mikeyllikesit

Ode to Lake Travis

2009-07-17T09:01:00.000-07:00

The sun
Sucked Up Lake Travis –
High Pressure --
Into the cloudless blue sky
Of the New Summer.

Yachts and cigar boats
Litter now permanent
Sometimes islands,
Left as fossil remains
Or to be picked up and stowed away
Like the toys of youth
In some forgotten attic.
Icons of days gone by.

We pray and petition
For something different,
Like the past.
But the changing seasons --
Like Justice --
Are inevitable.

Convicted of history,
We pack our bags
For a Journey
Perhaps toward Purgatory –
The curse
Of the Promised Land
Chases us
Into the desert.

While the clean blue water
Of Lake Travis
Flows freely
In a majestic wave
Across time and space,
To quench, for an instant,
The incomplete metaphor
Of a thirsty universe.

Service

2009-07-15T12:55:00.000-07:00

Last week I participated in a camp for kids. I bring music equipment and let them play on real guitars with real microphones and real amps. The kids here were kids in an apartment complex/shelter. Most of the kids had some kind of background of severe family troubles. I do this camp with a wonderful group of people in a nonprofit called "A Spacious Place" You should look at its website. I wrote the following about my experience"

I am so grateful to be associated with A Spacious Place. Last Friday was a very hectic day. I worked straight through till the last minute to leave for camp, got to camp and the afternoon was a blur and then got home hungry, tired and, frankly, wondering a little bit about why I had come to be that way. Was it worth it? It seems that I can often make out things to be more complicated than they are – less important than my ego would like – less successful than my own sense of evaluation dictates. I had looked forward to this camp since the time it started coming together. Months of expectations became a lot of mental/emotional baggage to carry into camp along with the equipment. In just a short time after the beginning, I felt frustration; I was being overwhelmed. So we all just picked up a percussion instrument and banged away for a minute. Jimi was supportive and upbeat and, well, just right there – that helped. I took a deep breath and tried to just give it all up. We were all just going to beat on some guitars, listen to Nickolas’ rap and just see what happened to avoid the heat, the office, whatever they had going on at home and all of that. That is pretty much what we did. I got a lot out of it. I will remember the kids’ exuberance and curiosity. I will remember looking up and seeing several of the boys hugging and crawling all over Jimi. I will remember the kids running in on Friday after we had been gone hugging me and asking breathlessly, “Where’s Nickolas?” It was touching that they knew we had been gone… that they were glad we were back and that they missed Nickolas after knowing him for only 2 afternoons. I will remember the smiles. I will also remember that slightly uneasy feeling of being just on the edge of chaos, the concerns I felt when I looked at these kids wondering what they would face in the future, what they had faced already – what they are up against in their lives. That ambiguity as to whether my desire to reach out and grab them was to show love, to protect them from the world, or, oddly, just to make them still and quiet for my own peace of mind…

I have no idea what, if anything, we “accomplished.” I have no idea how my methods, actions or plans would be evaluated as to “competence” or “effectiveness.” I do care about those things, and I will think about that and ask for input and try to do better. However, I think it is important to keep that evaluation in perspective. It is those concerns that can lead to fear that can lead to intimidation that can lead to the mental conclusion that I really shouldn’t try to do such things. I know that service is hard work. I know that service is often uncomfortable. I know that the rewards of service are very often quite intangible and ambiguous. Thinking about all these things I know about service, I come to realize that service and creativity are really the same thing. How we are compelled, as creative beings, to become involved in situations where all the rules of logic, our own experience and propriety don’t quite work, and we have to interact with each other and with God to cope. I think that in the middle of that, sometimes I get my clearest glimpse of God, sense a little of what God is about. Just for an instant. Then, it is time to look up and realize that one of the kids has just run out the door toward some kind of adventure that we can only perceive as sure trouble.

Again, I am so proud to be a part of a group that is willing to take such risks for service, for creativity, for God.

I am recharging my battery for the next one!!!

Ghosts, Campfires and Other Faint Aspirations

2009-07-01T14:49:00.000-07:00

Ghosts, Campfires and Other Faint Aspirations

Over and over and over
Just doesn’t cut it anymore --
‘Cause Wikipedia has all the straight facts,
Instant access --
And faith isn’t worth a damn or a dollar.

I watched the natives of someplace last night
On the Discovery channel --
Singing and dancing around the campfire.
Poor bastards
Don’t have 1-800, or text mail –
They will never have a winner,
Or know the score.

They performed anonymously
In the dim light of the torches
That flicker and blink,
Like the eyes of the anonymous gods
They dance for.

To the children of the sand,
It’s all
1 or 2 –
Yes or No –
Win or lose –
Right or wrong –
For everything.
No one needs an explanation,
Or a clue.
Hypothesis for History,
Computation for Comprehension.
Factual Fundamentalism.

I think
Simplicity is merely amusing anymore,
In a dream about falling –
I wake up,
I get up out of bed
And fall some more
In someone else’s dream,
Until they wake up.
On and on,
I sense
Faint rustling of the wind
Through my hair.
Destiny calls.

I like to dream.
All the dreamers and I
Dream
The stories
Drifting across consciousness
Like ghosts –
Perhaps holy.

I like the wind
That whispers and howls
Rumors and Proclamations
About movement and direction,
Perhaps perfection.

I like to dance
With the natives,
‘round a campfire.
In the dim light of the torches
That flicker and blink,
Like the eyes of the anonymous gods
We dance for.

The King of Pop

2009-06-26T07:49:00.000-07:00

I am struck by the change in images that occurred during the lives of Elvis Presley, John Lennon and Michael Jackson -- all "Kings of Pop" in their own time. The obvious metamorphosis and even deterioration that the "real" people underwent; obvious "deteriorization" from the idols of the popular image. Having never experienced the process personally, I can only speculate about the feelings that might prompt one to run away from, conceal and even "deface" the popular image, when that image has been taken, blown up and idolized by the public. I cannot imagine the pressure on a real person to attempt to live up to the image and expectations of a god. Ultimately, the fantasy overcomes and extinguishes the reality; the person withdraws into oblivion or we kill the real person to preserve the image we treasure. Then, we can remember the "King of Pop" and forgive or even forget that person behind the mask; the sad and macabre reality is irrelevant to our needs. I remember Michael Jackson as a child prodigy singing and dancing joyfully on The Andy Williams Show. He was plainly an angel, as are all children, a spark of life from the overwhelming heat of God's love. That is easy enough to see in the flush of youth, and obscured over time by our own efforts to capture, to become that angel in our human consciousness, our own self-created image. It is a hard lesson so public when the real Michael Jackson dies. Yet, I think it is vitally important when we truly look for "The Man in the Mirror."

Trifling Realities Against All Odds

2009-04-15T08:44:00.001-07:00

Trifling Realities Against All Odds

Our biggest tree in the backyard
Is just beginning to put out,
Swelling buds,
And shriveled, purple-looking
Leaf wanna-be’s.
Fig tree
Back near the fence,
Is decked out already,
Laughing in the spring breeze,
Derisively.
I knew it wasn’t dead,
Though I thought it would be a bitch
Without shade
On the deck this summer.
There hasn’t been a frost
In a month or so,
Almost certainly won’t be another
Until October earliest.
All kidding aside,
We need all the relief
We can get,
When the heat sets in…
So, I’m thankful,
Even in my ignorance.

I think about my mother sometimes.
Yesterday was Easter,
Under a magnificent blue sky.
My daughter’s disability
Creeps into my heart
Like a ragged, tired fog.
Our rituals,
Broken shadows
Against a mottled backdrop
That is racing by to some destination,
Unknown
But very far away.
And I realize
Our movement is simply relative.
I can only hope
The destination
Is better for her,
Like my mother’s embrace
That I can barely remember,
But know so well.

The sirens
Are calling me again…
Ropes taut
To restrain me.
It is not so much music,
Like Nero’s violin --
But rapt attention,
While the flames are
Dancing…
Beckoning.
The crew around me
Is anxious.
Not that I will fly away
But that I will stay,
And they will have to endure
The melody
That I dare not describe
Or play.

