- Thanksgiving from the perspective of a thermometer -

thought up by rob | | Posted On Thursday, November 19 at 8:58 PM

Thanksgiving is almost here, and, in my opinion, this time of the year accents the contrast between warm and cold more so than any other. We are a country of many climates, so the days may still be warm in many places. But in many other places (including Denver) the evenings bring a distinct crispness. In contrast to the white and grays that have begun to dominate the natural landscape, we start wearing a combination of warm hues from brown, red, yellow, and orange foundations. Coffee options expand to include Pumpkin Spice and Gingerbread Lattes as alternatives to fight the chill. An evening drive through your neighborhood will underscore my point: the light radiating from some of the houses is cordial and inviting compared to the empty, swift-setting darkness outside.

Whether by wrapping our bodies with a sweater or joining our friends for a hot cup of Joe, we respond to the seasonal chill by creating contexts of warmth. When it gets cold outside, we realize how harsh (or uncomfortable) the elements can be and we naturally seek refuges of warmth.

But what I’m describing that happens on a physical level also happens on a deeper-than-physical level, too - perhaps, within the spiritual layer of our humanity. Who among us has not sought a “warm refuge” when the elements of life have born down upon us? Who hasn’t tried to “wrap themselves” in the most convenient warm thing in an effort to feel comforted from the chill of everyday living? The truth is that we all have in various ways, and the warmth we often choose is not really warmth at all; it's more of an illusory sensation of warmth.

Although a delight to taste buds nationwide, Thanksgiving is more than yams and turkey and cranberries. It is a time to remember and give thanks to God for his promise of rest if we go to him (matthew 11.28). It’s a time when the attention of our hearts is reoriented to the true warmth of the tremendous grace, inexplicable love, and very wise provision of God.

After draining a nice grande cafe pumpkin-ginger spice latte Americano (or something like that), we are again prepared to step back into the chilly atmosphere. Similarly, spending time in the warm setting of a presence as real as God readies us to step back into the everyday flow of life with a renewed hope and a vision of direction.

This Thanksgiving, as we gather in warm places to eat, watch football, play games, and catch up with friends, may we be stirred into a moment of perspective in which we allow ourselves to be loved truly and out of which we can extend love to others, creating space for the "warmth" of God to be truly felt.
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- skewed by our own good intentions -

thought up by rob | Labels: , , | Posted On Sunday, November 8 at 5:43 PM

This evening my thoughts are busy with the ideas from a book I just finished entitled Reimagining Church: Pursuing the Dream of Organic Christianity, by Frank Viola (2008). I've forgotten just how I came across the book, but when you become interested in something, you naturally find yourself collecting things that increase the interest you already have. This is most likely how Viola's book found itself on my shelf - I probably thought it would be a good addition to the collection of things that contribute to my interest in movements within the Christian Church.
At any rate, I finished the book just yesterday, and I'd like to process some thoughts and responses here.

Over the last ten years or so, a ton of books about reimagining the Protestant Church in America have been penned. I have to admit, I'm a sucker for these kinds of books, because reimagining almost anything is appealing to me. In most cases, I can't stand status quo. My Meyers-Briggs warns that working within a structured system is difficult for me. I like to challenge, critique, and (re)create, often to the chagrin of people with personalities heavy in the opposite spectrum from mine.

But I have a healthy respect for orthodoxy, too (a.k.a. established practices). Developing a sound sense of respect for past customs, traditions, behaviors, movements, and practices is important, but it does not (and should not) lend itself to blind followship. Knowing and respecting what was important to those who came before us doesn't mean that those very same things have to be important to us also. I would contend, though, that they should inform the decisions we make about what is important to us. Each generation should investigate these things for itself, as should each person individually. It's possible that we may arrive at the same conclusions as prior generations, and it's probable that we arrive at very different ones.

