Christmas in the Village

Well, Christmas is over, and a new year is headed in our general direction.

This year the folks in the Village had a bit of a hard time planning their Christmas celebration.  Many voices called for a singalong around a giant Christmas tree, with toys, and food, and ...

"And a big, green, hairy curmudgeon staring down from a clifftop mumbling in rhyme about how much he hates Christmas?" one voice demanded.  Many others quickly agreed.  "Too Dr. Seuss-y," they cried.  In the end, though, the singalong was canceled, not entirely because of these objections, but also because no one could agree on the lyrics to this song:



The top contenders were "Baboon chorus,"  "Cancun florist," and "Rangoon forest."  Have you ever noticed that no matter how you spell baboon, it never - and I mean never! - looks right?

One group called for pageantry and Santa Claus and eggnog.  In response, one group played Weezer ...



For a bunch of people who live in a head, you'd think they could be more imaginative.  How about relaxing on comfy lawn furniture scattered around the rim of a black hole, and sipping mimosas while watching the universe pour through the event horizon?  Do I have to come up with everything????

A safari?  They'd probably immediately start thinking about Africa.  Elephants.  Guns or cameras.  Nothing wrong with that, just a whole lot that isn't quite right.  Not for residents of a psycho-village.  I'm thinking about a safari to the bottom of an alien ocean.  Or even a terrestrial one.  Trophies?  Pictures?  Bah!  Humbug!  Every bizarre creature you see, you become, for as long as you like, swim-flying freely about in the depths.  Or rocketing upward to burst through the waves into the air for a magical moment before falling back again.

Visions of sugar plums ... really?  How about stockings from whose open tops burst waterfall sprays of flowers in unnameable colors, that taste like lime, coconut, chili and chocolate, in ever-evolving combinations?

A jolly old elf in a sleigh pulled by tiny, magical, flying reindeer?  Pffft!  What about ... ... ... ... actually, you know, that's pretty good just like it is.  Santa's in.  But maybe the reindeer need to spark trails of technicolor flame from their little hooves as they gallop through the sky.

Well, it's a good thing I stepped in, because after all their planning and arguing and head-scratching (theirs, thankfully, not the inside of mine) they were all just settling down for a long winter's snore-fest.  To be followed by a 100-accordion salute to Christmas polka tunes.



Instead, I leave you, my dear readers, with this lovely parting tune from those sweet ladies of Shonen Knife:

Garrison Keillor I ain't ...

Once again my fan has contacted me, mourning my negligent lack of output around here.  So, before the Village residents sponsor a polka tournament in my head, I thought I should drop a few thoughts.

First, I'm sure everyone has seen those license-plate holders that say, "My other car is ... "

I think the first ones said " ... a Cadillac."  Of course, no one who actually owned a Cadillac ever displayed such a saying.  However, I used to work for some guys who made a bit of money in the oil business, and one of them owned a Rolls.  His company car was a Cadillac.  So, for his birthday, his partners mounted the classic "My other car is a Cadillac" license-plate holder on his Rolls.

Over the years, of course, variations have appeared - "My other car is worse than this one,"  and "My other car is an F-16,"  for instance.

This morning I saw one that said, "My other pancreas is battery-powered."  Yeah.  I don't know what the hell to do with that.  No idea at all.  "My other pancreas is battery-powered."

No segue possible.  Take a look at this YouTube video of the sun:



Am I the only one who has the creepy feeling that I'm trapped in a sort of alternate reality where Tim Burton hosts A Prairie Home Companion?


And finally, to close our show today, here's a little Christmas wish from the jolly little elves of Apocalyptica:




Please tune in next time ... whenever that is ... when our guests will be ... whoever they are ...

We now return control of your web browser.

Wry Grass --OR-- a Little Rye Humor

You may have seen the commercials for Scotts EZ Seed Winter Lawn Mix.  It's advertised as a regional winter grass, fertilizer and seed-protecting mulch all in one.

I rarely plant a winter lawn; it's really nice to have a break from mowing and so on.  Of course, this past summer, Pam handled a lot of the mowing, so I guess I don't have much to complain about.  So, since we are having a lot of company around the resort this winter, Pam was easily able to convince me that we should plant a winter lawn.

I went online and printed out the $10.00 off coupon, and then headed to Homey D's place to see if Scotts valued their EZ Seed as highly as I feared they would.  Yeah - pretty much.  $90.00 for a bag that would cover about 2/3 of our small lawn.  So, $180.00 minus the $10.00 coupon, leaves $170.00 for 600 square feet of green to mow and weed-eat.  There was a guy there, either from Scotts or Home Depot marketing, who was trying to convince folks that EZ Seed is the best thing since Tom Sawyer's picket fence.  Tom was much better at his craft.  I bought all the seed I needed, and all the mulch I needed to cover it, for $35.00.  I already had enough Milorganite, my choice of lawn fertilizers, to do the job.

Milorganite is not only a great fertilizer, using it helps the good folks of Milwaukee dispose of their sewage in a constructive manner.  And give the city credit - years ago, when I was in the nursery business, Milorganite bags bore a stern warning against using them on food crops, due to the presence of the heavy metal, cadmium.  Not to be confused with the company that makes those disgusting candy eggs at Easter time, although they appeal to me just about as much as eating sewer sludge, with or without heavy metals.  But I don't eat either one, and Milorganite no longer carries that warning, presumably due to successful clean-up efforts.

Now, I admit that, with the grass seed, the mulch, and the fabled Milorganite, I had to open 6 bags instead of two.  I had to mix the seed and fertilizer by hand, and spread the mulch afterward.  On the other hand, I'm not overly worried about the ingredients in any of those bags, which I can't say as easily about the Scotts product.  Organic vs. chemically-manufactured fertilizer aside, what in the world do you suppose goes into the crap that swells up when it gets wet, so that it covers the seed?

In the final analysis, I'm happy to spend 1/3 as much for twice as many bags and a little extra work.  OK, if I had to buy the Milorganite, it would have pushed the price up another almost-30-dollars.  Still well short of the alternative.

So, here I sit, enjoying the fresh smell of composted mulch, typing this little rambling rattle, waiting for the grass to grow.  I must admit, the saying "as exciting as watching grass grow" has suddenly taken on a remarkable reality of meaning for me.

Have They No Shepherd?

Pam and I were driving home from San Diego a while back, and as we passed through El Centro, I pointed some sheep in a field on the south side of the Interstate.

"Oh, have they no shepherd?" she asked.

Without even thinking, I replied, "They don't need a shepherd, they have fences."

It was one of those times when God spoke through both of us, and we didn't even know it until we heard ourselves talking.  I can picture God sitting on his throne, saying to the angles and elders and living creatures, "Wait for it ... waaaaiiit foorrrr iiiitt ..."

And in a few seconds it hit both of us.  It's really easier for the sheep and for the shepherd if the flock is confined behind fences.  That's why industrial church relies so heavily on directing by teaching/preaching and so little on leading by example.  It's why the flock is so content to live far from the fullness of God's goodness and freedom, for fear of doing something sinful.

