How many times have we been to a church service where we heard words something like this:
"Open your Bibles to (insert reference here) and follow along as I read ... "
Reading the aforementioned passage might take as long as 3 minutes if the portion is long or the speaker particularly inclined to dramatic or editorial comments along the way. Then follows 30 minutes ... or 45 ... or 60 ... or ... ... ... of the application of (manmade) literary and theological "tools" designed to help "unlock" for us the secrets of the verses previously read.
Before I continue, let me just say that there is nothing wrong with this scenario, in and of itself. But, as the primary application of Scripture in community gatherings, it is sadly incomplete and inadequate to the task of unleashing the power of the Word.
The true power of the written Word of God is only "unlocked" by the key of speech - by speaking it aloud in the presence of others. Simply reading it here and there as a springboard into an explanation of its meaning is not enough. We have trained our church communities to expect that the "good stuff" comes after the reading.
But if we only knew how to look for it, how to savor it, how to wait upon Him to unleash it! Then we might find that the very power and manifestation of God will leap into our midst from the pages of a single open Bible read aloud with no further agenda than simply speaking the Word into our community.
Literary tools, rules of interpretation, laws of theological application - these are all tiny little doors into the treasure room. We can peek through and see some of the stuff. We can reach in with a single hand and grab some of it. We can pull some of it out, intact and beautiful. Some we simply cannot get through the small opening, no matter how hard we try. And much of it we can force through the tiny handhole, but not without breaking, crushing, and deforming it as a result.
But reading the Word aloud, with no intent other than to savor its richness - this can unlock the whole gigantic front door and let the treasures within spill out and overwhelm us. How rich it could be to speak a passage of Scripture into the congregation, to sing it in new songs, to simply relish its power to transform, to heal, to energize ...
There is no reason to stop teaching and expounding the Word as we do. But there is every reason to rethink making this procedure our primary application of Scripture in every gathering of the body.
When the Spirit of God was finished "brooding" in the darkness of the early moments of creation, he did not then write a scientific paper on the nature of photons. He instead spoke light into existence.
F. Kefa Sempangi, in his book A Distant Grief, tells of a young Ugandan child who witnessed the unspeakably brutal torture and murder of his parents in their own home. When he was found, this child refused (or was unable) to speak. One arm was locked into place, covering his face. He was taken to an orphanage and laid in a bed, where he remained silent, with his arm still covering his face. And then Mr. Sempangi read to him all through the night from the book of John. He employed no literary or theological tools of interpretation to explain to the child how he could obtain victory over the trials that beset him. He simply read the Word - spoke it into the atmosphere in the little room. And gradually the arm relaxed, the eyes closed in sleep. Not long after, when Kefa visited the orphanage again, he found the young boy playing soccer with his friends.
This irresistible power of the Word is all but lost upon today's Industrialized Church, for we have come to see it as something in need of explanation and illumination to us. We want someone to shed light upon the Scriptures. But, as John has already explained to us:
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning. Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made. In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. (John 1:1-5).
The Word is Light. The written word should be for us a manifestation of the Living Word, lest we fall into the same darkness in which the religious leaders of Jesus' time found themselves living. They had the greatest access to, and spent the most time studying, the Scriptures. And yet, it was they, the ones most familiar with the written word, who failed to recognize the Living Word when he walked and worked and taught among them.
How many times have we been to a church service where we heard more of the Word of God than of the words of a man trying to explain it?
Monday, November 21, 2011
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Knowing the Creator
I am convinced that there will come a time when we realize that art is as important as science to truly understanding the nature of the universe.
Likewise we will find that theology can reveal only just so much of the Creator of that universe. The rest is pure poetry and sculpture and painting and music and dance and ...
It's time to stop looking at our God as merely the Inventor of the heavens and the earth, and to see Him fully as the Creator. Because invention is only the technical side of creation. And theology is only the technical side of spirituality. Spiritual technology is a great and necessary component of our relationship with our God. But its mighty and lofty facts become almost lies when we accept them as the entirety of Truth.
Likewise we will find that theology can reveal only just so much of the Creator of that universe. The rest is pure poetry and sculpture and painting and music and dance and ...