I digress. With all these books "out there" on the shelves, one can get sucked into some sucky ideas and read some sucky writing. Writing a book is difficult, time consuming, energy-draining, and should reflect something out of the heart of the author. At least, that's how I think a book should be written. And for those sacrifices, I salute authors. But a lot of what I see on the shelves is repetitive, poorly-written, and seems to serve more as an amplifier for the author's ego. (Point of insight: more often than not, if the author's face is plastered from corner to corner on the front cover, that's your first clue that the whole project has more to do with massaging the author's ego than anything else.)

Now, I'm writing about Christian authors in particular. And too few of them are courageous enough to simply be honest...with themselves and with their readers. I know I'm being savagely critical, but perusing the "Christian" section at my local bookstore (and actually picking a few off the shelf for a perfunctory read) is similar to watching those first few episodes of American Idol. So many of those ridiculous auditioners on Idol were "encouraged" by their family or friends to get on the stage and give it a go, and they end up getting told harshly in public (by Simon) what they should have been told gently in private: that they're not great singers and they should concentrate on succeeding in another area. It seems like many authors (again, particularly within the "Christian/religious" genre) have been encouraged to do something they should have been honestly and gently pursuaded not to endeavor. I'm a huge advocate of following one's dreams, yet a little honesty (used properly) can go a long way. And this is where I come back to Frank Viola's book.

Very rarely is someone able to accurately identify the core issue of a problem. What's even more uncommon is for someone to then offer an honest, well thought out and accurate alternative solution to consider. More often, we identify and try to remedy symptoms that masquerade as the problem. Being the skeptic that I am, I wonder sometimes if "leaders" in the Christian subculture enjoy their status and stature as a big fish in the proverbial pond. Being honest can get you thrown out of the pond. So, fear and pride trump honesty and humility. In this way, I found Viola's honesty refreshing! Take this quote as an example.

"I believe it's time that we honestly examined the structural integrity of the modern church system. I strongly believe that the clergy system, which includes the modern pastoral office, is what needs to be abandoned. It's the system that's one of the main culprits, not the people, the motives, or the intentions. (p 269)

Viola precedes the above paragraph with a whole book of reasons why he believes the "structural integrity" of the modern church system is unhealthy (read it to find out), and I think an important question to ask is, "Is he right?" Does the modern clergy system and pastoral office need to be deconstructed? Note that Viola differentiates between the system and the people, the system and the motives. Systems are logical responses to chaos, and they are helpful (and even necessary) in many cases, and it often makes sense to institute systems to remedy inefficiency. Unfortunately, systems do damage to our humanity, to the messy nature of our existence.

So, there's still a question that's left to be asked. It's an honest question that deserves our honest attention. It's a question that could be interpreted as a threat to many people I know. It's a question that strikes at the heart of my own training and education. And it's a question that's only the tip of a larger iceberg of questions. The question is this: Is the modern clergy system and/or pastoral office that leads churches today an unbiblical presence?
It's a question that sounds bad. We're not supposed to challenge these kinds of things. But systems can ingrain themselves so deeply into our reality that they become the reality around which we create everything else. Might our perception of "the church" be skewed by our own good intentions?
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- remembering how to believe -

thought up by rob | Labels: , , | Posted On Friday, October 23 at 8:54 PM

Here's my confession: I neglect my blog and should be reprimanded...

Now that that's out of the way, I'll get on to some other things - like who I think blogs work best for: pastors, entertainers, and humorists. These people either have something real to say or have a followship of people who are anxious to listen. I'm very comfortable with the fact that I am none of those, have no followship, and therefore have nothing to worry about if I let my blog go for almost four months without an update. I did have one friend who encouraged me to update, which was incredibly nice. You know, if even only for one person; here we go...

Anyway, a lot has happened since I last posted in June (duh - four months worth of stuff). I think I was venting about some lost baggage back then. I've since reconnected with that bag, and all that trouble has passed. It sure was fun to write about, though. And the whole experience led to several pleasant and unexpected encounters with people who ended up being object lessons of love in the midst of my luggage hissy-fit. But, that's how most lessons are learned, right? We achieve a certain level of self-loathing and/or pretentiousness, we have an encounter that lends us a hunk of perspective, and realignment is initiated.