Easter 09

2009-04-13T07:08:00.001-07:00

Easter 09

it was a huge full moon last night –
storm clouds two counties to the east.
another low pressure near-miss.
burn ban’s still on
so we won’t ignite everything --
at least until summer.

someone on the internet
says the crucifixion was a fake –
“cruci – fiction”
the vinegar was really a paralysis drug,
and Jesus escaped to Egypt
to make babies with Mary Magdalene.

water into wine…
I thought,
“if He couldn’t change us,”
“maybe He outsmarted us instead.”
I said to God,
“it’s still better than what You did to Job.”
We laughed together,
it was funny
‘cause it was an honest prayer.

the devil’s on a three-day weekend,
maybe shooting nano particle rapids
in a black-hole somewhere,
or doing something else just as relaxing
in a recreationally nihilistic sort of way.
Easter is his Halloween Holiday,
when the hobgoblins do all the work –
eggs
for the children to hunt.
services at sunrise,
to divert our attention
from the rest of the day.

i prayed and prayed
last winter,
when there was just nothing
else to do…

waking up,
going to sleep –
anticipations of
the times in-between --
like Easter.

and then there’s Jesus
up there
on the cross –
thinking about making babies with Mary Magdalene.

“Blessed Be The Children”
“Blessed Be You And Me.”

knowledge and Belief in God

2009-02-27T10:07:00.000-08:00

It is certainly harder for me to believe in the devil than it is for me to believe in God. I think this is the problem for many atheists and agnostics. Perhaps subliminally, they ignore the undeniable and universal experiences of God in the nature of things, and challenge me to prove that God exists. It seems strange to me, admittedly in the context of my training as a lawyer, that the atheists appear to have been granted the power to impose the burden of proof regarding God. Consider, for example, a basic component of nature that almost everyone agrees upon – gravity. Any knowledgeable scientist of today will agree that there are situations in nature in which all our equations and understanding of gravity do not work; in those situations, they could not satisfy any burden of proof that gravity exists. Nevertheless, we do not have “antigravityists” running around accusing Newton and Einstein of being superstitious idiots. We continue to cling to our belief in gravity just as the soles of our shoes continue to cling to the surface of earth; Hawking and the other best and brightest of scientists continue to postulate that there is a “theory of everything” which will, after all, prove that our experience of gravity is not the figment of anyone’s imagination. They are skeptical of the proof, the understanding, but have no doubt about their experience. The experience is tangible and real in their lives, beyond doubt even when the equations, explanations – “understanding” – the way we express the tangible and real experiences remain suspect.

I recently heard an ardent contemporary Christian philosopher, Peter Rollins, expound his strategy that he doubts God’s existence, but does his best to act as if there is a God in his day-to-day affairs. We might characterize the “doubt” as an observation about our equations, explanations, “understandings” of God, like the scientists who distrust the explanations of gravity. We walk around affixed to the ground, the planets orbit around the sun, and what we experience is tangible and real. It doesn’t make much sense, in my opinion, to surmise that we “doubt” gravity, but act as if gravity exists.

One might attack this analogy because we cannot think that there is any other way to act other than consistent with gravity. I would respond by asking: “How do we know when we are acting as if there is a God? and, “Where do we get the idea that we can act any other way?” Just as in the case of gravity, I would say that we (all people) call on a great deal of experience and history of experience, “laws” (like the “laws” of gravity) and other objective circumstances to educate our collective “beliefs” in God (like “beliefs” in gravity).

In the case of gravity, we expect that some brilliant scientist may well come up with new equations, theories or explanations that put our concept of “gravity” in some new context; on the other hand, we do not expect that this new “understanding” will have the result of people and things flying off the face of the earth willy-nilly. I believe that the same is true with respect to our belief in God, and the derivative understanding of the way we relate to God and nature, including the way we relate to each other.

Of course, Rollins is very well justified in aggressively challenging our understanding of God, and our articulation of God’s ways, just as the physicists have continually challenged our understanding of gravity, putting that understanding to test in all situations we can experience. However, I believe that this process is mischaracterized if it is considered as an attempt to “prove” God’s existence, which existence I think we all know just as surely as we know that gravity exists.

Perhaps I am dancing on the head of a pin. I think not. I believe that there is an important element of “knowing” past “understanding” or “belief” that is essential even as we are critical and challenging toward our articulations, underlying assumptions and understandings of the source of “understanding” and/or “belief.” Perhaps that element creates a level of confidence vs. cynicism, a level of hope vs. despair, and a level energy vs. the lethargy of depression, a level of meaning vs. nihilism.

Atheists often attack theists by emphasis on the way theists, often defined as “christians” in these dialogues, have acted in many of the atrocities of history – for example, wars, genocide, slavery -- and have adversely responded to the empirical findings and implications of modern science – for example, evolution, birth control, environmental protection. I cannot in good conscience, assert that my actions do not fundamentally indicate what I believe in. On the other hand, I would respond that people, including me, do not always act in conformance with beliefs, because my volition over my actions, and my beliefs (and “understanding”) are both admittedly imperfect. Nevertheless, I would assert that it is impossible or very improbable that we can act other than in conformance with what we know; when I screw up, I somehow inevitably know that I have screwed up; I somehow know that I need help in some fundamental way; I somehow know that the help is available in the nature of things. Thus, I instinctively get on my knees and reach out to God with an open heart and open palm. The atheist simply reacts to that same instinct in a different way – reaching out to God with palms facing outward.

My Creed

2009-02-13T07:58:00.000-08:00

My Creed:

I believe in one God, who is the Creator, who is personally in relationship with me, and whose operating ethic, process, influence and force is Love. I am in awe of God and his Presence, and acknowledge His primordial leadership and model for all people.

I believe that I am blessed and beloved and strive to share in the experience of God’s Goodness and Bounty with everyone, through the celebration of my own creativity, which is bestowed because I am made in the image of the Creator.

I believe that God is revealed by prayer, critical thinking, discussion and education. I believe that God is obscured by ignorance and revealed in all things through disciplined, honest and humble observation.

I believe that my meaning and purpose is realized and revealed in my service of others. Orthopraxy is the most important element of orthodoxy; what I do is the true reflection of what I believe.

I believe that health and self-improvement are mandated by God, and a commitment to healthy habits and excellence in thought and deed is the soul of God’s law.

I believe that God actively participates in our world in tangible and intangible ways, often beyond my powers of observation, comprehension and/or understanding.

Liturgy of Emerging Faith

2009-02-13T07:11:00.000-08:00

Liturgy of the Journey of Emerging Faith

“Worship” is the process we adopt to incorporate faith into the reality of our lives. “Worship service” is an intentional time by which the elements of our “Worship” are remembered and examined.

Elements of Worship and/or Worship service:

Reverence

Joyfulness

Discernment

Commitment

Rejuvenation

Mystery

Sacraments Associated Primarily With the Elements

Reverence – candles, darkness, quiet, incense

Joyfulness – angels, art (or artifacts)

Discernment – Bible, stories of faith

Commitment – Offering, sacrifice

Rejuvenation – feast, Sabbath,

Mystery – Cross, Communion, Resurrection

Orthodoxy Related to the Elements

Reverence – We believe in one God, who is the Creator, who is personally in relationship with us, and whose operating ethic, process and force is Love. We are in awe of God and his Presence, and acknowledge His primordial leadership and model for all people.

Joyfulness – We believe that we are blessed and beloved and strive to share in the experience of God’s Goodness and Bounty with everyone.

Discernment – We believe that God is revealed by prayer, critical thinking, discussion and education; God is obscured by ignorance.

Commitment – We believe that our meaning and purpose is in the service of others. Orthopraxy is the most important element of orthodoxy.

Rejuvenation – We believe that health and self-improvement are mandated by God.

Mystery – We believe that God actively participates in our world in tangible ways beyond our comprehension and/or understanding.