It's time to stop looking at our God as merely the Inventor of the heavens and the earth, and to see Him fully as the Creator. Because invention is only the technical side of creation. And theology is only the technical side of spirituality. Spiritual technology is a great and necessary component of our relationship with our God. But its mighty and lofty facts become almost lies when we accept them as the entirety of Truth.
Monday, July 11, 2011
It Really Isn't Rocket Science ... Or is it?
http://rattlingz.blogspot.com/2009/10/conventional-wisdom.html
Conventional wisdom would have lost me several years of dragonfly enjoyment. It seems so simple to just leave a single, dead flower stalk in the yard, and watch the insect royalty turn it into a throne.
But this picture proves that it may really be rocket science:
![]()
http://www.nasa.gov/images/content/566827main_image_1992_946-710.jpg
Conventional wisdom would have lost me several years of dragonfly enjoyment. It seems so simple to just leave a single, dead flower stalk in the yard, and watch the insect royalty turn it into a throne.
But this picture proves that it may really be rocket science:
http://www.nasa.gov/images/content/566827main_image_1992_946-710.jpg
Friday, June 24, 2011
The Most Interesting Pastor in the World ...
Leonard Sweet wrote some years ago in his book, Soul Tsunami, that the Gospel is like water - it takes the shape of its container, but its nature remains unchanged. He argued that we should not be concerned about the shape of the container, but about the contents. That the way we "do church" should be, in effect, a container that is attractive and relevant to our culture, so that the contents, the unchanging water of the Gospel, can be more readily accessed by that culture. I don't disagree with this.
However, many so-called churches are more like soulless, Frankensteinian, manmade, zombie monsters rather than expressions of the Body and Bride of Christ. As containers of Gospel water, they are cracked and often bottomless. Whatever is poured in spills out on the ground and rarely reaches the parched mouths of the thirsting. Sometimes a few drops remain, just enough to give an empty promise of delicious, cool delights. But never enough to satisfy.
This is one reason that more and more sheep are finding ways to escape the fences of industrial church. They are unsatisfied with a few meager, warm, stale swallows from cracked, dirty troughs. They have had enough of trying to draw a little moisture from frozen, muddy puddles. They are seeking the wild source of water - water that is still but not stagnant, cold but not frozen. Clear, cool, refreshing, nourishing, cleansing. These sheep have left the bondage and imprisonment of human domestication. They are thirsty for Living Water that flows in endless, pure abundance in the places where Wild God leads his feral sheep.
For this is not the thirst of drought that withers and kills pent-up sheep; it is the thirst that brings life to those who venture into the wild, following the scent of abundant water stirring on the air.
These are the sheep who hear the Most Interesting Pastor in the World - the Great Shepherd! - saying, "Stay thirsty, my friends!"
However, many so-called churches are more like soulless, Frankensteinian, manmade, zombie monsters rather than expressions of the Body and Bride of Christ. As containers of Gospel water, they are cracked and often bottomless. Whatever is poured in spills out on the ground and rarely reaches the parched mouths of the thirsting. Sometimes a few drops remain, just enough to give an empty promise of delicious, cool delights. But never enough to satisfy.
This is one reason that more and more sheep are finding ways to escape the fences of industrial church. They are unsatisfied with a few meager, warm, stale swallows from cracked, dirty troughs. They have had enough of trying to draw a little moisture from frozen, muddy puddles. They are seeking the wild source of water - water that is still but not stagnant, cold but not frozen. Clear, cool, refreshing, nourishing, cleansing. These sheep have left the bondage and imprisonment of human domestication. They are thirsty for Living Water that flows in endless, pure abundance in the places where Wild God leads his feral sheep.
For this is not the thirst of drought that withers and kills pent-up sheep; it is the thirst that brings life to those who venture into the wild, following the scent of abundant water stirring on the air.
These are the sheep who hear the Most Interesting Pastor in the World - the Great Shepherd! - saying, "Stay thirsty, my friends!"
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Shepherds
I imagine that we're all well-versed in Jesus' words to Peter recorded in John 21:15-17. It takes place after Jesus' resurrection, and he instructs Peter, "feed my lambs ... feed my sheep ... feed my sheep."