I'd like to write about all the things that happened over the past four months, but I won't indulge myself that immensely (or expect you to be that interested). My wife and I did move again. We've been married for just about two-and-a-half years now, and we've rented five different places (that's an average of like 7 months in each place!). This past move was local, though - only about a 12 mile difference. We were living just outside of Denver proper, in the suburbs. Now we're actually in Denver (zip 80210), in a neighborhood closer to the city where we can function as part of a local community and be patrons of local businesses. Suburbs leave little to the imagination and, in my opinion, lack a cultural texture that's necessary for living richly. We're incredibly happy about the change.

But enough with the personal updates. Maybe some of those encounters I had on the road back in June will come out in succeeding posts. Que sera sera, no?

This blog is about ideas and thoughts, good literature and lyrics, the human condition and other things that may make us think or laugh...or do both at the same time (yes, that would be amazing). So, I have a couple of those kinds of things to jot down here. As a junior in college (2001) my roommate introduced me to David Gray's music. His album White Ladder had come out the previous spring, and his single "Babylon" was playing daily on the indie/jam band/cool music radio station we listened to in Mobile, AL. There were a couple of songs on that album with which I connected almost instantly either for their beat or lyrics, or both: "Sail Away," "Silver Lining," "Say Hello Wave Goodbye" (which Gray covered from the UK group Soft Cell), and the title track, "White Ladder."

More importantly, being turned on to White Ladder led me to investigate the rest of Gray's catalogue of music at that time. What I encountered was a swath of songs that immediately reached out to me as a Humanities major studying the cocktail of ephemeral subjects that don't help you even half-way land a job after graduation. One of Gray's albums remained in my CD player longer than any other, and one track on that album played significantly more than the rest.

The album is Lost Songs, and the track is the first: "Flame Turns Blue." I mention it now because, as I've had the apartment to myself over the last few days while my wife is elk hunting with her father (yes, that's right: my wife is elk hunting, and I'm at home blogging about existentialism), I've been playing/listening to Gray's DVD, Live at the Point (2001) which has a great live version of "Flame Turns Blue."

As the smell of freshly cut grass can take a guy back in time to when, as a kid, he stood on the baseball diamond with dreams of playing in the majors, hearing Gray sing the opening lines of "Flame Turns Blue" takes me immediately back to a sweet time in my life - a time when, as a student, I was absorbing a mixture of information academically, spiritually, emotionally, socially, and physically that set the course for my life and pointed me toward who I have met along the way; a time when I was aggressively pursuing belief.

Here are a few lines from the song:

I went looking for someone I left behind,
Yeah, but no one, just a stranger did I find...

Different places, yeah but they all look much the same,
Dreams of faces in the streets devoured by names,
I'm in collision with every stone I ever threw,
And blind ambition where the flame turns blue...

Words dismantled, hey and all the books unbound
Conversations, though we utter not a sound...

Over the years I've read different suggestions for what this song means: heartache, separated lovers, hope of reconnection, etc. I guess I'm no longer as curious about the songs meaning as much as how the lyrics describe an almost universal experience: a search.

It's a search for identity and, yes, love. It's a search to connect what we've learned and experienced to something meaningful, to something that has value beyond ourselves. A search even to believe in such things as goodness, truth, justice, love, kindness.

The older I get (I'm 29 - old and young all at the same time), the more difficult it has become to exercise the search that Gray's lyrics describe. But, if we cease exploring the ideals of life, then we forfeit an important aspect of hope - hope that things may actually become what they should, that good would prevail over evil, and that, even though we may feel hit by every stone we ever threw, there is grace enough for us all to get up after the beating...and a purpose that's strong enough to compel us to stand up once again and continue moving forward.