Activities, Enactment of the Elements

Reverence - Primarily Prayer
Head – Mantra, Quietness, Reflection, Meditation, Yoga, Consideration beyond consciousness
Heart – Respect, Submissiveness, Connectedness, Awe, Calm, Warmth
Body - Prayer, Stillness, Breath, Openness

Joyfulness – Primarily Creative Expression (as in art)
Head – Analogy, Perceptiveness, Inquisitiveness
Heart – Happiness, Appreciation, Expression, Celebration
Body – Singing, Dancing, Painting, Writing, Playing, Watching and Listening

Discernment – Primarily Bible Study/Journey style
Head – Critical Thought, Observation, Research, Verification
Heart – Affirmation, Mutual Respect, Safety
Body – Discussion, Reading, Observing, Participating

Commitment – Primarily Service
Head – Social consciousness, Consciousness of the environment, Marshalling resources
Heart – Sharing, Concern, Inclusiveness, Love (in emotional sense, perhaps)
Body – Tithing, Participation in service to others, Joining

Rejuvenation - Primarily rest and “time off”
Head – Relaxation, Playfulness, Frivolity
Heart – Relief, Calm, Happy
Body – Rest, exercise at play, healthy habits

Mystery – Primarily Patience
Head – Openness, Belief in unknown, Humility
Heart – Hope, Acceptance, Anticipation
Body – Healing, Intuition, Prophecy, Inspiration

Liturgical Cycles – Seasons of the Elements

Reverence – i.e. Fall (i.e. Beauty and death of dying leaves)

Joyfulness – i.e. Christmas

Discernment – i.e. Winter

Commitment – i.e. Spring

Rejuvenation – i.e. Summer vacation

Mystery – i.e. Easter, Halloween

Wal-Mart

2009-02-05T08:18:00.000-08:00

Driving down the freeway,
Listening to sports radio.
It occurs to me –
America is
The Wal-Mart of the world.

Big boxes everywhere,
With benefits,
Computer communication coordination,
And old people
Saying “hi” and offering you a cart
At the door.

It’s all right there,
Aisles 1 – 1,000,002.
Gleaming, glittering
Inviting the purchase of 2 for 1.
Generic stores -
Generic stuff –
Generic staff –
Generic marketing -
Generic prices –
Generic people.

Wonderful, wonderful
Wal-Mart.
There atop the
Evolutionary pile of production
Of free enterprise,
At all the busiest corners
In the world.

My granddad,
He must be laughing –
‘Bout how the Piggly Wiggly supermarket
That spoiled his grocery
Got squeezed –
And his little town’s
Not even there anymore.
He would probably say “hi”
And offer them at cart
At Wal-Mart’s door.

Me
I never worked for a living.
I just peddle empty time and hot air,
And take the paper proceeds
To Wal-Mart.
Cheese balls
To give the kids --
And wicker chairs
For the patio.

Some people seem mad
Some people seem surprised.
Some people say,
“It’s the end of the world!”
I think I’m a little tired
Of all this negativity.
I’m going to “Returns,”
In front, right next to the exit.
What I got here is broke,
And I didn’t need it anyway.

Terror

2009-02-05T07:27:00.000-08:00

Terror

I have suffered night terrors most of my life. As a young child I often slept on the rug at the foot of my parents’ bed. Even as a teen I used to bribe my little brother to come in my room and sleep with me; then I told my parents he came into my room because he was scared. I peed on the floor because I was afraid to leave my room to go to the bathroom. Many, many nights I have sat or laid there shaking, sweating, heart and mind racing and I have simply given up all hope for the light of the next morning.

A psychiatrist friend of mine tells me that night terrors can be associated with brain activities or dysfunctions that are not unlike epileptic seizures. Today, they might be treated with medication -- a circumstance that might have changed my life significantly.

On the other hand, how could I have ever suspected that the night terrors would, 50 years later, prepare me in some ways for my life events in a culture that has become preoccupied with terror? Considering the information from my psychiatrist, I am also led to speculate about the medication (perhaps like soma) that might vastly reduce the hysteria of today’s world. It is always hard to separate the good breaks from the bad ones in any true circumstance.

There is no real story I can relate in night terrors – no recurring pattern of thought or horror, vision of monsters or demons; I have approached that feeling at times at a scary movie or reading a Stephen King book, in an airplane in stormy weather or on a roller coaster the first second of its first descent; none of that ever really gets there.

For a time, I was afraid that my son, Wes, had inherited my penchant for night terrors. He would wake us up regularly, crying and afraid in his bed. One night as I was walking by his room I discovered the villain, a huge raccoon staring into Wes’ bedroom from the window perch outside his room. Case closed, night terrors abated.

So, you might be able to distinguish my night terror from Wes’ situation (and the purportedly similar experience of thousands or even millions of people evoked by the destruction of the buildings and loss of life in New York on 9/11); at least they had (have) a raccoon and/or Osama to blame. On the other hand, maybe that is no true distinction at all. As my doctor says, I may have a brain dysfunction to blame, or my delusion of being Jesus, or demons, or even God. Under any objective analysis, anyone can find an object of fear; more importantly, regardless of the icons, we all find ourselves simply in the dark, and often anxious and afraid about it.

I read that many of the marines shit their pants as they left the boats to run on the beach at Normandy. A WWII pilot I talked to told me that an aircraft carrier looks like a cigar butt floating on the ocean when you first spot it for a landing. Yet, it does not seem accurate for me to think about them in a state of terror. It seems that terror is something different than fear, and terror may dwell in the comfort of my bedroom more comfortably than in horrific firestorms of war.
Curious is the apparent lack of relationship between terror and courage. History is full of examples of heroic actions by fearful people. Likewise, moments of insight, perception, and/or enlightenment usually are in fits of fearful circumstance, like the presence of an angel, a demon or even God Himself. In contrast, the images of terror run more to the pathetic – fetal positions under the safety of a wool blankets, and airport lobbies full of metal detectors and drug store cops – symbols of those who are “gripped’ in terror.

“Pathetic” is not to be confused with “harmless.” I set my little brother up for derision and scorn almost without remorse to protect my teenage pride; just as my culture sends its kids into rains of fire and bullets for some perceived safety of their ideals. We might say, then, that if fear is often about self-preservation, terror is often about self image-preservation; it is one thing to be afraid and to act in reality (a state of courage), and quite another to act in defense of being or even appearing to be afraid in anticipation or in delusion of a real threat (a state of terror).

Curious also is the almost mysterious power that one can invoke to aid the infliction of terror; one person, or a small group of persons evoke mass terror, even among those who have very little if anything to fear. It is hard to imagine the collapse of our economic system resulting from having no World Trade Centers. Then again, maybe we have something to fear… What if we have something to fear? Is it possible that we have something to fear? Shouldn’t we be prepared as if we have something to fear? Amber alert! Danger! And so it goes.

It is not as if nobody has any legitimate fear. But people deal with fear all the time in courageous ways; people with cancer, people who are hungry, soldiers, doctors, astronauts, mothers, people in the twin towers, drivers who get on the on ramp to the freeway... It is the rest of us who recoil in terror, cast suspicious eyes all around and unleash rage indiscriminately on innocents (the brothers) and random misfits (the raccoons).

Jesus, me or the real one, apparently left the building during my night terrors. Not one of the uplifting words of the sermons I preached to mom and nan dared to cross my lips; nor did I have the slightest inkling of the fervor or conviction of those other times, while I was there in the dark -- when the wind was blowing, the walls creaking, the end was nearing. I could judge that in the crisis I simply lacked faith. Yet, my dad and mom were, without any doubt, present in the very next room and I didn’t cry out to them either. So, it wasn’t merely or even mainly that I didn’t believe in God or that God couldn’t or wouldn’t help me. Indeed part of the grip of my terror was to disable that part of me that could perceive the situation and alleviate it; i.e. pray or call to mom and dad, or, even, get up, walk across the room and turn on the light.
It seems like a lot of what Jesus, the real one, said was simply, “Hey, get up, walk across the room and turn on the light.” It was called healing when people actually did it. As circumstances would have it, however, the ones who didn’t killed him. Again, it wasn’t fear when the nailed him up, he had never hurt anyone. It was terror. Jesus was the brother who had to take the rap for coming in the room and sleeping with us.
For many, even or mainly christians, the terror has not abated. Terror lurks in our religious orthodoxy when we react intolerantly and in rage to unorthodoxy or to other orthodoxies, when we rationalize outrageous and inhumane acts against those “disadvantaged,” against those who are “different” and against our very environment, and when we willingly live in grand delusion to avoid the risk of seeking the real truth of the here and now. We see the same terror in our other orthodoxies – politics, morality and the law.