Notice that Jesus never says, "Feed my flock." Instead, he is very clear and precise - his orders are to feed his sheep. Now, this may sound like a rather small thing to point out, but really it is a hinge upon which a door of truth swings open or shut. Because only the Chief Shepherd has the right and responsibility for the flock. We undershepherds are only expected to shepherd sheep. Individuals, not a group.
This takes "congregation" entirely out of the shepherding equation. Jesus did not assign the task of pastoring churches, but of shepherding individuals. You can throw any number of individuals into the formula, and it doesn't affect the outcome; pastoring is not a function of numbers. Anywhere from two (or maybe one, depending upon how literally you want to take the plural reference to lambs and sheep) to at least one sheep short of the entire flock of God will not in any way influence the result of calculating out the shepherding equation.
"Pastor" is not a title, nor a church office, nor the title of the man who sits in the church office preparing sermons. It is Jesus' marching orders to his sheep, that they care for each other the same way that he does. In this way, both the caregiver and the care-receiver grow to be more like the Shepherd of the Flock as he leads them where he will.
To him alone belongs the responsibility - and the ability - to shepherd the flock. To lead the flock to green grass and clear water. To protect the flock from harm. To give the flock a home.
To us is given the honor - and the order - to show each other how to eat the grass and drink the water. How to rely on the Good Shepherd's strength and wisdom. How to follow him to "the house of the Lord," where we will dwell forever.
Notice that Jesus never says, "Feed my flock." Instead, he is very clear and precise - his orders are to feed his sheep. Now, this may sound like a rather small thing to point out, but really it is a hinge upon which a door of truth swings open or shut. Because only the Chief Shepherd has the right and responsibility for the flock. We undershepherds are only expected to shepherd sheep. Individuals, not a group.
This takes "congregation" entirely out of the shepherding equation. Jesus did not assign the task of pastoring churches, but of shepherding individuals. You can throw any number of individuals into the formula, and it doesn't affect the outcome; pastoring is not a function of numbers. Anywhere from two (or maybe one, depending upon how literally you want to take the plural reference to lambs and sheep) to at least one sheep short of the entire flock of God will not in any way influence the result of calculating out the shepherding equation.
"Pastor" is not a title, nor a church office, nor the title of the man who sits in the church office preparing sermons. It is Jesus' marching orders to his sheep, that they care for each other the same way that he does. In this way, both the caregiver and the care-receiver grow to be more like the Shepherd of the Flock as he leads them where he will.
To him alone belongs the responsibility - and the ability - to shepherd the flock. To lead the flock to green grass and clear water. To protect the flock from harm. To give the flock a home.
To us is given the honor - and the order - to show each other how to eat the grass and drink the water. How to rely on the Good Shepherd's strength and wisdom. How to follow him to "the house of the Lord," where we will dwell forever.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Why Most Christian Art Sucks
Lately there have been some prophetic voices proclaiming that God is moving to bring real artistic expression through his people into his kingdom. I believe this. I also believe that much of the church will miss it, and most of those who don't miss it will see it and cringe. Because, to paraphrase Frank Zappa, the Industrial Church wouldn't know good art if it bit them in the ass. Sometimes good art does that, you know ...
You see, in the Industrial Church, everything serves a purpose. A "greater" purpose, we sometimes say. This just means that we can put it to use. The Industrial roots of our society have taught us that everything is only as valuable as its role in production of goods, provision of services, and - most especially - gathering of wealth.
It is not hard to examine our American church society and see how much it looks like our American industrial society. We flatter ourselves that this is because the church has so shaped the development of American culture. Sadly, this is rather like looking at the tread marks on a roadkill and thinking how much that dead critter must have shaped the tires of the semi that ran over it.
In the Industrial Church, art - like architecture, people, theology (and God Himself, for that matter) - is only as good as the extent to which it "builds the ministry." (Hmmmm - is there some way I can possibly rephrase that last sentence to also include a semicolon?) And so, art is not typically particularly artistic in Christian circles.