And it's a lot more, too.  Yet another chapter for the book ...

Dealing with a signage infection

OK, I've been pretty harsh about some church signs, and maybe someone is wondering if I have anything constructive to say, and not just criticisms.  In other words, I've talked a lot about what church signs shouldn't say, but can I give suggestions for what they should say?

Maybe.

First, I have to say that church signs are a lot like church meetings - it takes a pretty good one to be better than none at all.  Fortunately, many churches do have pretty good meetings.  So, make the sign look like your meetings.  Because that's what people will think anyway - what you say on your sign is what you say in your meetings.  Like making fun of people you supposedly are trying to love in a godly way.  Making jokes about them going to hell, which you claim is so terrible you don't want anyone to end up there.  Maybe even make your sign look like you wish your meetings looked.

How about putting the name of a serviceman/woman on the sign thus, "We're praying today for PFC John Doe, in Afghanistan.  Come home safely, John."

Naturally, you'll have to actually have someone at the building praying for that person.  If you're really committed to doing good things, change the name every day and make sure that someone in the church building carries through with the promise.  Every day.

Maybe even something like this, "Come on in and join us - we're praying for PFC John Doe, in Afghanistan."

Lost child in the news? "Come on in and join us - we're praying for Amber Doe."

You could set a time frame, though it would be really cool not to have to.  "Come on in and join us - we're praying for Amber Doe.  9:00-11:00 A.M."

Naturally, this approach requires that someone change the sign frequently.  Every day would not be too often.  Someone would have to do some research to know who to pray for, and how.  Someone would have to be available at the church building to actually be in prayer, and to make others welcome should they choose to join in.  Someone would have to do some real work battling the enemy, instead of firing random mortar rounds into the enemy's already-conquered territory.  Because we aren't fighting the people who read those signs - we're fighting the spiritual lord who has taken them as a conquest.  And if he laughs at our jokes, it's only because they help his cause.

Well, that's one constructive suggestion.  Mark that off my list of things to do ...

The Inside Gospel

Well, the church changed their sign again.  Eastbound traffic sees:

Try Jesus.  If you don't like him, the devil will always take you back.

Westbound traffic sees the schedule of services.  Perhaps someone expects that upon reading eastbound, passers-by will be grasped by the implacable claws of conviction.  And so, by the time they pass the sign again, in the other direction, they will want to know when they can gather into the loving arms of this  fellowship.  Or maybe there is nothing intentional about this arrangement.

Either way, I saw no extra cars in the nearly-empty parking lot.  No throngs of lost souls on their knees before the great sign, pouring out their heart-wrenched pleas for just one more chance to try Jesus.  No vows of lifelong loyalty no matter how badly the devil may want them back.

No, it was just another day of the week.  Lines of cars sped past, apparently leaving behind an untried Jesus.  Barreling into the welcoming clutches of a waiting and willing devil.

And why should anyone "try Jesus?"  That sign is not about bringing people into the church.  It has nothing to do with offering Living Water to thirsty souls.  It's not even a real attempt to convince someone to "try Jesus."  It's nothing more than an inside joke that makes church "insiders" laugh at the expense of church "outsiders."  It's just another barely-humorous and marginally-creative attempt to look hip, current, witty, and "evangelical."  But the only people who get the joke are the ones who already have given Jesus a try.  Only those whose hearts are adamant against the devil's clutching desires can see the remarkable wit in the sign's admonition.

And so it is with a lot of the crap that we try to pass off as "the Gospel."  Bad inside jokes, and phrases that are only catchy if you've already caught the disease they're passing.  "Pray this prayer" and you'll be "saved."  Tell me when you prayed the prayer, so I can know how long you've "been saved."  Pray the prayer here, in this place, so that when you're "saved," we can claim you as one of "ours."  Now, go tell everyone else to pray the prayer so they can be "saved," too.  And be sure to bring them here, so we can make them "ours," too.

And when they're "saved," they'll look, think, and act just like all of us, because we're what "saved," people look like!  In fact, that's how we know when someone really means the prayer - being "saved" makes them just like us!

You know, the ones who think, "Try Jesus. If you don't like him, the devil will always take you back," is funny, creative, and evangelical.

God forgive his Bride for reducing her wedding invitation, written in God's own blood on shredded flesh, to the words, "Try Jesus" in moveable letters stuck on a lighted sign.  For exchanging God's richest feast for a pitiful bit of tasteless bread and a tiny sip of reconstituted grape juice.  For worshiping our theologies instead of falling helplessly on our faces in the life-threatening presence of Theos and Logos.

Half Truth - Maybe?

As you know, if you've read my unfaithfully-maintained rattlingz for any length of time, I pass by several churches on my drive to work.  Churches with prolost (my coinage for opposite of profound) sayings on their signs.  This morning another such pithless phrase appeared:

Church - it isn't just somewhere you go, it's something you do.

Half right, I guess, depending on your point of view.  First, let's assume that the signmaker intended to use Merriam/Webster's (online) 3rd definition of church - the one that talks about a body of believers.  In that case, "church" is not somewhere you go.  But neither is it something you do.  It's someone you are.  Church as something to do is church that, instead of meeting, gathering, or getting together, has meetings, gatherings, and get-togethers.  That subtle shift in semantics makes a world of difference in practice.  Meeting, gathering, getting together, and so on, are things that happen among the flock as we move along the path the Good Shepherd chooses.  "Having" a meeting or a gathering or a get-together is something that happens because a human shepherd says it must.

If we take Merriam/Webster's 1st definition of church, it is just somewhere we go - it's a building.  2nd definition is an organizational hierarchy.  Dictionaries don't arbitrarily choose the order of definitions - they are listed that way because of frequency of use.  A building's hard, confining walls, and the governmental hierarchies that echo those confinements, all spawn a church of going and doing.  Taking church outside the building does not guarantee freedom from "the box."  Because the top-down, one-man-has-it-all, executive-senior-pastor model simply makes the walls invisible.  It does not tear them down.

What is needed is true plurality of leadership - leadership that meets to encourage each other.  Leadership that is simply a matter of following the lead of the Good Shepherd, whether you find it in his words, his face, or the sight of the butt of the sheep in front of you who is also following the Shepherd.  This is the gist of Hebrews 10's admonition to not abandon gathering together - gather together to be encouragers of each other.  With whatever gifts we may have.  It is not a matter of one or even a few leaders encouraging the poor sheep who can't do anything for themselves.  In fact, the encouragement to continue gathering is right in the whole Hebrews salad (10:19-25 - lots of "let us" - nyuk, nyuk).  Not, "let a preacher tell you how to ...," but "let us" draw close to God, and so on.

Our gatherings reflect who we are.  Do they show us as people who "go to church," people who "do church," or a people who "are church?"  If we "go" or "do," we remain discreet individuals, able to choose where, when, and how we exist as part of the Flock, the Body, the Bride, of Christ.  We choose what degree of joinder or separation is comfortable for us.  If we "are," then those issues of joining and separating are moot.  Sheep are not sheep because they join the flock.  Sheep are sheep because they are born that way.  The flock is a natural extension of their "sheep-ness."

