters. Endure the normal morning chaos. Shelby only has one uniform skirt, and it has paint on it. Lillian needs something signed and they both need lunch money. The dog needs to go out, and I have to remember to wake Reiley in time to leave with me. Jeanene has to leave at 7:00 for some chaplain thing downtown, so she’s pretty much out of the morning madness for this day.

Shelby is supposed to take some medicine, but I’m not sure what or how much. I give her what’s on the counter, and she seems to think it’s the right stuff. Both girls have rides to school this morning.

8:00

Our second car is in the shop, so Reiley and I have to catch the bus. I’ve been in San Antonio since 1989, and this is the first time I’ve ever used public transportation. Not because I’m some kind of snob or anything; I just never think about it. Texas is car country, and your average Joe assumes having a car is a necessary part of life. And if your life and schedule are full, it is a necessity. Things are spread out here, and the bus only comes by the stop once an hour.

I’m excited about taking the bus and keeping looking down the street to see if it’s coming. My daughter is less so, possibly because the bus will be full of stone-faced, high school students, and she’ll be boarding with her grinning, experience-loving father. The bus goes insanely fast down O’Conner, and we give each other a “Holy shit!” look. A few minutes later, she puts on her game face and shuffles off the bus at the high school with the rest of the walking dead.

8:30

After the high school kids leave, it’s just me and the bus driver. I’m chatty and so is he. I pepper him with questions about the rates, the string you pull when you want to get off, his route, pretty much all things bus related. I want to make some notes, but there’s no time. I jump off the bus with a wave and walk over to Mike’s service station, one of the few full-service stations left in the world. Mike is originally from Brooklyn, and you can still tell. He’s been working on my cars since 1990, and we are on a first name basis. He is mopping the bay floor when I arrive and we chat about our oldest daughters. Both of them are seventeen and want cars.

My car won’t be ready for an hour or so. There is a McDonalds next door, and I give in to temptation and go for breakfast. McDonald’s pancakes and sausage - how long has it been since I had that? I also buy a $1 breakfast taco just to see how crappy it will be. It’s awful. I pour on some of their “picante sauce”, but that only makes it worse. How can you be in Texas and not know the difference between salsa and taco sauce?

9:00

Breakfast is over, and I have a little time to do some writing. I pop open my computer and start a diary of this day. I have no idea why I’m doing this. Maybe because without a car, I feel disconnected from my normal life. Somehow less responsible. Somehow more connected to the people moving around on the street. For some reason, I decide that I want to remember this day. All of it.

9:30

Mike calls my mobile phone. “Hey Buddy, you’re all set.”

He always says that when he calls.

9:40

Only 150 bucks; not bad. Could have been worse. I get in my car and pull out of the station, heading for the church. I suddenly remember that this is what my life is like. I don't ride buses or subways around the city, chatting with colorful characters and ending up in romantic places. I have a car, and I ate at McDonalds this morning. I have a hundred things to do, but I won’t get them done. Not today or tomorrow or any day. Ever. I will never be done.

Speaking of things needing to be done, it’s Thursday, and I need to get moving on the sermon.

I pull into the church parking lot and the magic of the morning is gone. I don’t feel bad, but I feel…just the way I always do on these days. Driven and aware of the deadlines, but wistful and dreaming anyway.

9:45

Okay, the sermon is from Luke chapter 3. John has announced the coming of Christ and the crowds shout, “What are WE supposed to do about it?”

A very good question and one that I’ve asked many times myself. I think it will be the focus of the sermon. “What the hell are we supposed to do anyway?” That would make a great title, but I’ll be a good boy. How about "What are we supposed to do about it?"

I’ll just say this about sermons. I never spend one single moment thinking about what I want to say or what I might have to say. Who the hell cares what I have to say? I only think about two things: First, what exactly is the text saying? Second, is there a way I can break this story open on Sunday morning so that my dearest friends, my brothers and sisters, cannot help but listen? All the action you need is right there in the text. You just have to shine a light on it. Who knows, maybe someone’s life will be broken open this Sunday.

It could happen.

11:00

I feel the writing thing. It’s a strong pull on my heart. I can’t think about anything else. I want to write. Right now. I want everything and everyone to go away and let me be alone with my words. The “day in the life” thing has engaged me. I think I’ll go back and change everything to the present tense. That will give it some juice, bring it to life maybe.

Something else is clamoring for my attention. This new thing I want to write. It’s another dramatized scripture story. I’ve been thinking about it off and on for a couple of months, and it’s about to be born. I’m itching to get started and I’m a littler shivery with anticipation. I’m fidgeting, bouncing my knee up and down. Forget the sermon for now. I’ve engaged the text enough to get lost in it. It’s in my head. Let it percolate now, and tomorrow pull it together.

I get to write now. Yes, yes. I’m like a kid. I can’t stop smiling.