For me, the biggest downfall of current mainstream Christian painting, Christian storytelling, and other Christian artistic expressions, is how poorly they deal with ugliness. Great art elevates ugliness to tragedy. A pietà interprets the violent death of the Lamb of God - ugliness beyond human comprehension - through a mother's broken heart. A good story doesn't always end with the "sinner's prayer" ensuring they all live happily ever after ... or, as we prefer to phrase it, ensuring they all inherit eternal life. Great art does not pretend that there is nothing ugly in the world; it does not simply address the beauty of all it surveys. Great art finds and displays the beauty of a greater theme in ugliness. It finds the holy that lives in the profane.
Much of today's Christian painting is just pretty pictures - because that's the drill-your-dimple-with-a-forefinger, false-as-a-three-dollar-bill pack of lies the Industrial church demands. Christian fiction is bland, boring, tasteless, worm-eaten, soggy biscuits of stories filled with half-characters and caricatures that look about as much like real people as a chunk of broken asphalt does. And without even a tenth of the interest. 500 years ago, architecture and music were considered sister arts, and people worked hard at raising both to lofty achievements. Today, the ugliness of the average church building is matched only by the colorless clothes of its impoverished musical sister as together they endlessly repeat cookie-cutter tunes over and over, like a cheap music box made of concrete and glass.
The ugliest attempts at art that the world has ever seen are those that refuse to recognize ugliness, pain, and dissatisfaction. Beauty bursts forth uncontrollably when those realities become themes of tragedy, triumph, and yearning. Sucky art doesn't know this.
But there's a time coming, and is even now dawning, I believe, when the Body of Christ will begin to express the artistic character of the Head, and not just attempt to emulate the intellectual. To release the beauty and awesome power of God's feelings, and not just his thoughts. To be sure, the expressions of this reborn art will sometimes be muddled. Some emotional untruths will flow from our orchestra pits, art displays, and book readings. This is to be expected - it won't really be much different from all the intellectual untruth that has poured freely and unchecked from our pulpits for many years.
It'll just be scarier for some, because seminaries won't control these truths. CEO pastors won't dispense them. Spiritually-numbed sheep won't hear them and sit still - they'll break for the house of the Lord. And in so doing, they'll flock away from the corrals built by false shepherds, as they hear the voice of the real Shepherd. It could get ugly. And in ugliness, true art will find irresistible beauty.
You see, in the Industrial Church, everything serves a purpose. A "greater" purpose, we sometimes say. This just means that we can put it to use. The Industrial roots of our society have taught us that everything is only as valuable as its role in production of goods, provision of services, and - most especially - gathering of wealth.
It is not hard to examine our American church society and see how much it looks like our American industrial society. We flatter ourselves that this is because the church has so shaped the development of American culture. Sadly, this is rather like looking at the tread marks on a roadkill and thinking how much that dead critter must have shaped the tires of the semi that ran over it.
In the Industrial Church, art - like architecture, people, theology (and God Himself, for that matter) - is only as good as the extent to which it "builds the ministry." (Hmmmm - is there some way I can possibly rephrase that last sentence to also include a semicolon?) And so, art is not typically particularly artistic in Christian circles.
For me, the biggest downfall of current mainstream Christian painting, Christian storytelling, and other Christian artistic expressions, is how poorly they deal with ugliness. Great art elevates ugliness to tragedy. A pietà interprets the violent death of the Lamb of God - ugliness beyond human comprehension - through a mother's broken heart. A good story doesn't always end with the "sinner's prayer" ensuring they all live happily ever after ... or, as we prefer to phrase it, ensuring they all inherit eternal life. Great art does not pretend that there is nothing ugly in the world; it does not simply address the beauty of all it surveys. Great art finds and displays the beauty of a greater theme in ugliness. It finds the holy that lives in the profane.
Much of today's Christian painting is just pretty pictures - because that's the drill-your-dimple-with-a-forefinger, false-as-a-three-dollar-bill pack of lies the Industrial church demands. Christian fiction is bland, boring, tasteless, worm-eaten, soggy biscuits of stories filled with half-characters and caricatures that look about as much like real people as a chunk of broken asphalt does. And without even a tenth of the interest. 500 years ago, architecture and music were considered sister arts, and people worked hard at raising both to lofty achievements. Today, the ugliness of the average church building is matched only by the colorless clothes of its impoverished musical sister as together they endlessly repeat cookie-cutter tunes over and over, like a cheap music box made of concrete and glass.