As I lay there in terror in the dark, the object of my dread was certainly delusional. It wasn’t about the real, mundane risks and fears in that room; it was about the grand drama of the unreal unknown -- the titanic resting point between good and evil. Like judgment day at death – heaven or hell. I may act with courage overcoming the fears of my circumstance, good or bad. But how am I to avoid bowing in terror to such primordial forces of evil? You see, it couldn’t be that I was just a scared little boy laying there in the dark; I am after all, Jesus, and a victim of circumstance. To avoid the demeaning seeming image of me, it was necessary for me to invent evil and the devil himself. I think that most of you do the same thing.

There has been a lot of thought and discussion about the problem of evil. How do we cope with bad circumstance? How do we explain it? How can we keep our faith in good in spite of it? Why must we endure it?

It seems possible that this discussion mostly misses the point -- that the real problem of evil is to prove that it exists at all. Perhaps the very concept of evil is delusional, conjured in those moments when are captured in terror, like when I was locked under the covers in my bedroom in my night terrors – scared of the dark.

When I finally fell asleep and morning came with the light, it wasn’t that the light didn’t illuminate anything scary, it was just that I was no longer terrified by the scary things I could see. When my brother came in, or when there was someone else in the room, it was not that the darkness was gone, it was just that I was no longer there to face the evil alone. It turns out that evil is not so powerful after all, to be so easily and readily dissipated.

Terror and evil are dangerous even if there is no devil and even if they are ephemeral. If we do not wage war against evil, are we destined to be victims?

Jesus, the real one, said that the victims would inherit the earth, the ones who have mere reality, which they cannot own, and not delusions, which do not exist. The ones to whom courage is more useful than self-image. I think that it is important for me to find and join them, when morning dawns.

Fitting

2009-01-22T15:39:00.000-08:00

Fitting

I have always tended to be “stout,” as they say; “fat” to someone who is inclined to make such judgments. As a kid, I could not wear blue jeans; in order to get some that would fit me in the legs (thighs), the size would have to be hopelessly too big in the waist and/or too long.

Apparently, this predicament was common enough, because by the time I was 10 or 11 years old, the jean companies marketed jeans that were tailored to my situation.
I have imagined the scene at the jean company. The guy in product development, who suffered a “slacks wearing” childhood, develops the jeans that would fit, and the company loves his idea. Imagine the designer’s mixed feelings of joy and shame when the marketers decide to designate his new jeans (and him) as “HUSKY.”

The coaches took delight in referring to me at times as “heavy hocks,” but the cut of my jeans was impeccable.

And so I learned, as a well-dressed HUSKY, that the circumstance of “fitting” or “not fitting,” like most circumstance, can be an elusive and ambiguous matter indeed; consistently, I learned the importance in conventional wisdom of “fitting,” as well as the circumstance of “not fitting” that has made me at various times a malcontent, a sociopath or a prophet, or something of all of them.

I observed a time from my adolescence in the 60’s and 70’s when “not fitting” was all the rage: “Tune In, Turn On, Drop Out.” Even then, it seemed obvious to me that it was far too important for the hippies to “fit in” by “not fitting,” and to follow the “counter” conventional wisdom of the “counterculture” As a result, it was not completely surprising to see that group elect Ronald Reagan as president and become some of the staunchest “fitters” of American history; the group that set the humankind record for irony by tearing down the Berlin wall in the name of peace and love, only to establish the MacDonald’s Empire worldwide, “One world, under FREE ENTERPRISE, with a Big Mac and french fries for all.” A part of me was right there with them – there in my HUSKY hip-huggers – until I traded them in for a three-piece suit and an office at Fulbright & Jaworski law firm. I never voted for Reagan, but I marveled at the end of the cold war, the apparent peace and the spoils of victory – covered, of course, with lots of ketchup.

It turns out that it is not so easy not to fit, even among the HUSKIES and the hippies.

Also interesting is the relationship of “fitting” to “being fit.” No matter how hard the “fitters” try to control events – how much they invest, how many policeman and soldiers they have -- who their friends are – the “fittest” seem to be the ones who don’t quite “fit.”

The survivors, heroes and progenitors are often freaks. My favorite hero, Jesus, is perhaps the best example; the Sermon on the Mount is something like Jimi Hendrix’s “raise your freak flag high!” Who “is fit,” for the Kingdom of Heaven? – those who do not “fit” in the Kingdom of Earth. No one less than God could make this stuff up.

I have to ask if “fitting” is such a dubious distinction, why is its importance so tenaciously advocated? Why are the important ones, the misfits, so persecuted? Why do we turn nature on her head to persecute the “fit”? Don’t history and Jesus tell us to celebrate the nonconformists instead (and not just posthumously)?

Closely related to the preoccupation with “fitting” is the fear of being “lost;” The “fitters;” shake their heads at the misfits and bemoan, “…the poor soul is just lost.” An interesting concept, I think – one either “fits,” or is “lost.”

I preached to mom and to Nan about being “lost” long before I had any notion of geography or, for that matter, philosophy. “Lost” meant not believing in Jesus. To me at that time, believing in Jesus meant believing in myself. As it came to occur to me that I might not “fit” in some way, the thought of being “lost” became more ominous; husky and imperfect, I was not to be counted on. Of course, that development opened many doors – husky jeans and the real Jesus could come along and I could be “SAVED AT LAST.”

That is, I was taught that the antidote for being “lost” was to be “saved.” Regardless of the nomenclature, “lost” was geographic – not on the road to heaven -- and “saved” was simply following directions. So, whether it was husky jeans or the real Jesus, “saved” was a process of fitting – following the prescribed sartorial, philosophical, moral, cultural, religious, social roadmap for the promised reassurance of good grooming, eternal life, goodness, beauty, heaven or what other goodies might be unavailable or unattainable for a “lost” soul. Yet, whether it was husky jeans or Christianity, “saved” or “fitting” didn’t do much to change the qualities of my body or my character; at the point of that realization is when I think I could truly appreciate the feeling of, and meaning of “lost,” and the consideration of “lost” as a way of life.

A few years back, my wife and I were in Paris; it was a first-time visit for both of us. We happened on a little square near Montmartre, a hill with a beautiful cathedral. In the square there were a number of artists painting all kinds of wonderful things. After the fact, I found out the significance of this spot for artists, the likes of van Gogh, Picasso, Degas and other notables had occupied those spots we saw on that day. We came upon an artist who was painting portraits from photographs, and came up with the wonderful idea of commissioning a portrait of our grandson. Of course, the photograph we needed was back at the hotel. We rushed with great excitement to the hotel and en route back for this great adventure. We had prided ourselves on mastering the Paris subways but, despite all skill and efforts, found ourselves unable to locate the square.

“You are lost,” Kathie stared at me.

No doubt in a manner of speaking she was absolutely right. Yet, I was taken aback by the accusation. Here I was in an utterly foreign place, with only the vaguest notion of my location and, for that matter, where I was actually going. It struck me that “lost” was a very odd way to assess my/our predicament. That is, when you don’t know where you are, and you don’t know where you’re going, “lost” doesn’t seem to have much relevance. The particular situation was soon exacerbated in my attempts to ask a Frenchman directions in English.

On the other hand, I believe that is the sense of “lost” for which the true antidote is being “saved.” It is a matter of condition rather than location. It is a place in which what is needed is not so much a set of directions, which might be utterly unintelligible to me in my particular circumstance, but rather a change of perspective or orientation. Perhaps it is like a point of consciousness on an infinitesimally small particle in a near infinite universe asking, “Where Am I?” or “Why Am I here?” or “Is There Some Other Point of Consciousness – Maybe God?”