I'm struck to the heart by this view of Amos 5:21-24  from The Message:

I can't stand your religious meetings. I'm fed up with your conferences and conventions. I want nothing to do with your religion projects, your pretentious slogans and goals. I'm sick of your fund-raising schemes, your public relations and image making. I've had all I can take of your noisy ego-music. When was the last time you sang to me? Do you know what I want? I want justice—oceans of it. I want fairness—rivers of it. That's what I want. That's all I want.

Ouch.

Have we misplaced our metaphors?

When I began smoking cigars, I became part of an online forum for cigar enthusiasts.  I joined largely so I could ask questions and learn more about my new hobby.  It didn't take long to discover that the forum wasn't really about cigars.  Cigars are more of a metaphor around which a virtual community has sprouted.  It's a community where everyone's contribution is valued, but no one's value is in any way measured according to their contribution.

Think about that for a moment.  Pretend you're a welcome part of a community that values your gifts to that community - whatever they may be.  Just imagine that your value to the community is not based on the perceived value of your gifts, but on your having a relationship to the metaphor that draws the community together.  Think how it would be if some measure of "quality" or "quantity" of that relationship were not a benchmark for your worth in the community.

In the cigar forum I mentioned, I am among the newest and least frequent smokers, and I possess one of the smallest stashes of smokes.  I do have an amazing humidor, but I wouldn't have that without the forum.  In spite of the fact that I am at the low end of devotion to the metaphor, in terms of measurable, physical "stuff," even the elders of the tribe enjoy my conversation.  I haven't randomly dropped a bunch of cigars in anyone's mailbox, but I'm made as welcome in any discussion as members who seem to send out daily "bombs."

There are leaders - moderators - who have control over many of the "facilities."  They can create new forums, move posts, close topics, suspend memberships, etc.  But their cigar reviews are taken no more seriously (or lightly) than my own.

Hopefully you don't have to pretend that you belong to such a community.  If you're really fortunate, the church you call home functions like that.  But, sadly, that kind of "community of believers" is all-too-rare.  Churches tend to value people according to what they bring to the table, rather than appreciating the gift, while valuing the giver only as a follower of Jesus.  Followers of Jesus are valued - or evaluated - according to how well their footsteps fall into the community's definition of a pathway that leads to him.

In the online world, a cigar is a good metaphor to meet around.  It's not the only one, but, based upon my experience, it's a really good one.  What do our churches gather around?  Meetings, for one thing.  "Gathering together" is an excuse to have a meeting, instead of a response to missing each other's presence.  Meetings exist to accomplish purposes of worship, mission, teaching, donation, organizational maintenance, etc.  These are the metaphors arround which we often try to build communities of faith.  Jesus is only rarely the metaphor for our gatherings.

Wait just a minute!!!!! Jesus isn't a metaphor - Jesus is God!  How can I even suggest that it's a good idea to meet around a metaphorical Christ?  Let's go back to the cigar metaphor.  Most of us on the forums will never smoke an actual, physical cigar together.  So, the cigar is a bonding metaphor that joins us into a community that believes in serving others.  A tribe that teaches the joy of giving a gift and the humility of receiving one.  But, that doesn't change for those members who gather together and burn actual cigars in a single place.  So, even the reality of a cigar serves as a metaphor.

This is a weak reflection of the God/Jesus/Spirit role as the spark that fires our gatherings, but it does help illustrate a problem in churches today.  Many churches gather around only a metaphor of the Divine, using him as a point of contact where people can be encouraged (or driven) to serve, give, worship, etc.  Other churches refuse to see any value in this metaphor, and meet only to encounter the Divine.  For them a, cigar is just a cigar.  Either extreme is terribly unbalanced.

True church community can grow to full strength only when the metaphoric and literal Godhead share a place of honor.  Which comes first?  The reality or the metaphor?  There were cigars before there was a forum for cigar enthusiasts.  But before the forum there were cigar enthusiasts looking for a place to learn to be - and to help others become - better people.  I don't think it matters which comes first.  For some it will be the metaphor of God; for others the reality; and for some - both at once.  Just another pointless argument if we try to pursue it very far.

I hope you live in such a spiritual community.  I hope you live in other communities that function this way as well.  I hope that whatever community you find yourself in, you can find, demonstrate, and enjoy both the real and the metaphorical wellspring of your tribe.

There are leaders in the church - pastors, elders, deacons, teachers, etc. - whose goal is to care for the sheep.  To guard them from wild beasts, to steer them safely to pasture and back home again.  To live in tune with the Great Shepherd so that they can see and immediately follow his verbal and manual commands.  To watch over the flock without need, hope, or desire for anything more than basic rewards of food,  shelter, and some companionship with the Shepherd.  They take no ownership interest in the sheep, nor do they kill and eat them.  They are like sheepdogs, helping the Great Shepherd take care of the flock.  They help guide and protect the sheep.  Their work is their reward - it is the nature of sheepdogs to love herding-duties.

And then there are pastors, elders, deacons, teachers, and so on, who make the flock their own, and usurp the authority of the Great Shepherd.  These leaders, who should be sheepdogs, want to be shepherds and sheep-ranchers and livestock-owners in their own right.  And they surround themselves with lapdogs who pant after their every word.  Little dogs who live only to chase a bouncing ball, to eat mutton-flavored treats from their human master's hand, and to cuddle up with master and make him feel wanted, powerful, and important.  They are blindly obedient to the human who trained them.

Look out, folks - I have a feeling God is separating the sheepdogs from the lapdogs.

How I gave up smoking and why I took it up again

I gave up smoking the summer between first and second grades. One of the neighbor kids pilfered a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches from her parents' stash and several of us gave them a try. It took a few attempts to overcome the challenge of lighting a paper match. None of us had ever actually done it, but we had all seen our parents and other adults applying the head of the match to the scratchy part of the cover. So, eventually we got the hang of it, and went to work applying our newly-created flames to the ends of a few cigarettes. Naturally it took a few matches to actually get the little white cylinders burning.

I drew a tentative breath through my specimen. It tasted awful. Thinking maybe quality and quantity were directly proportionate, I inhaled for all I was worth. If I had known the names of my internal organs, I would have tried to identify each of them as I coughed them past my lips. I decided on the spot that the only thing worse than secondhand cigarette smoke was firsthand cigarette smoke.

Fast forward forty-plus years. I still hate the sharp, ugly smell of fresh cigarette smoke, almost as much as I detest the musty staleness of leftover cigarette smoke. I have no desire to ever try another one. But something about cigar-smoking has caught my attention. It seems like such a civilized way to spend some relaxing time. After much research, I decide to take the plunge ...