Lost Songs is the album onto which Gray decided to record his song, "Flame Turns Blue." This is prophetic in a sense, because the search that his song causes me to think of often gets lost in the clutter of life. I don't know what might broaden your perspective these days - maybe a smell, maybe a song - but perhaps we can all believe afresh, like when we first became aware of believing. For me, this means actively and meditatively remembering the Way of Christ, the way of humble truth, the way of unprovoked love, the way of remarkable grace. Remembering how to believe is something we can never forget to do.

until next time...
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- when it pours, we get wet -

thought up by rob | Labels: , , | Posted On Friday, June 12 at 8:59 AM

"When it rains, it pours..." - quoted by anyone who has ever travelled.

Since taking up my current job a few years back, I go on some pretty cool work trips during the summer. I work for a ministry that sends volunteers into national parks across the country to lead Christian worship services on Sundays. So for about two weeks in the summer I get to travel to many of these parks (places like Grand Teton National Park, the Grand Canyon, Glacier National Park, Yosemite, etc.) and meet our volunteers, offering them encouragement and also supervising the ministry programs in the area. Pretty cool work...

Yesterday, I embarked on what I'll call National Park Tour '09, which has me going into Appalachia country: Shenandoah National Park in Virginia, several locations along the Blue Ridge National Parkway, and then into Great Smoky Mtn National Park just outside of Gatlinburg, TN. After having lived in Denver for about three-fourths of a year, I was excited to return to my pseudo Southern roots for a little while - if only for my skin to experience humidity again. Most people know that there's a special colloquialism to the south (particularly in the Blue Ridge Mtns) that one hardly finds elsewhere. People speak with the draw of a slow-played fiddle, and the tempo of life is almost audibly unhurried - like someone riding the breaks of their car. The air is thick and sticky like family...everybody complains about it, but they wouldn't know what to do if it weren't there. I was peacefully happy knowing that I'd be spending two weeks in the Blue Ridge.

The proverbial rain started coming down as I was waiting for my bag at the luggage turnstile at the airport in Greensboro, NC. We've all been there, conjuring Providence, hopeful that our luggage emerges from the dragon's lair of luggage chaos. Alas, mine did not (shocker!). Okay...so I, along with the three other butts of this god-forsaken joke, lined up to make our claims. I don't know why we do this, because it seems like even if Moses himself were to etch our claim into stone for the airline...with a photo of the luggage...with an arrow pointing at the thing with our name and headshot next to it, there'd still be confusion. Well, I knew that I'd mix things up for John, our up-beat claims man; you see, I didn't have an address or phone number where I'd be staying the night. First of all, I still had about a 5 hr drive ahead of me and was staying at a Motel 6 for the night before moving along to various locations for the next 12 nights. This was way too much for John, who advised me to just call "the number" at the bottom of my claims form to "update" the address when I had one.

Okay. Fair enough. So, I took the claims form and went to get my rental car (an awesome, shiny, two-door Chevy Cobalt!) It's got a spoiler on the back...you know, just to keep it on the road at high speeds ;) So I hit the road and am on my way from Greensboro, NC, to Harrisonburg, VA - as I mentioned, about a 5 hr drive. The first thing I do is try calling "the number" to update my address. Of course, this particular airline outsources their customer service, so I'm patched in to a person with an accent/dialect that I absolutely cannot understand...and I really tried to understand by asking over and over again, "I'm sorry, could you repeat that?..." and "I apologize, I didn't catch that. Would you mind repeating what you just said?..." After a mutual Hooked on Phonics lesson, we finally connected on the idea that I was calling to give him an address where the airline could deliver my bag. "Ooooohhhh," said he. "You will need to wait at least four more hours before calling back with the address." Huh? Apparently, the technology they use is slower than the rapture.

I did get an explanation (which I will spare you here), and continued on my way to Harrisonburg, via NC/Virginia back roads to Roanoke. About halfway to Roanoke, I realized that my cell phone and Garmin GPS (which would come in handy, I thought, on the many rural Blue Ridge back roads I was going to take) were both on their last legs of battery. No problem! I packed car chargers for each (And, by the way, was proud that I had remembered to do so!). So I searched for the Cobalt charger outlets. Found one! No juice...for either chargers. Hey there's one more in the console. Again, not a flicker...for either chargers. Sigh (a.k.a. are you kidding me!?).