My sense of this condition of “lost” has evolved over my life experiences. I do not believe that I am unique in that regard – we may see this development in many contexts – failed relationships, disease, death, career setbacks, even good luck or wealth. It is not surprising that we go to our doctors, our pastors, our lawyers, our parents and ask for a “prescription,” “orthodoxy,” or the law. Like the french roadmap handed to me in the middle of Paris, it is also not surprising that these directions often simply do not work to “save” me from being “lost.”

So it is that “fitting” may not necessarily “save” me from being “lost.” Maybe that is why we say, “Misery loves company.” Maybe that is why Jesus said that the misfits are blessed, and would “inherit the earth” – a particularly reassuring vision of the rapture in which most of the rising souls are wearing husky jeans…

Crying

2009-01-22T08:58:00.000-08:00

I feel like crying right now.
The heaviness on the edge of my eyes,
That means it’s dangerous to blink.
It’s not that I can’t take it like a man,
I just can’t seem to take it any other way.

Mad as hell,
I sit here staring
In both directions,
Out there,
In here.

A man feels that way,
When he can’t fix it.
A man might cry
When “it” seems like everything.
Everything is like
The heart within me.

I read that we hiccup
Because we are still part fish.
Ancient lineage.
I wonder, “Is that why
We have to cry?”

Adam might ask Jesus,
“Was it worth it?”
Jesus might ask Adam
The same thing.
Neither answers,
And God’s not talking again.

I think I’ll cry right now,
Like an old woman
At the wailing wall.
Spirit given up,
Tears falling down,
Worship and Sacrifice.

Inauguration

2009-01-21T14:53:00.000-08:00

It is ironic that we have become a nation of slaves, and that we would now turn to a black man for liberation. We are addicted, indentured, indebted, stripped of fundamental rights and ruled by terror - slavery by any estimation. And so perhaps Obama is truly one of us, or we are truly within his heritage. In any event, it seems that Obama's message speaks to us out of the spirit of the civil rights movement which spirit is now not so much about color, though it is still that, but more about raising our spirits out of the chains that bind us. The shackles are strong, the masters, they are mustering their power and caucusing in the big houses. We must consider the ends and the means. Freedom is more than security or economy or even democracy. Freedom is about integrity of the spirit, responsibility, respect and even love. Such things cannot be institutionalized nor imposed lest they lose reality and meaning; such things cannot be won by the sword lest the fundamental principles be fundamentally corrupted; such things cannot be awarded or bestowed, but must be earned by the sweat of our brows, the earnest application of our intellect and unpretentious and humble respect and commitment to the will and the nature of God. I believe that this is the calling and I pray that we will hear and take up our plowshares.

2008-12-19T12:11:00.000-08:00

Christmas 2008

Here I am,
At the end of a road
Again.
The lights
Of just another Bethlehem,
Ornaments
Like tiny stars --
A cold wind.
They tell me
Over and over,
There’s just no room at the Inn.
Not a single, solitary place
To be sheltered in…

I see a tear
On Mary’s cheek.
So tired,
The Baby
Just can’t sleep,
He cries out
From His altar –
When He came here
Looking
For a manger.
How could He know
What
We would do to Him?

A story
Is more than paper,
Like something
In a package
Under the tree.
We wonder
And shake it --
Hope what it
Will be.
Maybe a baby
A gift
To you and me.

Here I am,
At the end of a road
Again.
The lights
Of just another Bethlehem…

Star bright, Star light
What will I see tonight?

Advent and Christmas

2008-12-04T07:07:00.000-08:00

I believe that advent ("the waiting") is the time for our preparation for the experience of remembering and celebrating creation. To me, creation is the very essence of Christmas. The union of the reality of our human existence and that creative spirit in the nature of things; the offspring that is me, as I look in the mirror, and beyond me, as I look beyond the mirror, beyond my cognition, beyond even the powers of my cognition. As a Christian, I struggle to relate to what it must have been like to be Jesus, the thoughts... the feelings... the fears... the hopes... the love... so that I might better follow Him. Such a daunting enterprise... so, at this time of year I celebrate the simplest, most beautiful, most mysterious image of all our experiences... the baby.
The Baby is Jesus. The angels sing, the universe pays homage... and so do I.

I realize that the "real" time of Christmas can be, like other times, very different from the "meaning" of Christmas. So, "real" Christmases in the shopping malls, in the midst of our dysfunctional culture, government, economy, familes and personal lives are often all the more poignant and sad; hopes of peace, love, beauty, "the Baby" seem so far away and even silly. In his ministry, over and over Jesus spoke to all kinds of people seemingly caught in their lives, caught in "real" Christmases, and he said, "stop, look, listen... their is a kingdom of heaven at hand all around you." In that kingdom, that is right here and right now, there are angels singing, shepherd's tending their flocks, wise men coming from the East and there is "the Baby."

Jesus message is difficult to swallow, perhaps especially at Christmas. There is no natural (as in laws of nature), moral, theological, cultural or other imperative from God, Jesus or any other authority that imposes Christmas, in its essence, upon us. To be in the "kingdom of heaven" is a choice, and a difficult one at that. It is a choice beyond rational, beyond feelings that we feel comfortable with... ultimately a matter of faith; faith so strong that, as Jesus put it, we must be willing to or even really "die" in some sense to experience it.

The stories, like our lives, can be hard, unlike the story of the Baby in the manger at Bethlehem. And so, in advent, we must prepare ourselves to leave those stories behind. We must look deep within our spirits, look into the stars in the skies, look at what is beautiful and enduring in the midst of and in spite of everything. We must raise our eyes to the heavens and prepare to sing with the heavenly host. The power of God. The image of the Baby Jesus.

Creating Christmas: Discovering the Sacraments of the Nativity

I recently read an account of the Christmas story in Newsweek, an article analyzing the biblical accounts in historical perspective; questioning the proof for the related events.
It was a very respectable and thoughtful article for its purpose, “… we can see that the Nativity saga is neither fully fanciful nor fully factual but a layered narrative of early tradition and enduring theology… .”

The Christmas story told in Matthew and Luke is certainly retrospective and second-hand information. There is no contemporaneous narration. Nor do any of the accounts of Jesus teachings or actions specifically refer to or enlighten us about the actual events at his birth. One can surmise, like the author of the Newsweek article, that this status of our knowledge about the events of the Christmas story, in general, and the lack of any first hand account, more specifically, results from the fact the importance of the events was not and really could not have been recognized contemporaneously. It is certainly true that for the most part the participants in the recounted events were not of social, political or other status to expect that they would have provided written accounts, or that others around them would have deemed their lives and activities “newsworthy.”

My reaction is not quite so glib. In any event, to me, to analyze the Christmas story as literal history versus literary exposition misses the point. God could certainly have included an eyewitness account had He seen fit. Moreover, as I thought about it, the approach we have to take through the available information to understand or otherwise “process” Christmas seems to be, in and of itself, part of the story.

Recently, there was a group of infamous trial lawyers whose notoriety came from outlandish aggressiveness. Whenever a witness would attempt to offer evidence of his/her name, birthdate or other such identifying information, the lawyers would vigorously make objection – hearsay! What can a person know about such matters other than what they have been told?

So, as we mature into self-awareness, we create the first chapters of our life stories, the foundation of our identities, from the bits and pieces of historical and second-hand information that comes to us from family, photographs, and all kinds of sources. It is this kind of information that plays a seminal part in my creation of me.

The Christmas story is an account of creation. Genesis is cosmology – an account of God creating and participating in the universe. Christmas is genealogy -- an account of our spiritual lineage. I look at the Christmas story like looking into a baby book. There are the snapshots, the footprints, the swaddling cloth… -- as real as the wounded flesh that Thomas demanded for his belief. As unreal as life itself – in the manger or after the cross. God, here among us, here within me.