It's late spring and I'm sitting on my patio under the lacy overhang of a shady green tree. A glass of wonderfully-red-colored Cabernet Sauvignon sparkles on the table. My beautiful wife of thirty-one years sits across from me. The splashing of the waterfall in the koi pond sets the peaceful mood perfectly. A breeze stirs the air, rustles the leaves, sets flowers dancing all around the yard. It also blows out the match with which I'm trying to light my Macanudo Hampton Court. I break out the butane lighter. Not one made for cigars, but a butane lighter nonetheless.

I have already cut the head of the cigar. Holding it head-up on a cutting board, I just barely allowed the edge of a sharp knife to touch the cap as I rotated the cigar. The result was a clean cut, and I am proud of myself.

Now I hold the cigar to the lighter's flame, closer than I should, but I have to get the cigar lit. I take a few quick puffs, trying successfully to avoid any taste of the first, overheated smoke. For the better part of the next hour I puff my cigar, sip my wine, visit with my wife, and enjoy my lovely, peaceful retreat of a yard. At one point a swallow of wine and a breath of smoke combine in my mouth in a synergistic way that elevates both flavors to a place neither could reach on its own. My wife enjoys the occasional light whiff of cigar smoke she gets while sitting upwind of my position.

And I realize that I have found something of immense value. This cigar, although it delivered far too little flavor to suit me, brought the pace of my overly-busy life to a much-needed crawl. Perhaps I'm rationalizing, but it seems that the health risks of one or two cigars a week may largely be overcome by the benefits of relaxing and unwinding for the length of time it takes to smoke them. At any rate, for me, the mental, emotional, and spiritual benefits are worth the officially-undetermined risks of occasional cigar-puffing.

Later cigars I cut with a tool made for that purpose. They delivered a stronger flavor, more to my liking. I bought them at a better price, after doing more shopping and research. But, no matter their flavor or price-level, and regardless of the equipment used to enjoy them, the greatest joy they bring is in the need to slow down and enjoy them. Future cigars will catch fire in the flame of my new cigar lighter.  They may emerge proudly from my own humidor, perhaps even one I have made with my own hands. And they, like their predecessors, will slow down every minute spent smoking them.

That is why I took up smoking again, after these many years - a cigar, for me, is a "life-timer" that forces me to slow way, way down, and teaches me to enjoy a snail's pace.

Can you hear Me now?

MONROE, Ohio - A six-story statue of Jesus Christ was struck by lightning and burned to the ground, leaving only a blackened steel skeleton and pieces of foam that were scooped up by curious onlookers Tuesday.

Maybe God's getting tired of our private versions of Jesus ...

What is Church?

A question that my new long-distance friend, Mike Bishop, asks on the cover of his book.

"Surely there is more to church than putting on a good Sunday service," he muses.  And he discovers that "Finding your purpose does not mean you identify your place in someone else's dream."   But, because American church is largely (and increasingly) built on a business model, with the whole corporation taking on the personality of the CEO, there are more and more people "... who love jesus but are dying in the church."  (All quotes from pages 14 and 15)

If you have ever felt like a cog in someone else's wheel; like you've been trained to do stupid sheep tricks; like there must be more to church than you're experiencing - this book is a great place to start the search for deeper meaning.  It's the story of a man who is walking that road, discovering along the way the richness of asking fresh questions about church leadership, structure, meetings, and traditions.

You can get the book on Amazon, and I could put up a link and get a split of the income off any copies you buy there.  But I'd really rather you go to Mike's web site and poke around a little bit, and then buy the book from him.   http://www.whatischurch.com

The picture of unconventional wisdom

10/26/09 - I blogged about conventional wisdom.  How conventional wisdom would advise me to cut down the last remaining dead flower stalk sticking up from an aloe in my yard.  But, I decided to leave it because dragonflies found it quite attractive.

4/17/10 - I blogged about deliberately leaving a dead flower stalk in the same place, hoping that a dragonfly would rest there, and sure enough, one did.

Today - just in case you don't believe me, here are a couple of pictures taken May 21st.  Full-size versions await your click on these thumbnails...

The Flute Player

Wow - it's been a long time since I blogged!  Well, here's something, anyway...

The song scattered on the breeze, each note sailing aloft on invisible wings, alighting and reassembling so that each listener heard something a little bit different, something unique to their ear. Without a word, the simple wooden flute and battered old guitar wove a captivating story ...

Pretty girls in white dresses danced in the moonlight, their ruffly skirts swirling and swishing to the music. A few guitars sang, the pretty girls danced, the moon and stars shone all through the night. It seemed as though the air could not possibly hold anything more, as though the sights and sounds must have filled it to overflowing. But, no, the night wind swept up and down every street, in and out of every open door and window, dropping its gentle burden of sweetness. Out on the desert, las reínas de la noche chose this June night to unfold their matchless blossoms. The pretty girls twirled to the music, and their white dresses looked like flowers; the cacti opened their petals to the moonlight, and their flowers looked like white dresses.

The flute player knew that some people cannot smell the queen of the night's perfume. This made him sad; it must be like a deaf man watching an orchestra play an unmatched performance. Some of his sorrow slipped into the notes of his song, and his friend's guitar echoed their grief. But sorrow is only the dormant season when life's trees gather their energy to break out in new leaves, branches, and delicious fruits. And so it was with the song ...

Joy trembled through its branches and new life leapt forth. The pretty girls, now clothed in red and yellow and orange, danced their beautiful patterns around red and yellow and orange leaping and swaying fires. The music itself caught flame, and now the story was of a thousand guitars singing burning harmonies into a blazing July night. In the distance the mountain-jagged horizon flickered with lightning, and dull rumbles of thunder joined the concert. A summer monsoon swept across the thirsty desert, a song of rain and a new season. Now the lightning danced all around in angular leaps and skips contrasting to the pretty girls' swaying and swirling. Thunder clapped a new drumbeat while the wind swished and swept sheets of watery life over the waiting crowd. And there came on the wind a new expression of an ancient fragrance - the freshness of thousands of square miles of soaked creosote bushes.

The flute and the guitar felt the change, joined it, expounded its new theme ...

God was lightning, dancing in his world, among his children. His hand-claps and footsteps rolled a thundering new rhythm that ruled the dance. The wind and the unforgettable fragrance it bore, were nothing more, and not a bit less, than the swishing of his heavenly robes spreading the perfume of his royal and sacred garments.

And again the player was saddened. He knew that though there were many who knew a lot of facts about wind and rain and thunder and lightning, not many understood that God danced upon storms. And though there were many who knew a lot of words about God, not many believed that from time to time he danced into his creation. Not many who heard musical stories too grand for mere words. Not many who could smell las reínas de la noche on their single night of bloom, nor many who recognized the fragrance of God's robes when the wind blew full of the incense of wet greasewood ...

But the song refused to turn solemn. This was not a time for mourning, but for dancing. The greatest Dancer of all was himself leading the festivities. The pretty girls spun and soared as never before. Countless guitars sang out in melodies and harmonies and rhythms never before found by fingers on strings. The scents of flowers and rain and life filled lungs with a richness and health that felt more satisfying than oxygen.