The ugliest attempts at art that the world has ever seen are those that refuse to recognize ugliness, pain, and dissatisfaction. Beauty bursts forth uncontrollably when those realities become themes of tragedy, triumph, and yearning. Sucky art doesn't know this.
But there's a time coming, and is even now dawning, I believe, when the Body of Christ will begin to express the artistic character of the Head, and not just attempt to emulate the intellectual. To release the beauty and awesome power of God's feelings, and not just his thoughts. To be sure, the expressions of this reborn art will sometimes be muddled. Some emotional untruths will flow from our orchestra pits, art displays, and book readings. This is to be expected - it won't really be much different from all the intellectual untruth that has poured freely and unchecked from our pulpits for many years.
It'll just be scarier for some, because seminaries won't control these truths. CEO pastors won't dispense them. Spiritually-numbed sheep won't hear them and sit still - they'll break for the house of the Lord. And in so doing, they'll flock away from the corrals built by false shepherds, as they hear the voice of the real Shepherd. It could get ugly. And in ugliness, true art will find irresistible beauty.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Restaurant at the Edge of the Universe
There is one road that none of the residents of Psychovillage ever take when leaving town. Well, actually there are several roads they don't take when leaving town, but that's because most of those roads don't leave town. I may be crazy, but the people inside my head aren't stupid.
But there is one road that leaves Psychovillage that no one ever takes when they head out of town. Some folks believe that the village is located right on that fine line between sanity and madness, and to leave town in that particular direction leads to the wilderness of insanity. Kind of a quaint notion, when you think about it. Residents of a town that exists entirely in my head, thinking that they reside in a sane place.
Of course, to many of them, the Head (me) is only a legend, like Santa Claus, the boogieman, or a politician who gives a damn about the working man. These guys generally think the unused road leads to the edge of the earth, and they fear falling off into oblivion.
In reality, that road leads to the very edge of our ever-spreading universe. And right there, surfing on the roaring wave of universal expansion, sits a great little restaurant. You should drop in sometime. Doesn't matter what you order - they only serve one dish. But, being at the leading edge of creation, reality is in constant flux, and the food, along with the decor, and the servers, changes every few minutes. So, if you don't like what they bring you, just wait a bit - it'll change. Of course, if you do like it, you might want to eat quickly - you never know when it'll pass that way again.
Sit out on the patio, enjoy a nice lunch, and watch the universe expand - what could be better?
But there is one road that leaves Psychovillage that no one ever takes when they head out of town. Some folks believe that the village is located right on that fine line between sanity and madness, and to leave town in that particular direction leads to the wilderness of insanity. Kind of a quaint notion, when you think about it. Residents of a town that exists entirely in my head, thinking that they reside in a sane place.
Of course, to many of them, the Head (me) is only a legend, like Santa Claus, the boogieman, or a politician who gives a damn about the working man. These guys generally think the unused road leads to the edge of the earth, and they fear falling off into oblivion.
In reality, that road leads to the very edge of our ever-spreading universe. And right there, surfing on the roaring wave of universal expansion, sits a great little restaurant. You should drop in sometime. Doesn't matter what you order - they only serve one dish. But, being at the leading edge of creation, reality is in constant flux, and the food, along with the decor, and the servers, changes every few minutes. So, if you don't like what they bring you, just wait a bit - it'll change. Of course, if you do like it, you might want to eat quickly - you never know when it'll pass that way again.
Sit out on the patio, enjoy a nice lunch, and watch the universe expand - what could be better?
Friday, February 25, 2011
Old folks and cigars
It occurred to me the other day that old folks and cigars have a lot in common:
1. Used to be you'd see people enjoying a lot of both on the front porches of homes up and down the street. Now, not so much. Seems like "society" has decided that old folks and cigars alike should be kept away from the general populace. We've set up "designated smoking areas" and "designated old-folks areas" where people may still furtively enjoy one or the other, if they so choose.
2. Some people think they smell funny. And some of them do.
3. Cigars and old folks slow you down. It takes time to sit and enjoy a cigar, just like it takes time to sit and enjoy someone who just doesn't give a damn about hurrying around at a socially-acceptable, properly-productive rate of speed.