If I am to be a Christian, I must weave those images into myself and make them real in my own life. It is Jesus’ baby book; it is my own spiritual baby book. Creating Christmas in me is the manner in which grace, forgiveness, love, everlasting life – everything Jesus stood for – are born in me. These are God’s Christmas presents, to be unwrapped and used as I might strive for the potential that is both beyond and within me.

How do you create the innocence, beauty and audacity of birth – even your own birth? What do you know about the being you see in the baby book? Creating Christmas is not easy. It is a task we do not often have the stomach for, since we have become so different, so occupied by other things, so preoccupied by fears, doubts and maturity. Let us ponder the lessons, analyze the historical data, reach out for Jesus’ wounds… .

I think Scrooge finds out that creating Christmas is about the aesthetic, not the empirical experience of things. In our aesthetic sense, there are ghosts and there are angels, there are stars that give directions, there are kings from faraway kingdoms bearing gifts, there is a Holy Presence which is the fountain of all procreation… . To say “aesthetic” is not to deny the literal, but to recognize that the literal is not all of the story. God’s reality is the palette on which we are drawn in perspective with all creation, in all shades of color and light. We know that is true with every image on every Christmas card that we have ever carefully selected to send that special Christmas message.

The angels, the songs, the stable, the manger, the shepherds, the wise men … these are the sacraments of Christmas -- those special ornaments we unpack and admire every year in those special places -- those things from the baby book that tell us who Jesus was, who we are. They are sacraments of mysterious and real truth. It is the truth beyond understanding. The truth of Joy, Love, Peace and Goodness -- the truth of the Baby Jesus.

I believe that God’s promise, through Jesus, is that if we will believe in these things, if we will participate in these sacraments, then they will become a part of us – the enduring part of us, the perfect part of us that will be welcomed into God’s own family.

44:44 and the Mason Dixon line

2008-11-06T12:14:00.000-08:00

Before we get too euphoric about a new age of unity, change and the future of our nation, consider geography. If we look at a map of the alignment of states and the location of the territores at the civil war, and compare with the 2008 electoral map, the division of the north states and south states is eerily similar. Kansas, West Virginia and Missouri go to the south (McCain). Virginia goes to the north (Obama). Florida (now New York south) goes north (Obama). North Carolina is too close to call. Remember at the time of the Civil War a big controversy was over how to admit the new states without tipping the balance of power. The Missouri Compromise sought to avoid war by evenly dividing the territories into allies of north and allies of south. Note the almost even division of territories from the civil war map compared to the electoral map. Colorado, Nevada, New Mexico and Washington to north (Obama). Arizona, Indan territory, Nebraska territory, Dakota territory and Utah to south (McCain). So we have to wonder if we have progressed, or if we are simply replaying the history of our basic divisions. By the way, that division in 2008 is very close 52-48%, on a good day for the democrats. We know the division was very deep in 1860, deep enough to fight a bloody and cruel war. How deep is the division, still about the same in territory and numbers, today? I think it is very important in view of this to consider the nature of the division. Part of the division at the civil war was certainly about race. With the election we have a feeling that things have changed, but looking at the map have they really? I think the answer is certainly things have changed in the south, but we cannot overestimate the lingering effect of racism in shaping the 2008 map. Part of the civil war was about urban vs. rural. That seems unquestionably similar to today; Obama won in the old south territories because he captured the new urban centers in those old southern states. Part of the civil war was about industry vs. agriculture. To me that is the least analogous area. Certainly, increased industrialization of the south does not seem to have overshadowed other factors to align those industrialized southern areas with the north. Ironically, the south remains the bible belt vs. the less fundamentalist Christianity and more cosmopolitan nature that might be attributed to the north. To a serious Christian like myself, this is very troubling. It appears on the map almost unmistakable that fundamentalist Christianity is still linked to heritages that include lingering influences of racism and rural resistance to the problems, influences and changes that dominae the emerging world.

I would not for a minute ignore the monumental possibilities that seem to be hinted at in the current election. But I cannot look at the map and not also realize the serious dangers and challenges that face us.

2008 election:

election:

Leadership

2008-11-05T14:26:00.000-08:00

It's quite an election. I'm wondering if this is happening because it's the right time, or it's the right time because the right guy has come along. I'm thinking for other black pioneers, breaking the race barrier was just the beginning of the story. Jackie Robinson, for instance, had to be better than white baseball players, in all kinds of ways, in order to succeed as a major league baseball player; any failure, even a temporary or predictable shortcoming, would have been used to confirm racial stereotypes of the day. I'm hoping it is different for Obama. It is an impossible job in the first place. He may or may not excel in whole or in part; he may or may not fail in whole or in part. We need to be past the point at which the judgment of his performance in this job will be a report card for the inherent qualities of his race. We need for race not to be the issue of his presidency. I think it may be the right time because of the black pioneers that have come before him, and the heritage and perspective they have given all of us; I think of Booker T. Washington, Martin Luther King, Jr., Jackie Robinson, Bill Cosby, Opray Winfrey - and many, many others who have weaved into and enriched the fabric of our culture, for their race and beyond their race for all of us. I think he might be the right person because of his apparent calmness and confidence in the eye of the perfect storm.

For some reason this morning I thought about president Kennedy's announcement, May 21, 1961, that the US would put a man on the moon by the end of the decade. By any objective analysis, this was nothing more than "trash talk" aimed at the Soviets who seemed to have taken an advantage in the cold war by launching their rocket. Yet, we did it. The world we know today has been shaped by the technology, knowledge, spirit and confidence engendered by that effort.
In the end, I think that the true measure of leadership is in reaching for goals beyond our grasp. Encouraging us to do merely what it is clearly within our abilities and strengths turns out to be just cheerleading.

So, when there seems to be so little to cheer about, what we clearly need is a leader.

No One Makes Out at the Movies Anymore

2008-10-24T13:26:00.001-07:00

Love: No One Makes Out at Movies Anymore

I’m making the observation of the circumstance that no one makes out at movies anymore…

I have to admit that I am a bit weak on empirical research. But, when’s the last time you saw the usher have to go up to the back row and warn them, ”Break it up, or I’m going to kick you out…?”

Or an enraged patron yelling, “Hey bozos, get a room!”

I can tell you that I made out at the movies like a fiend for many years.

I was a slow starter. The first time I asked for a kiss, I was told that I could have one if I scored 100 points at the basketball game that evening. I was in 6th grade. Of course, I was no Wilt Chamberlain, but I gave it my best shot. Coach Wilder learned a lesson about coaching 6th graders that night; he never knew what hit him. I nearly lost my place on the team and failed utterly in all my romantic intentions. Of course, now I realize that I probably wouldn’t have got the kiss even if I had scored the points.

Years later that same girl, out of the blue, moved into my dorm at college, a circumstance that defied any calculation. I got a kiss then without even having to play basketball or any other game, so I guess the breaks turned out about even on that one. The chance of making out it seems, like hope, springs eternal.

I learned to make out in California. Yeah, California -- some of this circumstance stuff is better than anything I could ever make up! On the other hand, my California wasn’t what you are probably thinking. We moved there in the summer of 1965, when a lot of L.A. (Watts) was burning like a trash heap. We wound up in a wasteland in the Mojave Desert, and barely got out in one piece after only 6 months. Out of all the enduring lessons I might have learned from that experience, probably the most important was how to make out. Ironically even though it was in California, I didn’t learn how to make out at the movies. There was this park, and a high school girl… So, my perfection of making out at the movies occurred when I got back to Texas, first at the Paramount Theater in downtown Abilene, and later at the Burnet Drive-In in Austin. As I write this, there are many who don’t know or don’t remember what eight track recordings or drive-in movies are (or were). The two most crucial implements of love that I may ever know… . God certainly does have a sense of humor.

I acquired a number of invaluable skills associated with making out. To this very day, depending on the status of my arthritis, I can unhook almost any bra with one hand with one flick of the wrist. I learned how to make a hickey on purpose, and how to cover it up with flesh tone makeup. As a technician, I could, much to my dad’s chagrin, install an eight track in any kind of vehicle; I could repair damage to a console between the bucket seats with brackets and a screw-driver before dad or mom let on that they noticed the damage and thus had to require an explanation. You find the inherent superiority of Smokey Robinson or the Everly Brothers over the Beatles and the Stones, and the movies with a lot of music over those with too much shooting or shouting. You discover where the new subdivisions are going in and from where you can overlook downtown. You develop this sense of perception of unusual lights or sounds, even in the height of involvement, in case of the cops or bad guys.