Tears streaked freely down the player's face, and in some dimension they shone different colors - gray for sadness, purple and blue and green for joy, red and yellow and orange for passionate longing to join the dance, to hear the numberless guitars in chorus, to weave among the pretty girls, to drink the potent añero mescal, to inhale the incense of las reínas del la noche and greasewood. Was this, then, his vision of heaven?

"No," he smiled, a gentleness that flowed into the now-ebbing strains of wordless song. This song was not of heaven, it was of earth. It was as earthy as a song could be, for it was the song of an earth the way its Creator intended it to be. A song of the cosmos celebrating every footstep of her dancing King when he pays a visit. The player set his flute down. He would never touch it again, for he built it specifically to play the one song he heard in his heart. Now, that song, and the sounds of his flute, suggested new melodies and rhythms and harmonies and daring turns and leaps and spins. He would build a new flute to play this new song, and when that was done, he would lay it aside for another, and another, and another, until one day his work of building flutes and shaping music would be done. In that day, and forever after, he would always say that in his life he built only one flute, and played only one song. That each instrument he fashioned and every song he played were only single steps toward the creation of the next.

Pianos and violins and songs, oh, my...

In The Supper of the Lamb, Francis Farrar Capon tells of a musician who gave up playing the piano because so many of the notes he wanted to play lay "between" the piano keys, and therefore weren't accessible to him.  So he gave up the piano and took up the violin, which has no such restrictions, and then he was able to play all the notes he heard in his head, and was happy.

I think we tend to hear God's songs over us as though he were tuned to a piano, when in reality he is more like a violin, only ever-so-much-more-so.

Western European music theory breaks an octave into 12 tones, with equal spaces (intervals) between each tone. A "key" is defined by 7 of those notes creating a scale with a particular pattern of intervals. Musical traditions - folk and academic - around the world break the octave into more or fewer divisions, but not by any great margin. Over the years some musicians have developed experimental scales that include some of those "in-between" notes, like this example:

F, F-plus, F-plus-plus, F-sharp-minus-minus, F-sharp-minus, F-sharp.

This adds four named tones between the smallest traditional division in Western theory. But even these tiny divisions leave out a potentially infinite number of variations, most of which would be too small for human hearing to differentiate.

When God sings to us, we apply whatever system of theory we are familiar with to try and make out the harmonies. And most of the time, I think God sings to us in our own musical languages, so that we can, in fact, catch the musicality. But sometimes he just sings out a passage in full heavenly harmony, using combinations of divisions and variations that we have never heard, including many we can't hear at all - and to us it just sounds like noise. We can't figure out the chord structure. We can't discern the scale. Heck, we can't even hear the differences between many of the notes. And that doesn't even consider the pitches lying completely outside the range of human hearing.

But, we insist upon making our best attempt to fit God's symphony into our 12-note theory. In order to do so, we pick out the intervals that we can recognize as chords, and give them familiar names. The other tones we analyze as "added notes" or "incidental noises" or even "poorly-tuned instruments" and "mistakes."

Oh, yes, the complexity of God's little, whistled tunes blasts the inner workings of our analytical tools to smithereens. Unfortunately, we don't always know it.

Of course, I'm not talking about literal, audible music.  I'm really talking about how we see, hear, and experience God's revelation of himself in all the many ways he uses to do so.  We dismiss as distractions and mistakes anything that doesn't fit into the scheme of analytical theory we apply.  But those very tones may be the most critical to the beauty of God's harmony.  We need to work harder at learning more about his theory of music, than we labor at fitting his compositions into our societal, educational, denominational, human-derived systems of analysis.

Newsboys vs. the daily news...

I love the Newsboys. I mean, how can you not love a band that recognizes that God is not only "Fearsome like the sag in a fat man's chair; Sweeter than a patch of Rogaine hair," but also is "Tender as a burger in your microwave; Rarer than the air in an empty grave." And therefore declares, "I'm not following a God I can lead around..." (Who? written by Peter Furler & Steve Taylor, © 2000, Soylent Tunes)

So, the last couple of days I've found myself singing their song, He Reigns, and this morning I pulled out the Adoration CD and played it on my way to work. It's a perfect example of how three chords, twenty-four letters (no q or x), eight notes, and two hearts yielded to God, can create a transcendant message:

Let it rise above the four winds
Caught up in the heavenly sound
Let praises echo from the towers of cathedrals
To the faithful gathered underground
Of all the songs sung from the dawn of creation
Some were meant to persist
Of all the bells rung from a thousand steeples
None rings truer than this

It's all God's children singing
Glory, glory, hallelujah, He reigns...
(Steve Taylor & Peter Furler © 2003 Ariose Music)

A lot of the songs on the CD remind me of my friend, Glen Roachelle, and what he writes on his blog - http://www.glenroachelle.blogspot.com/ - about our true citizenship, and how to look on the events around us.

From Adoration, telling the story of an onlooker at the manger in Bethlehem, and the baby who "takes my finger and he won't let go...Come, let us adore him; He has come down to this world we live in..." (Steve Taylor © 2003 Ariose Music)

To Lord (I Don't Know)  :
You are the author of knowledge
You can redeem what's been done
You hold the present and all that's to come
Until your everlasting kingdom

Lord, I don't know where all this is going
Or how it all works out
Lead me to peace that is past understanding
A peace beyond all doubt
(Steve Taylor & Peter Furler © 2002 Ariose Music)
_______________________________________________________

And  Father, Blessed Father  :
Father, blessed Father
Lead and guide us for Your name’s sake
And keep us in the shelter of Your presence
‘Til we see Your face

Let us hear what You say
Let us know Your voice and all of Your ways
Take our hands, lead us home
To the refuge that we find in You alone
(Peter Furler © 2003 Ariose Music)
________________________________________________

Ending with   Hallelujah   :
I'm looking up, holding out,
Pressing forward without a doubt;
Longing for the things unseen,
Longing for the things I believe -
My true country.

We hope and wait for the glorious day
All tears will vanish, wiped away;
On the saints this day already shines...
(Peter Furler © 2003 Ariose Music)
________________________________________

Unconventional wisdom rewarded

If you haven't read my earlier post about Conventional Wisdom (10/26/09), this one won't make much sense.

This morning I was trimming the spent flower stalks off the many aloes around the yard.  After our unusually rainy winter, there were a lot of them!  Of course, I left one - right in the middle of plain view.

Later, after lunch, I glanced out across the yard.  And there, on the very tip of the sole remaining dead aloe flower stalk, sat a lovely dragonfly.

Chalk one up to Unconventional Wisdom!

Resurrection Day

I hope all of you had a blessed celebration of Resurrection Sunday!

We celebrated with another couple, at our home.  We gathered outside in the beautiful Spring weather, and sat around the grill.  First we placed the leg of lamb over the fire, giving thanks for the sacrifice of the Lamb of God.  As the meat cooked, we relished the lovely, smoky fragrance.  We passed around a copy of The Life of Christ in Stereo, taking turns reading aloud about Jesus' trial, execution, and resurrection. NOTE - if you do not have a copy of this book, find one and read it. It is a remarkable synthesis of the Gospels.