4. Cigars and old folks have intrinsic value that is unrelated to what they do, or how much they contribute, or how much they cost. Yesterday I smoked a cigar that I received as a gift. I have seen that cigar selling for $20.00, though I suppose a savvy shopper could find them for less. I enjoyed every minute of the 2 hours it took to burn through it. I didn't enjoy it because it could have cost $20.00 - I enjoyed it because it was a really, really good cigar (My Father 2010 Limited Edition, if you're wondering). Some people might buy that cigar because it is produced in small quantities, costs a lot, and comes individually-packaged in its own lovely little Spanish cedar box (commonly referred to as a coffin) - a collectible. If I ever can see my way clear to buy a $20.00 cigar, it will be because I intend to enjoy every puff of smoke it can produce, not because I want to be able to say, "I have a My Father LE Coffin in the humidor." Old folks - and people in general, of course - aren't commodities or collectibles, though we can sometimes look at them that way.
5. Some of them really do smell funny. Oddly, though, many of those funny-smelling cigars taste great, and make great companions for an afternoon smoke. I wonder if some of those funny-smelling old folks might make the best companions for an afternoon visit.
6. There's a lot of back-story to each of them. From birth to death, cigars and people go a fair number of places, and experience a lot of stuff. You can't just ask a cigar where it was born, where it has been, who has influenced its development. You have to smoke it, patiently and carefully analyzing and enjoying each puff of smoke. If you do this well, you can taste the richness of the soil that gave birth to the leaves. You'll find hints of the long history of tobacco's cultivation. You'll notice the care of the grower, the harvester, the blender, the roller. You'll experience the value of proper aging. You'll understand a little of how mankind turns the God-given elements of earth, wind, fire, and water into an afternoon's enjoyment. You can't pry this information out of the cigar - it has to share with you on its own terms. Spend some time with people, and you'll find out that who they are is rooted in who their families have been. Where they now sit is greatly a function of where they have walked. You can find out what one person has done with the God-given elements of genetics and environment. And maybe find more than an afternoon's enjoyment in the process.
1. Used to be you'd see people enjoying a lot of both on the front porches of homes up and down the street. Now, not so much. Seems like "society" has decided that old folks and cigars alike should be kept away from the general populace. We've set up "designated smoking areas" and "designated old-folks areas" where people may still furtively enjoy one or the other, if they so choose.
2. Some people think they smell funny. And some of them do.
3. Cigars and old folks slow you down. It takes time to sit and enjoy a cigar, just like it takes time to sit and enjoy someone who just doesn't give a damn about hurrying around at a socially-acceptable, properly-productive rate of speed.
4. Cigars and old folks have intrinsic value that is unrelated to what they do, or how much they contribute, or how much they cost. Yesterday I smoked a cigar that I received as a gift. I have seen that cigar selling for $20.00, though I suppose a savvy shopper could find them for less. I enjoyed every minute of the 2 hours it took to burn through it. I didn't enjoy it because it could have cost $20.00 - I enjoyed it because it was a really, really good cigar (My Father 2010 Limited Edition, if you're wondering). Some people might buy that cigar because it is produced in small quantities, costs a lot, and comes individually-packaged in its own lovely little Spanish cedar box (commonly referred to as a coffin) - a collectible. If I ever can see my way clear to buy a $20.00 cigar, it will be because I intend to enjoy every puff of smoke it can produce, not because I want to be able to say, "I have a My Father LE Coffin in the humidor." Old folks - and people in general, of course - aren't commodities or collectibles, though we can sometimes look at them that way.
5. Some of them really do smell funny. Oddly, though, many of those funny-smelling cigars taste great, and make great companions for an afternoon smoke. I wonder if some of those funny-smelling old folks might make the best companions for an afternoon visit.