Most of all, I found out about girls, and about boys and about people – how a girl can make a boy do things and feel things, and how a boy can make a girl do things and feel things and how people communicate about things in all kinds of ways. If I close my eyes, I can remember the smell of her perfume or my of cologne (which she bought me for my birthday) or of the chewing gum we chewed and the tastes that could never be covered over and never should have been. I remember when the breaths quickened. I remember when there were nervous laughs, and nervous tears. I remember worrying that I was bad, or that she would get tired of me. I remember the utter joy when she kissed me back

These were the things that were to me like the lyrics of the songs I was singing along to, or the words that I read in the books I was reading, or the talk that was coming into the car in the remote speakers. Things that were for me different from bounce passes or double plays or grades in school or success/failure – or even Jesus.

Jesus dropped out of history during his make out years, almost without a trace. There he is, a kid in the temple, lost from his family, amazing the priests with his understanding -- then he’s 30, getting saved by John, acknowledged by God and tempted by the devil. For me, after I led the singing, voted on all the temple issues and preached all those sermons to mom and nan as a kid, I had no such anonymity from history, from God, or from Jesus (me or the other one). It was a circumstance combining a kind of freedom, a sense of uncharted waters of new circumstance and the undeniable urgings of my mind, body and heart juiced up on testosterone and other assorted hormones.

We moved from Austin to Abilene the summer after my sophomore year in high school; I was 17. I drove the rental moving van with my dad as the only passenger. I was literally abuzz from the make out session I had with my girlfriend the night before – the goodbye of our relationship. Dad knew, either consciously, or like another guy knows without really knowing or saying. And at that time he says the first thing (and, as I think about it, maybe the last thing) I ever remember him saying to me about sex. It was a communication something to me kind of like God acknowledging Jesus when Jesus just got baptized.

I’ve thought about that scene with me and my dad many times. I’ve thought that the timing was absolutely hilarious, or coincidental, or ironic or maybe even pathetic. Mostly, I’ve concluded that it was just about right. Sex was definitely on the near horizon past making out; my dad’s affirmation was oddly appropriate. More importantly, I believe that there are some things that a man or a woman or a person has to find out about for themselves, like those things I learned in the movies, in the car or various other venues in the early mid 1960’s. Maybe even Jesus had to in those unrecorded pages of his history under the stars that were there 2000 years ago… .

Jesus’ life exploded into manhood and into history. He helped some little people, pissed off some big people, frustrated everyone’s expectations and got executed. C.S. Lewis has written that you either have to believe that Jesus was the Son of God and worship and follow Him, or dismiss him as a lunatic. The Jesus in me has always been a little bit of both. Maybe that’s true about the real Jesus too.

He said:
“All you need is love.”
“Love is all you need.”

As I sat making out with my girlfriend in the back of a movie theater in Denver, Colorado, in the summer of 1970, watching “Woodstock,” I believe that I thought I had come to the same conclusion, though I was almost certainly hoping for better breaks than what Jesus got. At that time in my life, in my society, in my world -- not entirely unlike Jesus’ situation -- circumstance was swirling around love like the winds of the storms around the eye of a hurricane. There were executions and there were wars and there was a mighty empire abirthing in exuberance, excess, pure joy and pure agony. There were new cures, new hopes, new stars, new frontiers and there were new possibilities. There was revolution and there was repression everywhere all at the same time. There was good and there was evil like always; but, for the first time it occurred to everyone that they, the good and the evil, would not survive.

One of my best friends, an FBI agent for many years, always told me that the true story is always the simplest. Most of the stories I have been told about love, especially the love that Jesus was talking about, are not very simple at all.

I do know that I loved those girls that I made out with at the movies back in the roaring 60’s, in a very plain and simple way. I know that if that love was not all of what I needed, it was most certainly a part of what I needed and is a part of what I need today and will always need. I know that if Jesus never made out, he at least understood what it was about; like the way he felt when the woman washed his feet in perfume with her hair, there in the back seats at the pharisee’s banquet.. I know that the popes and the preachers make a perilous mistake when the ignore or repress or even condemn “making out” love in search for agape or something more clean, more pure, more complicated or more grandiose.

So, I’m wondering if I’m wrong about people not making out at the movies any more. And I’m wondering, if they don’t, where do they discover the important mysteries about how they are supposed to love God, love another and be loved….?

2008-10-22T08:29:00.000-07:00

A Storm

I remember Ike,
Nickname for Dwight –
Black and white images,
Fatherly voice on the radio,
A President in Washington.

I’ve heard about
D-day in France,
Armistice…
How strange it must have felt,
Watching the boys --
Storming the beaches of France
With all the power and ferocity
The allies could muster,
Taming the suburbs of America
With modular housing,
’55 T-birds
And ’57 chevrolets.
Half a century ago.

Today, I’m looking at Ike,
An angry red army of forces
On infrared weather imaging,
Storming the beaches of Texas
With power and ferocity
That only nature can muster –
Sacking the beachside suburbs,
Sending the boys packing
In their toyotas
And SUV’s.

Ike and Ike.
Icons of history,
Beacons from Camelot,
Doppler images on our cultural radar.

We may wreak chaos in waves of bombs and bullets,
Noxious fumes and plastic bags…
Atom bombs.
We may experience chaos
In the awesome power of thunder and lightning,
The will of the wind and sea
Hurricanes.

Amidst it all,
We long for peace and quiet,
Like heaven.
But the stillness
Is only death and darkness.
We exist
In the cacophony and chaos,
And God is with us…
Alive…
The Light.

2008-10-20T07:56:00.000-07:00

Cain Meets Judas (remix)

Cain,
From the ground
Gave Judas the silver.
Forged into a sword,
Thrust into Abel’s heart.
The Lamb bled
Into the earth.
Jesus arose.

The killers’ defiance,
“Am I my brother’s keeper?”

The Savior heals
Friend and foe --

“Violence can only bring violence.’

Judas self destructs
In the silence of the Lamb.
Cain’s mark,
The sign of a cross,
Starkly standing
On a craggy hill
East of Eden.

Rock, Paper, Scissors

2008-10-16T07:49:00.001-07:00

Rock, Paper, Scissors

Geography is out of control.
Seems like I’m downloading my GPS daily,
Trying to find myself
Among all the new addresses.
Checking my passport
For the jurisdiction
Of the state I’m in.

I’m told you now have to prove you’re legal
To get a driver’s license.
I’m wondering,
“If you have the proof
Where do you need to go?”

I learned to drive
On I-20 between Abilene and Dallas.
I was 15,
Gas was cheap,
Engines were full of horses,
200 miles to Northpark Mall
Was just a seatbeltless Sunday drive.
Joy was at 90, no radar in sight,
Wisdom the product of Burma Shave.
That’s all the proof I’ll ever need
For driving legal.

Moses drove
A big yellow school bus on a
Deserted desert highway,
Egypt to the Promised Land.
No muffler,
Full of brown people
With crying babies, and
Clucking chickens in cages.
He got his license
On top of the mountain.
Etched in stone
By the Chief of Police himself --
Hung it on the rear view mirror,
With the fuzzy dice.

I’m an old man now,
Maybe not old enough…
I’ve learned a lot of things,
Probably not enough…
But I’ve concluded that
Legal is just a piece of paper
Laid over Moses’ rock,
A sure winner –
‘til its
Cut to shreds
By the scissors
In a desperate man’s hands.

The Moon

2008-10-14T08:30:00.001-07:00

Up in the distance
The shapes I am in
Suspended
All quiet…
And cold.
I ask a question.
I shed a tear.
I am the moon…
Just waiting here.

I will shine for you
When your daylight is done
To remind you
Of the warmth of the sun.

I reflect the light
And you see on me
The craters and scars
That have affected me.