So I called the rental counter at the Greensboro airport, told them what the problem was, explained to them that I was way too far now to turn around and get a different car, and explained to them that this was an important expectation of my rental experience! They were helpful and transferred me to a sister location in Roanoke, VA, where I'd be passing through within the hour. They advised me to explain the situation to them and thought they might be able to switch cars with me. After getting cut-off twice from the Roanoke rental counter (remember, I'm on back roads), I finally learned that they have no cars. But what was just a little agitating was that the guy helping me had about as much of an idea of Virginia geography as I did. He advised me to "find a large metropolitan area and search for a Budget rental service location..." and said that I might be able to find something in D.C. (as in Washington D.C.), which wasn't anywhere near where I explained to him I'd be. No luck. If he couldn't help, the car was a moot point - I'd just have to navigate the old fashioned way...although I had no map/atlas with me.

As a last ditch, I decided to go ahead and purchase an atlas. At least, then I'd have a visual of where I was (although I recognize that I should have packed my atlas to begin with). Ah, there's a Walmart! Can you believe they had not one atlas in that store...not a one. By this time, things were closing down, as it was getting late in Appalachia. My next search would be the local gas station. Apparently, this town didn't believe in atlases; they had none either. Well, I decided I'd return, then, to the whole luggage situation and called "the number" once more. Again, I was connected to international service and had to, again, find a common vocabulary. I was finally able to update my address and was assured my bag would find its way to my motel by dawn. I called my wife to say goodnight and the phone died... I make it to the motel with the last bit of juice left on the Garmin, check in, and enter dreamland almost immediately - a land where I have my luggage and a comfy rental car in which all the outlets work as they should.

Morning: I'm dying to know if my bag made it, so I call the front desk. "Hi - good morning. I'm the poor sap whose bag is being toyed with by the big, mean airport people. Has it arrived yet?"...or something like that. "I'm sorry, sir, nothing's come in from any airport." (sigh 2.0) So, I called "the number" one more time, just to get some sort of idea when to expect my luggage. 1:40pm is when they told me it would be landing at Shenandoah Valley Regional Airport. Ah, at least I had a time & destination. Even though check-out was at 12noon, the motel attendants took pity on me and said I could still use their address as a drop-off location. Success! All I have to do now is wait until about 2pm, get my bag, and head on to my next destination (which is actually up in Shenandoah Nat'l Park - about 1 twisty mountain hour-drive away; a place with no address - just a milepost marker on the Blue Ridge Parkway). So I take care of some work-related errands. 3pm rolls around, and I have received no notification of any kind. You're tired of me saying it, but I called "the number" once more to inquire. They tell me that my bag was "scanned in at Washington Dulles Internat'l Airport in Washington D.C." and is not scheduled to go anywhere.

What!? My bag is sitting at the airport in D.C.? Why? How? I was speechless, for my vocal intentions were being pulled in so many directions. Somebody help...please! Well, I simmer my steam and call back with a plan to drive the 2hrs to Dulles, pick up my bag AND exchange the car (the ole' kill two birds scheme). I'm told, "Sorry Mr. Folly (that's how he insisted on pronouncing my name) but your bag is not at the luggage retention center."

Folly explodes.

"I can sense your frustration, Mr. Folly, but Dulles is a very large airport."

Nuclear explosion.

Well, Mr. Folly, your bag is already scheduled to leave Dulles [not sure when] and it's not an easy process to get it to the retention center."

Folly: "I thought you said it wasn't scheduled to go anywhere. Whatever; can't you unschedule it!? - I'm willing to just go pick it up!"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Folly, I'd have to speak with an administrator at baggage claim for that."

Folly: "Okay. So, let's call."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Folly, I do not have access to that number. You can give me the address of where you'll be tonight and we can deliver your bag promptly."

Folly: "There is no address - just a mile post. By the way, what's 'promptly?'"