2:00

A phone call from Reiley jerks me out of my writing. I worked right through lunch because I’m so full from that big McDonalds breakfast. She’s out of school early. The afternoon driving is beginning.

I pick her up about 20 minutes later. She sheepishly admits that she liked riding the bus. I knew she did. We make a quick stop at the house, and then I drop her off at the Optician’s office where she works after school. Back home to check on Lillian, who arrived about the same time I did. Okay, time to try to fix the clutter in the house. I make our bed and put things away in the bathroom, take dirty clothes to the laundry, etc. Then I head out to get Shelby, whose school day ends at 3:30pm. Then back home and hit the kitchen. Dammit, I did the floors the other day, and there’s already some grime down there and a noodle or two dried on the tile.

The kitchen floor is such a pain-in-the-ass.

I finish the kitchen right about the time Jeanene walks in at 4:15pm. A quick hug and a hello, then I’m out to write some more. She says maybe she’ll meet me after she gets the girls some dinner and we can do some Christmas shopping.

Cool, I have a date tonight.

4:15

I head over to Barnes and Noble. Their coffee shop is one of about 8 writing places I have stashed around the city. For some reason, I can always get good work done there. EXCELLENT, there is a seat by an outlet. Computer on; see you later.

5:45

One thing I know is when I’m done writing. I can be completely engrossed in something and in five seconds I suddenly hate writing and can’t wait to turn off the computer and do something else. I think I was ADHD before ADHD was cool. So I’m done. I got the first part of the dramatization done, but now I’m at the place where Peter and Jesus begin their dialogue, and suddenly I want out of here. I hate writing. I never want to do it again. I wonder what’s going to happen to Real Life Preacher. I guess people will eventually stop coming now that I’m no longer doing it.

Of course I don’t take any of this seriously. This happens almost every time. Tomorrow I’ll be a writer again.  

6:30

Jeanene has the girls settled down, eating dinner, doing homework, whatever, and she’s going to meet me at La Madeleine’s for dinner. I’m nuts for their potato soup. With three kids and 21 years of marriage behind us, we have to seize any opportunity to have a few minutes alone. We need that time just to remember that we are, after all, supposed to be lovers and all that.

I am dead without romance in my life. Dead and sad and so incredibly lonely. And there have been stretches of time without it. But romance takes work. And work takes time. And to have time, you have to make time, right?

7:15

Christmas shopping. I can’t post anything here because my kids read this blog, and I don’t’ want to spoil things.

9:15

Back at home and done for the day. Lillian, my youngest, is now old enough to watch the Simpsons. Yeah, we have age limitations on certain things. No Simpsons until 4^th grade. No PG-13 until you are 13. And no R until you are 17, UNLESS it is some special movie that I like and approve. For example, I let both my older girls watch The Matrix with me.

But anyway, Lillian is PUMPED about the Simpsons. I have five seasons on DVD, so she and I have been watching them whenever we can. She’s waiting for me, patting the couch where she wants me to sit.

If I’m lucky, she’ll lean into me and maybe even fall asleep. Little girl snuggles are very rare and soon to be gone. Not that big girl hugs aren’t nice, but nothing, NOTHING can ever take the place of a little girl snuggling up to you and drifting off to sleep.

10:33

A little time at RLP, reading comments and answering emails. I jump into the RLP chatroom briefly. RLP users “church nerd,” “enz,” and “spidey,” are in there. I’ve chatted with them many times and enjoy it. It’s a nice way to end my day. But I never stay long. Sometimes I feel like if I go into the RLP chatroom, it kind of spoils it. The attention goes to me, and I feel funny about that. But still, I like it.

11:30

I am done. Finished. Can’t keep my eyes open. As I lay my head on my pillow, I choose one of the things I like to think about just as I’m falling asleep. These are only for me to know - so no details. There are things you wish would happen, but they won't. And there are things that might happen, but they have not. And there are other things, things that you know but could not explain. I think about those things when I'm on the edge of sleep. It's sometimes happy and sometimes very sad.

That's it. That was a day in my life.

rlp

I have a curious and socially debilitating condition that I have decided to call, "Calendar Dyslexia." For reasons I do not understand, I have great difficulty in organizing and understanding weeks and months. I can generally tell you what year it is. I realize, of course, that knowing the year is no big accomplishment. I only mention it because I want to claim some level of competency in these matters. But when it comes to weeks and months, I live in a state of constant confusion.

Once or twice a year I suddenly forget what month it is. I’ll say to myself, “Is it Spring and we’re moving toward Summer, or is it Fall and we’re moving toward Christmas?”  For a few seconds I have no idea what part of the year we are in. It’s a very disorienting feeling, let me tell you.