6. There's a lot of back-story to each of them. From birth to death, cigars and people go a fair number of places, and experience a lot of stuff. You can't just ask a cigar where it was born, where it has been, who has influenced its development. You have to smoke it, patiently and carefully analyzing and enjoying each puff of smoke. If you do this well, you can taste the richness of the soil that gave birth to the leaves. You'll find hints of the long history of tobacco's cultivation. You'll notice the care of the grower, the harvester, the blender, the roller. You'll experience the value of proper aging. You'll understand a little of how mankind turns the God-given elements of earth, wind, fire, and water into an afternoon's enjoyment. You can't pry this information out of the cigar - it has to share with you on its own terms. Spend some time with people, and you'll find out that who they are is rooted in who their families have been. Where they now sit is greatly a function of where they have walked. You can find out what one person has done with the God-given elements of genetics and environment. And maybe find more than an afternoon's enjoyment in the process.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Remembrances
He makes grass grow for the cattle,
and plants for people to cultivate—
bringing forth food from the earth:
wine that gladdens human hearts,
oil to make their faces shine,
and bread that sustains their hearts. Psalm 104:14-15 (NIV)
For I received from the Lord what I also passed on to you: The Lord Jesus, on the night he was betrayed, took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and said, “This is my body, which is for you; do this in remembrance of me.” In the same way, after supper he took the cup, saying, “This cup is the new covenant in my blood; do this, whenever you drink it, in remembrance of me.” For whenever you eat this bread and drink this cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.
I Corinthians 11:23-26 (NIV)
I find it interesting that of all the elements of the Passover Feast, each with its own deep and unique symbolic meaning in Israel's redemption saga, Jesus gave special significance to the bread and the wine. Especially noteworthy, I think, because wine was not even part of the original Passover celebration, but was added sometime later.
Perhaps one of these "remembrances" should be this: God gave bread to strengthen the hearts of mankind, and wine to bring joy to their hearts. And Jesus gave his own body and blood to be the bread and wine that fills the redeemed heart with strength and joy.
Don't get me started on whether a miserable morsel of flavorless bread can in any way represent the strength of God's rich provision. Or whether a stingy sip of reconstituted grape juice can even hope to bring to remembrance the joy of God's amazing gift. Spiritually or physically!
and plants for people to cultivate—
bringing forth food from the earth:
wine that gladdens human hearts,
oil to make their faces shine,
and bread that sustains their hearts. Psalm 104:14-15 (NIV)
For I received from the Lord what I also passed on to you: The Lord Jesus, on the night he was betrayed, took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and said, “This is my body, which is for you; do this in remembrance of me.” In the same way, after supper he took the cup, saying, “This cup is the new covenant in my blood; do this, whenever you drink it, in remembrance of me.” For whenever you eat this bread and drink this cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.
I Corinthians 11:23-26 (NIV)
I find it interesting that of all the elements of the Passover Feast, each with its own deep and unique symbolic meaning in Israel's redemption saga, Jesus gave special significance to the bread and the wine. Especially noteworthy, I think, because wine was not even part of the original Passover celebration, but was added sometime later.
Perhaps one of these "remembrances" should be this: God gave bread to strengthen the hearts of mankind, and wine to bring joy to their hearts. And Jesus gave his own body and blood to be the bread and wine that fills the redeemed heart with strength and joy.
Don't get me started on whether a miserable morsel of flavorless bread can in any way represent the strength of God's rich provision. Or whether a stingy sip of reconstituted grape juice can even hope to bring to remembrance the joy of God's amazing gift. Spiritually or physically!
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Redemption's Dance
And when Jesus had cried out again in a loud voice, he gave up his spirit. At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom. The earth shook, the rocks split and the tombs broke open. The bodies of many holy people who had died were raised to life. (Matthew 27:50-52)
The curtain was torn (perhaps from the inside?), and Glory danced out. His feet struck the ground, ever-so-lightly and gracefully; but still the earth was shaken - so powerful is His step, so holy His touch. Massive rocks split and shattered beneath His irresistible dancing. The rhythm of His movements thrummed a sympathetic chord in long-dead hearts, and they began to beat to its cadence. Graves could not hold back this new life, and they, too, were torn open. The no-longer-dead sprang from the ground to join the great, eternal dance of grace.
Come, join the Dance!