As we read, we stopped occasionally to comment on things that God brought to our attention through what we heard.  We prayed when he led.  Over the course of the next hour-and-a-half, while the meat roasted, we added vegetables to the grill, each variety in its turn, so that all would finish cooking at the same time.  We also grilled flat circles of bread for our feast.

After finishing the powerful telling of Jesus' brilliant resurrection, we sang together until the food finished cooking.  After everything was set out on a table, we each took a round of bread and broke it, giving thanks for Jesus' broken body, symbolizing his death, and also returning thanks for the seeds of grain that died to spring up in new life.  We poured a glass of wine for each of us, contemplating the blood of his death, and the life that is in the blood.  And then we shared our feast, enjoying each other's company and celebrating Jesus through remembering his last supper, and looking forward to his promise that he will one day drink "...of the fruit of the vine ... that day when I drink it anew in the kingdom of God."

At the end of our meal, we finished our wine with a toast to Jesus.  Then we talked more about our God and where he is leading us, imagining where and how we might be celebrating a year from now.  We worshiped our amazing God again in more songs, singing of his majesty, and looking forward to the day when our joy will be complete in his presence.  We enjoyed a delicious dessert and talked more about God's working.  We watched water slosh suddenly out of the swimming pool, splashing clear across the deck, as the tremors of an earthquake (centered in Baja California) passed through the neighborhood.

More than six hours passed in less time than it takes to get through a "service" of singing two fast songs, two slow songs, taking an offering, and then listening to someone expound a great deal about very little.  And I feel tired and refreshed, just the way I should feel after a marvelous day spent with good friends and an awesome God.

Around the yard

Here are a few pictures from around the place:

Looking out the back door on a rainy day in March...

Daring to be different...                                              

A little music among the flowers...

A friend drops in for a snack...

Bougainvillea, coral, and rocks...

Aloes, the pond, and a stringer of fish???

When I built the pond, I never expected to have to mow the waterfall...

Lily pad with a ghostly reflection of a ship's bell...

In a word...

I love words.  I love to play games with them.  One of my favorite amusements is to see how one word can morph into another, and then compare the meanings.

Like denomination, which, with only a couple of alterations, becomes demonic nation.  What a fun study that is!

Or, consider how easily heaven becomes leaven, which, in the language of Scripture, is not a good thing at all.  Of course, the optimists among us can point out that leaven converts to heaven just as readily.

And then there's legion.  Easily transmuted to leg iron.  From there, it's a small step to leghorn.  And as anyone with a working knowledge of art and culture will remember, Foghorn is the most famous leghorn ever.  But, beware - foghorn is not too far removed from frog porn, and no one wants that!

Sometimes it's fun to compare denominations with demonic nations, or to issue warnings (or encouragements!) about how easily heaven and leaven can change places.  But it would be really stupid to accuse organizations using "legion" in their names of producing pornography.  Amphibian or any other variety.

Yet sometimes I think we go nearly that far afield in the way we attempt to "interpret" what we read in the Bible.  Because we see God's Word as a book, we believe that we can find His truth through literary exercise.  We play with the words, the phrases, the contexts, until we can finally make ourselves comfortable with what it says.

Of course, we wouldn't phrase it that way.  We would say we have arrived at the correct interpretation, or that we have heard the truth of a particular passage.  But along the way, how many times have we decided that the front half of a verse is literal, and the remainder poetic and symbolic?  How many words have we retranslated and redefined and rethought and reimagined and re..., re..., re... ... ... until we've re-everythinged the life out of them?

By what standard have we determined that some things are literal, others figurative; some are timeless, others locked to historical application; some are contextualized for this group, some for another, and others for everyone?  Unfortunately, the standard we often (maybe always!) apply is the one that leads us to the place where the Bible says exactly what we want it to - nothing more, and nothing less.

As long as we view the Bible as a book, no matter how great a book we think (or claim to believe) it is, we will always promote the use of human tools to excavate heavenly truth. We assert by our actions, if not by our doctrine, that the human intellect is not fallen with the rest of the human constitution. That we only need beware the sinful flesh, and the wayward heart. But not the mind. How do we come to believe this? Well, we find it in Scripture ... or, rather, we cajole the words of a book into agreement with this belief.

But the truth is not a book - Truth is Jesus. The Bible isn't full of words, it breathes with the Word - again, Jesus. If we look between its covers to find stuff about God, we fall short of Scripture's potential to allow us to see God. The book can be the medium of Jesus' manifestation, bringing him to life in us. Or it can be a fossil-record of his passing, to which we apply scientific tools in order to deduce what he must have looked like, how he may have acted, what he might have eaten and drunk.

God may be old,  but he ain't no fossil!

Bird-brained farmer

I don't care who you are - a sunflower just has to make you feel like the plant kingdom is smiling at you!

This one was planted by some careless bird at the feeder.

Apostolic Tinkertoys

Just when I thought it was safe to check my e-mail, I got another notice from Strang Media.  Another marvel of an opportunity.

It's called "Businistry Works."  Here's a sampler from their web site:

Let Us Help You Build Your Ministry.

Businistry Works is offering a great package to promote your ministry. It is an all around marketing package that will boost your ministry to new heights. Benefit now from this amazing special that currently runs for $2499.00 only.

I'm not sure I want a marketing firm that finds that last sentence not only acceptable, but desirable to advertise their services.  I definitely want a brave knight to ride in on his great horse and slay the literary chimera, Businistry.  I'm reminded of the Barney Miller episode in which a literature professor tore down an advertising sign that declared some breakfast cereal to be "the crun-crun-crunchiest!"

As to their promise of helping build a ministry, I don't necessarily object to the idea of a charitable outfit raising awareness for their cause through advertising and promotion.  But, it's way too easy to forget that business is not ministry is not business.  Ministry is a one-way transfer of what you need from what I have.  Business is a two-way transfer of as little of what I am forced to part with for as much as I can get of what I want from you.

A friend of a friend once warned, "When you try to build a ministry, you end up ministering to a building."  Doesn't mean that every ministry that should avoid the type of service offered by Businistry Works.  It just means that ministries need to be very careful about how much they adopt of business models and practices.  It's a slippery slope once we agree that we are building a ministry, and that we can buy someone's help to do it.

Be vewy, vewy quiet...

Or not!

If you're a cartoon fan, especially of the Mel-Blanc-voiced genre, check this out:

The Looney Tunes SoundSource

Down in the lower right-hand corner are pictures of the gang.  Click on one and watch the time go by...

I added the link to my list on the left.

Wildflowers and weeds

What I'm finding interesting is that there are some truths that I could not have heard when I was still locked up in industrial church.  Not even when I left the urban ghetto of denominationalism (or demonic nationalism, if you prefer).  And not even when I exited the suburbs and took up residence in the County.  I had to leave it all and hike into the wild.

It was there that I learned a great truth - sometimes the only difference between a weed and a wildflower is where you find it growing.  In an urban vacant lot, or a suburban yard, or the field of an outskirts-of-town hobby farm, that plant with the orange flowers is a "damned weed."  In the wild, it's a desert globe mallow.