I don't understand why calendars are so difficult for me. I’m a reasonably intelligent man. I have no trouble with the concept of days, weeks, months, and years. If I look at a calendar I know exactly what I am seeing. Somehow I can say the date or the month, but not “feel” the date or the month, if that makes any sense. I can know that it is December 23^rd, but not make the connection that Christmas is in two days. It’s as if connections between dates and events – connections other people seem to have no trouble with – are not made in my mind.

My mind does make connections; they're just, well, odd connections. Right now I'm working on a piece for Christian Century called, "Theology, Xeno, and the Hundred Meter Dash." The connection between these three things came very easily to my mind. These are the sort of connections that sometimes come out in my writing. These are also the sort of connections they say schizophrenics often make.

Now here’s something funny. I am currently in charge of our church calendar.

I'll wait for a minute until you stop laughing.

Obviously calendars and organization are not a high priority at our church. Either that or everyone enjoys watching the hilarity that inevitable comes when I try to manage things.

Here’s a couple of examples:

In February - of this year I think - Ben Chappell was stepping down after serving our church as an elder for 13 years. I love Ben dearly and wanted to recognize his service. So I created a very nice certificate, which I presented to him at the end of worship one Sunday. I wanted this certificate to be just right, so I went over it very carefully. I read every word about ten times.

Amy Main read the certificate out loud during the presentation because I was afraid I was going to start crying. She had to stop reading and giggle because it said, “The 5^th Sunday of February,” instead of “February 5^th.”

Two things:

First, there can be five Sundays in February on very rare occasions. It has to be a leap year, and the first day of February must be Sunday. It’s rare, but not impossible.

Second, even if I had written the date correctly, I would have been wrong since it was actually February 12^th.

I offered to redo the certificate for Ben, but he said, “No way, I love it like this. It’s perfect coming from you.”

I thought that was nice of him. My friend Cynthia says this about my calendar problems: “Most of the time it’s cute. On rare occasions we want to slap you around a bit, but it’s okay.”

This last weekend I committed one of my more serious calendar errors. Thank goodness the wedding party was made up of very kind and forgiving people.

You’re dying to know what happened now, right?

Some months ago a man called to reserve our church for a wedding on the Saturday before Easter. No problem. We don’t have a lot of weddings at our church, and the day was free. I wasn’t asked to do the wedding or participate in any way. The bride’s father is a chaplain in the navy and would be performing the ceremony.

Now on Good Friday, we have a rather somber service in the evening. The church is stripped of all things that bear any sign of gaiety or rejoicing. The cross above the fireplace mantel is draped in black. During the service we light candles and read the passion story, the story of the arrest and crucifixion of Jesus.

Last Thursday – the day before Good Friday – I was at the church making preparations for our Good Friday service the very next day. I was going over my notes and preparing the manuscript from which I would read the story. The bride’s father dropped by to pick up a key. I stopped what I was doing to talk with him. I was friendly and accommodating. I answered his questions with a smile.

“Of course you may come Friday afternoon to decorate the church with pretty white lace, Easter lilies, and all manner of beautiful wedding regalia in preparation for your wedding Saturday. Of course. Make yourselves at home."

Of course, because we are a kind and gentle little church. We love to be helpful. We'll give you a key to our building and let you have the run of the place.

“No problem!" I said with a smile. "Friday afternoon and evening, the church is all yours. You’ll have to excuse me now, I need to get back to work on my Good Friday stuff.”

They left and I cheerfully went back to getting ready for Good Friday. I was so happy. I like being the pastor of a nice little church.

The point is, my weird brain NEVER MADE THE CONNECTION. I like the idea of a Good Friday service and was very engrossed in preparing for it. I also like the idea of letting these good people decorate the church the Friday before their wedding. I like these ideas so much that my brain treats them as wholly separate subjects, each possessing goodness and neither encroaching on the other. The fact that these completely incompatible events were now scheduled for the same time and place didn't seem to register in my brain. It was not important enough to draw my attention.

On Friday, Michael Main was mowing the grass at the church when the wedding party arrived, opened the door with a key, and began decorating. Michael immediately saw the conflict and told them there must be some mistake.

"You can't decorate the church, because we strip it bare for the Good Friday service this evening."

The family was confused, of course. After all, the pastor himself gave the okay. Now a guy pushing a lawnmower was saying that the pastor was wrong. They were understandably doubtful and bewildered. This was something of a crisis for them, as you can imagine.

Michael called me. I panicked and felt like an idiot. I drove out to the church and apologized all over myself. Luckily the family was very nice, and they didn’t mind decorating early Saturday morning instead. So it wasn’t absolutely terrible or anything.

Michael told the story to a couple of our friends at church, so by Sunday word had gotten around. Just another goofy Gordon story for the Covenant archives. Just another day in the life of a church that, for some reason, still lets me be in charge of the calendar.

Just between you and me, I think they’re enjoying this.

rlp