Redemption's Dance, the great and mysterious perichoresis, is not like taking a few salsa lessons on a cruise ship and then saying, "I've danced." This is daily, moment-by-moment letting His nail-ripped hands take us, guide us, and hold us in the Dance. It is daily, moment-by-moment learning to follow His every lead. It's not just a lifetime of learning and sharpening our skill in - and enjoyment of - the Dance. It's eternal.
Come, join the Dance!
Redemption's Dance neither began nor ended with some "born-again" moment. It reached no climactic moment at the point of some mystical experience or healing miracle or outpouring of power. It began before the earth spun from God's hand. In fact, in a mysterious way, the Dance gave birth to human life in the very beginning, just as it patiently works, every moment, its intricate designs to give new life to hearts and spirits buried in graves of darkness. And when those hearts come to life, the Dance calls them to join, to celebrate Redemption's New Life. Forever.
And ever.
And then some ...
Come, join the Dance!
The curtain was torn (perhaps from the inside?), and Glory danced out. His feet struck the ground, ever-so-lightly and gracefully; but still the earth was shaken - so powerful is His step, so holy His touch. Massive rocks split and shattered beneath His irresistible dancing. The rhythm of His movements thrummed a sympathetic chord in long-dead hearts, and they began to beat to its cadence. Graves could not hold back this new life, and they, too, were torn open. The no-longer-dead sprang from the ground to join the great, eternal dance of grace.
Come, join the Dance!
Redemption's Dance, the great and mysterious perichoresis, is not like taking a few salsa lessons on a cruise ship and then saying, "I've danced." This is daily, moment-by-moment letting His nail-ripped hands take us, guide us, and hold us in the Dance. It is daily, moment-by-moment learning to follow His every lead. It's not just a lifetime of learning and sharpening our skill in - and enjoyment of - the Dance. It's eternal.
Come, join the Dance!
Redemption's Dance neither began nor ended with some "born-again" moment. It reached no climactic moment at the point of some mystical experience or healing miracle or outpouring of power. It began before the earth spun from God's hand. In fact, in a mysterious way, the Dance gave birth to human life in the very beginning, just as it patiently works, every moment, its intricate designs to give new life to hearts and spirits buried in graves of darkness. And when those hearts come to life, the Dance calls them to join, to celebrate Redemption's New Life. Forever.
And ever.
And then some ...
Come, join the Dance!
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
A notebook's tale
At work today I opened a cabinet, looking for some paper clips. And there they were. No, not the paper clips, the notebooks. Not binders or clipboards, but spiral-bound notebooks with stiff cardboard covers. They weren't very big - maybe 4x6 inches.
I just had to take one down and flip open the cover. I admired the first page, blank save for a series of horizontal lines just begging for the chance to hold up streams of words and sentences and ideas and paragraphs and notes and ...
That first, inviting sheet was not alone, either. It stood ready at the head of an entire half-inch-thick army of like pages, each waiting its turn to fight against the forces of wordlessness that hold countless thoughts captive. Unwritten, unspoken, unformed (and even as-yet-unthought) thoughts, imprisoned in unexpression.
The pristine emptiness of new notebooks promises that songs and stories and sketches are not yet dead in this world. That a universe of as-yet-undiscovered words might still find a place to lay down, to play, to work, to live, to love ...
I closed the little notebook and returned it to its place in the supply cabinet. A little sadly, in fact. Its empty pages, so full of promise, will probably never give life to anything more exciting than scribbled phone messages.
I just had to take one down and flip open the cover. I admired the first page, blank save for a series of horizontal lines just begging for the chance to hold up streams of words and sentences and ideas and paragraphs and notes and ...
That first, inviting sheet was not alone, either. It stood ready at the head of an entire half-inch-thick army of like pages, each waiting its turn to fight against the forces of wordlessness that hold countless thoughts captive. Unwritten, unspoken, unformed (and even as-yet-unthought) thoughts, imprisoned in unexpression.
The pristine emptiness of new notebooks promises that songs and stories and sketches are not yet dead in this world. That a universe of as-yet-undiscovered words might still find a place to lay down, to play, to work, to live, to love ...
I closed the little notebook and returned it to its place in the supply cabinet. A little sadly, in fact. Its empty pages, so full of promise, will probably never give life to anything more exciting than scribbled phone messages.
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