I foretell your fortunes,
Dance with your seas
Your darkest secrets
Are known only by me.

You raise your head and howl…

Up in the distance
The shapes I am in
Suspended
All quiet…
And cold.
I ask a question.
I shed a tear.
I am the moon…
Just waiting here.

tough love

2008-10-13T06:49:00.000-07:00

Tough Love

I remember a teacher of mine in some class I took one time, talking about how the Eskimos had about a jillion words for “snow” and/or “ice.” Those different words conveyed different things about the subject, like a word for the kind of ice that would support a man to walk across a frozen lake to perhaps do a little fishing. It seems that the nuances of the word had a direct link to the kind of information about the subject needed in that environment for survival.

Sunday school teachers and preachers of mine along the way have referred to the different words the Greeks had for our word “love.” It seems they in their language distinguished between brotherly love or sexual love or love for God; at least that’s what the preachers preached about. However, in our culture we know from the Beatles that “All You Need Is Love” and from the Church that “God is Love,” but we don’t get very much sophistication about what “love” means. It’s the same word on the graffiti in the bathroom, the “come on” in pornography, the images in our art and the aspirations of our Bible.

And here I am looking for a nuance that will tell me if my “love” will, for example, support a man in walking through the valleys and the shadows of death.

My spiritual mentor, Rick Diamond, tells me he is writing a book about “love.” He is afraid to send it to the publisher. I am hoping he can find the courage because I can hardly wait. In that, I do not think I am alone.

I know I have been “in love” several times with varying responses or results; I have “loved my fellow man” just as I have betrayed him; I have “loved” many noble causes and ideals, and behaved similarly to others that were not so noble or idyllic. It is hard to come to any generalization about “love” from those experiences – either the good or the bad. And so, right now, sitting here believing that God is, indeed, “Love,” it is difficult to believe that I know anything at all about Him or what to expect from Him.

Even if I try to put different words, like the Greeks, or different concepts, like separate formulas, or even try to apply the different stories, like the phases of my life, I cannot reach a comfort level with “love,” to rely on the word with any degree of faith or confidence.

Someone else tells me that the problem is that “love” is a verb, not a noun. That seems to make matters worse. I cannot hope to do that which I cannot fathom. And so it seems that my actions and aspirations are limited by my failure to know “love.” I might be absolutely committed to doing everything and anything for “love,” and not have the vaguest notion about what I am actually doing.

Today I’m confronting the notion of “tough love.” That seems to be a nuance of “love” (or “tough” too for that matter) that has some applicability or relevance at this time.

My comprehension and feelings about “tough” do not seem nearly as shaky and undependable as those regarding “love.” Yet, I confess an almost tangible anxiety about whether “tough love” is an oxymoron, perhaps a cruel one. Whether I should dismiss the Old Testament, the rules, the parents, and all the other authorities as merely barbaric; I realize that I am angry and jealous and violent and rebellious and a parent myself… .

The idea that education has to be painful seems to be a primary tenet of “tough love.” I must be a harsh, almost cruel taskmaster to be an effective teacher, mentor, parent, leader – I know you get the point. While the caricature of the nun at Catholic school, the coach on the sports field, the general at war, all evoke some degree of derision and disapproval, it seems that there is some basic belief, down inside most of us, to the effect of “that is what it takes.” Inevitably in these circumstances there is the parable of the Indian mother who does not participate in the ritual of putting her baby’s hand into the campfire; the baby thus doesn’t learn the danger of fire and is afterward extinguished in some horrific episode of combustion in one form or another, because he/she didn’t learn that fire is dangerous.

It doesn’t take much reflection to expose this parable as a load of crap. If the baby, as a baby, is exposed to the danger of fire, there is some obvious failure of adult supervision; doubtful that any degree of education to the baby equips that baby to protect him/her self. If the baby makes it to any degree of maturity and doesn’t, on his/her recognizance, learn about flames, heat, pain, injury, then fire is probably the least of their worries. It turns out that the ritual, with the parents all around the campfire collectively engaging in child abuse, is about some cultural programming that does not have anything to do with the specific danger of fire at all. How we cannot be trusted to find out things for ourselves. How we must learn about stuff, like fire, according to the rituals and rules that have been laid down by the caretakers. How we cannot take care of ourselves, but rather, must rely on the caretakers and the rules and the rituals to protect us. How pain is part of the punishment to be administered by our caretakers for our failures and frailties.

Often we apply the same methodology of the Indian fire ritual to language, math, maturity, manhood, culture, social clubs, religion, Jesus and God. Maybe there is even some strain of this mentality in the story of Jesus’ death on the cross – even Jesus, and maybe even God, have to learn the hard way. Tough love?

I confess that my negative feelings about “tough love” are likely because most of the time that concept has been brought up to me, it has been a negative assessment; in fact, as I think about it, most of the time I have brought it up to others it has also been as a negative assessment. “Tough love,” or more accurately the lack of it, is how we have screwed up our children, our grandchildren or our families, or is the change that is needed to competently deal with family crises. “Tough love” is the reason you have to tell your buddy that his zipper is down, or that he is drinking too much; why you have to tell your wife that her butt is too saggy for that pair of pants. “Tough love” is making clear the mistake so he/she can properly learn from it; withholding what he/she wants “for their own good.” Just thinking about it, clearly there is a fine line between being a “tough lover,” and being a judgmental asshole.

There is an unmistakable trend in the evidence that the best I want for others corresponds with my perception of (1) what is best for me, and/or (2) my own value judgments about what is “best.” It also occurs to me that while there is the “tough love” in a lot of these situations, too often the “love” is for him/her and the “tough” inures to my benefit one way or the other; maybe to pay the loved one back for the inconvenient consequences imposed on me. Too many times the “tough” is tougher than the “love” is loving.

I wonder if there is “tough love,” are there other kinds or variations of love that we need to consider – “soft love,” “crazy love,” “dumb love,” “foolish love,” “pointless love…” ? More fundamentally, I wonder if “love” needs any kind of modifier at all? In the lives of us all, pain and pleasure, joy and sorrow, peace and turmoil all certainly come into play. The question is, “Do we need different rationales for these things that happen to us, or that we bring to the lives of others around us – different kinds of love – to make sense and, more importantly, to keep our concept of love intact? It seems this may be just another articulation of the problem of evil – it is easy enough to believe in God’s love and the love given to us by others in the good times, but what about the other stuff that happens? It seems easy enough to love God and love others when things are going the way we want, but how do we react in the other times?

“Tough love” tells me/you that, “what doesn’t kill me/you makes us stronger.” What is the point of being strongly miserable? Is that the best I can do? Is that the best God can do?

So, we come to the nub of it, Eric Clapton a/k/a Derek and the Dominoes wails “Why does love have to be so sad?”

I could say it is because I don’t understand – don’t see the whole picture.
I could say it is because I only focus on myself.
I could say it is because I’m not trying to see the glass half-full.
I could say it is because my character is bad, or at least flawed in some fundamental way.
I could say it is because my third grade teacher blamed me for something I didn’t do.
I could say it is because my mother quit breast-feeding me too soon – or too late.
I could say it is because my dad moved us around too much.

I have said all of that stuff. I think maybe you have said most of that stuff too. Look at it. I wonder when it is that I started wanting sympathy instead of love? I wonder, is that desire for sympathy instead of love the reason for the attraction of “tough love?”

I heard a local blues musician, W.C. Clark, talking to a bunch of kids about his music.
“Some people ask my why the blues is such sad music,” he said.
Then he laughed with a twinkle in his eye, “I don’t know how they can say that when you see that you can’t listen without tapping your foot or clapping your hands.”

I think it’s hard for me to remember sometimes why I’m tapping my foot – that feeling of rebellion and defiance against the “tough” that is unmistakably and undeniably joy itself. I think it hard for me to remember sometimes that the joy is inside me and all around me, built into me and everybody and everything, no matter what I try to do to cover it up, to change it up, or to screw it up.

I think it important for a believer to remember the gift of God’s love. When we sing that sad song, we will all clap our hands together.