So, I am discovering that teachings that could not possibly be true a few years ago are now making sense to me.  And teachings I used to cling to will not take root out here where Wild God prowls.  No doubt the soil of my heart will sprout a few weeds that are noxious wherever they may grow, and I will probably uproot a few flowers that I should have left alone.

But I trust that Wild Father will enlighten me in my gardening errors.  And right now it seems good to me to make these new errors while pursuing him, rather than repeating old errors from a safe hidey-hole.

This left me speechless ... luckily I can still come up with a sermon ...

This morning I got an e-mail from Strang media Group, advertising SaddlebackResources.com, where, they promise, one can "Find sermons written over the last 30 years to help feed your soul and ease your preparation."  In fact, "...the Saddleback teaching pastors will lend you the tools and encouragement to become more effective in your ministry and maybe save you a littel time."  Time that could, perhaps, be spent running spell-check to determine that "littel" is not a word.

But that really isn't my beef with this.  I dearly love to hear teaching that springs from 15 minutes spent in the unveiled presence of God.  And, any more, I can barely endure sermons developed during hours spent in books and online references.  In the past few days this comparison has been especially heavy on my heart.  And then I read this ad.

I am not against study.  I am not opposed to teaching that involves study.  But I am beyond sick of poisonous teachings that do not have their roots in a God-encounter.  But, can't we find God during study of a book?  Certainly we can, if we leave room for that encounter.  But we will almost certainly fall short of a God-meeting when it is our intention to pick up the books and come up with a message.  This is a short-circuit approach, intended to replace the perceived uncertainty of a God-encounter with the comfortable sureness of our study process.  We are even less likely to run in to God when we employ study tactics designed specifically to save a "littel" time.

If we hope to encounter God in our books, then we need to open them with that goal in mind, rather than aiming to simply prepare a message.  Maybe a teaching will come out of the God-encounter, or maybe he will simply say, "Time for you to be still."  Maybe God will plant a word in the good soil of someone else's heart, where it will spring up, flourish, and, given a voice by virtue of our silence, bear much fruit.  Or maybe he will just expect a congregation meeting to silently wait upon him.

And now, here's the kicker - the unintentional punch line to an unconscious joke that is simultaneously hilarious and painful - there is a link in the e-mail that allows you to download a message by Rick Warren, entitled Learning to Hear God's Voice.  That is either the most clueless or most ballsy juxtaposition of ideas I've seen in a very, very long time.  "Visit our site, where we'll sell you sermons to preach, including a powerful message on how to hear from God."  Maybe he should have called it No Time to Wait on the Lord? Let Us Tell You What He Said.  Or, Why Spend Only a Minute Telling Your Congregation That God Didn't Speak to you This Week, When, With Our Help, You Can Take 45 Minutes to Prove it?

Thanks for the offer, but I think I won't be buying any.

What else is in a name?

OK - I've given this name-thing a lot more thought.  Thanks, Ed, for the only response to my cry, my plea, my dying gasp for help.  Guess I know who my true friends are... er, friend is.  The good thing about not having many friends is that when my book comes out, I can lose half of them and still say I only lost a few friends over it. On the other hand, if I only lose a few friends, I'll have to face the fact that I lost half of my friendship base over the book...wait, it seems like I was talking about something else...

Oh, yeah - the name-thing.  I actually like Ed's idea about a fake middle initial - X.  It's kind of mysterious, and I don't think it bothers me at all to sound like "ex-something."  I was also thinking about Miguel de Obispo.  Or maybe Mick.  Yeah - I like Mick!  Naturally I won't use my middle initial, E.

Henceforth I shall be called Mick Bishop.  At least until I decide if the reality is as good as the expectation...

Mick

What's in a Name?

Have you ever Googled your own name?  I tried it today for the first time.  As I am embarking on a career as a writer, I thought it might be a good idea to find out whether someone else is already using my name.

As I expected, my search turned up an entry for Michael Bishop, a writer of science/speculative fiction.  I knew about him, but hoped he might be dead or inactive by now.  He is neither, which discourages me from using that particular name in my published efforts.

So, I ran "Mike Bishop."  And discovered this guy:

What is Church?

Mike Bishop, of Jupiter, Florida - organic-church enthusiast.  Author of What is Church?

So, the two main areas I would like to spend my time writing in are already populated by barbarians who have taken my name as their own.

I need a pseudonym.  Something like Oliver Boliver Butt.  Unfortunately, I suppose Dr. Seuss' estate still owns the copyright to that one.

I'm open for suggestions.

Logolatry?

A couple of days ago, Visual Thesaurus' word-of-the-day was anthropolatry - the worship of man.  Apparently you can add the suffix -latry to a Latin-based word and turn it into a word for worship of that thing.  Idolatry, for instance, is the one we probably know best.  Autolatry denotes worship of self.  Theolatry means worship of a deity.

Hmmmm... Could it be that any word that ends with -ology can be modified to end with -olatry?

Technolatry?  Laborolatry?  Stultolatry?  Worship of technology, work, and stupidity, respectively.  I'm kind of liking this power...

But it seems that the makers of dictionaries draw the line of propriety somewhere before arriving at the portals of these wonderful words.  But, hey - every word has to come from somewhere, which means that at some point, someone made it up, right?  And what evidence is there that any of those people were more entitled to invent words than I am?  I, for one, reject both predecessolatry and antecessolatry.

All of this makes me wonder whether I might be a logolator... no, wait, logos is Greek.  Can you mix Latin and Greek?  Is it OK to stuff grape leaves with paella?  No, I think I won't take that risk today.  I'm already cooking up enough new recipes (recipelatry?)  On the other hand, if -logy is a Greek suffix, and it's regularly added to Latin nouns, what would be the harm in working it the other way around?  I should be free to level accusations of toiletrylatry when I walk through a department store!

All of which just goes to reinforce the probability that I am guilty of loculatry, which could either be worship of words or worship of talking.

And then, of course, there's the ultimate extension of this whole ramble - latrolatry - worship of worship.  But that's a post for another day...

The War of Art

Many thanks to my new friend, Patrick, for recommending The War of Art, by Steven (or Stephen) Pressfield.

It's a lot like Shout to the Lord, in the sense that once you've heard its message, you're immediately glad that someone put it out there.  Then, an instant later, you wish you could have been that person.  Not because of the money, or the fame, or the opportunities associated with it.  Like Shout to the Lord, Pressfield's book comes from a very good place, and you would just give your left hind leg to be in such a place.

Then, after these wistful thoughts, you realize that singing Shout to the Lord, from your heart, can take you to the place from which it sprang.  And it is the same when you take The War of Art into your heart - you end up in such a better place.

For my Christian friends, be forewarned - Pressfield does not write from a Christian viewpoint.  But his understanding of the Divine is nonetheless staggering - perhaps even more so - for this reason.  If you believe that you are a creative soul who is not living to your potential, please read the book.  If you believe that you are not a creative soul, please read the book immediately, frequently, and devotedly until you learn the truth about yourself.