"Well, Mr. Folly, I am unable to tell you what flight your bag will be on to Shenandoah Valley Airport; there's a flight scheduled to land at 7:40pm tonight, and a second scheduled to land at 10:30pm." ...

So, I figure my reasonable options are all exhausted at this point. I am now at a Panera Bread Company eschewing the whole situation with as much fortitude as I have. In the Shenandoah Valley there are a lot of churches, most of them Baptist. It reminds me of my early days growing up in First Baptist Church of New Orleans, and I am calmed by the memory of good people who handled life with a serenity that I know did not come gratis. Their serenity becomes my serenity. I anchor the tempo of my speech to that of a slow-played fiddle, ride the squeally breaks of existence, and hope that as beautiful a sound can emerge from my life as the ones I've heard emanate from the people who smile at me from my past.
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- the alluded pursuit -

thought up by rob | Labels: , | Posted On Monday, May 25 at 7:07 AM

A blog is an account of one's perspective, and I feel like it should have a strong title and description that, like a compass, points to something beyond itself. With that, I'd like to explain what I mean by "the alluded pursuit."

I first learned about the word allusion in high school while studying one of Shakespeare's plays. I've since forgotten all about the play (even which one it was), but the poetic device, lyrical tool, or literary maneuver (whatever you want to call it) of allusion made a nest in the tree of my mind. I remember privately teeming with intrigue about this remarkable way of speaking and writing, for it acknowledged and confirmed deeper veins of Truth that I was beginning to observe beneath the surface of things.

Later on, as the liberal arts education I was receiving in college began its good work, I quickly realized that Shakespeare didn't have exclusive rights to allusion, and I enjoyed learning how different poets and authors utilized this appliance of communication. Eventually, I made what was for me a very crucial observation: that our very lives are allusions (not to be confused with illusions) indirectly referencing something beyond the level of our existence. Our very humanity is an often blunt gesture toward a deeper layer of reality - one that functions with the senses but also beyond them; transcendent yet palpable, lucid yet ambiguous.

In the movie Garden State, there is a vulnerable and pivotal scene in which the main character, Andrew Largeman (played by Zach Braff), declares to his father, “This is my life, Dad, this is it. I spent 26 years waiting for something else to start. …I see now it's all of it. …let's just allow ourselves to be whatever it is we are and that will be better.” Although he was struggling to rid himself of medicines that distanced and numbed him, perhaps what resonates is how Andrew Largeman, symbolic of many twenty-something year-olds, verbalizes his desire to pursue the alluded life: a niche, a confirmed identity, an unclouded purpose.

As I slowly continue to creep out of my twenties, the sensation of sliding into new territory of “growing up” becomes stronger; the idealism and zeal of my early twenties is being refined as I adopt characteristics I always attributed to my parents as they dealt with issues of finance, deadlines, marital communication, and time distribution. The deterioration that happens to hair and skin and toenails are slowly happening to mine. It is clear that I am now living the life I was always learning would be lived, and I can only suppose that you have sensed this to some degree in your own lives, too. The peculiar issue that surrounds me now is the concept of niche, or lving into the existence to which my life alludes.

In a recent interview with the Denver Post, a local folk musician explained his trade this way: "I do what I do because I have to." To some, his response may seem a bit soppy with idealism and intoned with the Romanticism of an aloof artist. To me, however, his rejoinder is an affirmation of a deeply perceptive statement written by Eugene Peterson in his book Under the Unpredictable Plant: when one finds himself doing what he has been called to do he is like a “poet in the making of a poem.”

Our lives are, indeed, allusive gestures of an indelible pursuit for that which answers the question mark of our soul and initiates a Holy, ambrosial poem for the poet in us all. Jesus once said to his disciples, "Whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for me will find it" (matthew 16.25). We live in a miluie of becoming what we should not by trying to find life by not letting go of it. This is the alluded pursuit: that we would become what we should with, in, and for Christ.

Let us pursue eagerly and with patience, mindful that it is often in the pursuit that the allusion is grasped.
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