God shaped you from birth, or even before, to fit a particular role in this world.  If you are not fulfilling that role, you are not only shortchanging yourself.  And you are not "merely" defying God.  You are blatantly denying all of us the fullness of all that God wants to pour into this world.

And I am just selfish enough to tell you to get off your ass and get busy filling this world with God-stuff.

Sheep Trick

There is new rain in my life - songs and other revelations are flowing where few have appeared for several years.  In the midst of this rainfall, I keep hearing words about shepherds.  I think there must be a chapter or two in A Wild God (in the process of writing) about sheep and shepherds in the Wilds.

Here's a little bit of the downpour I drove through this morning on the way to work:

Domestic sheep, by and large, are the incarnation of boring.  They just aren't terribly interesting.  And that is very difficult for some shepherds to deal with.  It isn't enough that sheep eat grass, drink water, and then produce manure.  That they make funny noises and enjoy foolish activities like grazing and lying down in the grass.  No, we often think that sheep should line up, foreleg in foreleg, and high-kick like the Flockettes.  We want "our" sheep to march in intricate patterns, ride unicycles, juggle flaming knives, and bleat Celine Dion classics.

In short, many shepherds don't want happy sheep, or healthy sheep, or even normal sheep.  They want trick sheep.  And, to be fair, after investing four-or-more years in college (Bible or otherwise), at least another two years in seminary, and finally overcoming the rigorous inquisition of ordination proceedings, it just seems anticlimactic to walk around in the countryside, far from civilization, with no companions but a bunch of wooly critters.  And for those shepherds who have not walked the education/ordination path to pastordom, the example set before them in our church culture is still one of convincing "disobedient" sheep to perform on command.

But some shepherds catch a peculiar sound on the wind, an unexpected glimpse in the night sky, a certain taste in the water.  And, in whatever metaphoric fashion suits the way God has made them, they pick up a lyre and make music that opens for them the veil of protection.  They step - regularly, if only briefly - into the transcendent beauty of His Holiness.  And they write down songs about what they see there.

And then - and only then - they let the flock rest securely in green pastures.  They lead the sheep to still waters where they may drink deeply in safety.  They give the sheep places of honor, and guide them into sight of the Lord's house, the place behind the veil.  In other words, having seen the Great Shepherd, they mimic the ways he cares for all of his sheep.

And then the wise shepherds get out of the way, because, as much as God's sheep like resting in green pastures, they will do their level best to run over anyone who blocks their way when they can see God's dwelling place - their heartfelt home - ahead.

Pastoring is not about getting the sheep to do things - especially not circus tricks.  It's about keeping the sheep safe and healthy so that they can go about the business of being sheep.  Sheep don't need to be taught how to be sheep-ly;  they come by that naturally.  Their Heavenly Creator has put that in them twice-over - it's in their genes, and in the new life he recreates in them with their rebirth into his great flock.  It's only when we get tired of plain-old sheep, and start wishing for stunt-sheep, that we start teaching them new behaviors.

No, really, we can go inside...

A while back we were privileged to spend time with a group of wonderful friends that we have come to see as our Tribe.  The elders told stories of what the Almighty was saying to them.  One of the themes that struck home was how enamored the church has become with the scaffolding that surrounds the true building.

As God builds his spiritual temple, he sometimes employs support structures to facilitate the work.  Visual Thesaurus defines such a structure, a scaffold, as a temporary arrangement erected around a building for convenience of workers.  But when these structures are no longer required, God will move them off to the side.  But, for some reason, christians seem fascinated by the scaffolding.  We can't take our eyes off the platforms, even when the building is being revealed.  We insist on playing and working and living on the staging and catwalks, when we could open the door of the temple and step inside.

'Cause, you know, inside is where God keeps all the good stuff.

Really, we can go inside.

Really.

Inside!

When the shark bites...

Feb. 1, 2010 06:27 PM
Associated Press

WELLINGTON, New Zealand - A teenage New Zealand girl bitten by a shark bashed it over the head with her body board until it let her go...

You know that shark will never be able to show its face around the school again.  "Dude, you got your caudal peduncle kicked by a girl?  Looooooooo-zer!"

Hey! Wait a minute...or as long as it takes...

Young's Literal Translation of Isaiah 40:30 - 41:1 reads:

30 Even youths are wearied and fatigued, And young men utterly stumble,
31 But those expecting Jehovah pass [to] power, They raise up the pinion as eagles, They run and are not fatigued, They go on and do not faint!
1 Keep silent towards Me, O isles, And the peoples pass on [to] power, They come nigh, then they speak, `Together -- to judgment we draw near.'

I might state it this way:

The mightiest of men will lose strength and wear out, but if they will wait expectantly for the Lord, they will pass from weakness to power.  They will spread their wings to soar like eagles, they will run without tiring, and walk without weakening.  God calls out, "Be still and silent toward me in your weakness, you mass of humanity.  Be still and silent, and wait until you have passed from your hopeless weakness to the great strength I have promised.  And when you have gained that strength, spread your wings, stretch your legs - fly, run, walk into my presence and speak to me and hear my decrees."

Conventional wisdom says that when we are worn-out, we should just keep putting one foot in front of the other.  We should continue trudging along until eventually we arrive at our destination.  But, what if our destination is the presence of God?  What if our task is to speak with Him, and hear His answers?  If we are plodding along, have we not already succumbed to weakness and fatigue?  If we do reach an audience with God in that condition, will we have the strength to carry on a conversation?

When we feel that we are just barely stepping along in our spiritual walk, when all our effort is expended in just making the smallest amount of forward progress, maybe that is precisely when we should stop struggling.  Perhaps that's our signal to sit still, hush up, and wait expectantly for God's provision of strength.  How long do we wait?  Until the wind fills our wings and we lift into the sky.  Until the blood races in our veins and we can't sit still, but have to get our feet moving.  In other words, as long as it takes.

But, what about all the progress we aren't making while we sit?  What about all the cars that are passing us on the freeway while we languish in the roadside rest area?  I think Isaiah teaches us that if we wait expectantly for God's strength, we make greater progress by sitting still than we do by plodding ahead.

More True Romance

Last night we had a couple of friends over to talk about worship and music and such things.  We sang a couple of songs that I recently wrote, and talked a little bit about how they came to be.  I explained that lately I will start playing my guitar and gradually a song emerges, and then Pam suggests a Psalm to go with the flavor of the music.  Sometimes it will be the same Psalm I'm thinking of.

We're having more friends over today to talk about what God is doing in and around us.  At breakfast this morning, Pam told me what she intended to serve our friends for lunch.  I suggested she might add celery to the dish. Turns out she originally planned to do so, but had forgotten.

So, I told her, "You're the Psalm in my music and I'm the celery in your soup."

She replied, "That ranks right up there with washing your hands after a kiss."

So, I figured it was good enough for a Sunday-morning post.  Probably not a Saturday Evening Post, though...