Monday, April 30, 2012
Intractable
We interrupt this renewal leave for just a few minutes of reflection.
in·trac·ta·ble
[in-trak-tuh-buh l]
- adjective
1.not easily controlled or directed; not docile or manageable; stubborn; obstinate: an intractable disposition.
2.(of things) hard to shape or work with: an intractable metal.
3.hard to treat, relieve, or cure: the intractable pain in his leg.- noun
4.an intractable person.
I've observed the proceedings in Tampa these past days.
I've done so only through the words of those there, some of whom I know well and hold with deepest respect and affection, as well as others I know who are there for whom respect and affection are not the first thoughts that rise up in me ( it's my spirit work to do on that front, I admit freely).
I've not watched it online. I've not needed to. There are enough of you out there doing it for me - commenting and linking by the hour it seems. Right, Dad?
Some thoughts going into the home stretch (an apt image given the Derby is coming, and soon).
What we are seeing in Tampa is the product of a system so entrenched, so intractable that even if the winds of Pentecost were to blow through the place we'd be inclined to complain that it's interrupting the ever so important work we've come to do.
In a time when the world moves fast and systems and structures must adapt to be relevant, we continually demonstrate that ours is incapable. It's not entirely our fault. As my friend Sky recently commented, we've reaped what we've sown. And yes, I knew exactly what he meant.
Place incapability alongside unwillingness, and you've a deadly duo.
And let's be clear, we are unwilling.
We are unwilling to change. On a personal level, we understand how hard that is. How do you like when you are told you need to change? Get your back up a bit? Now imagine that feeling on steroids and wrapped in religious rhetoric. There you go.
Why are we unwilling? Why are we incapable?
A word first about the latter. Ours was a system from its inception that had built in protections from dramatic change. It's baked into the cake. There's some wisdom in that, no doubt. But we've met change slowly and often after the ship has sailed.
Historically, we've displayed capacity to adapt to social change more quickly than systemic change, but that has not always been the case. The Social Creed of 1908 was a masterwork of its time reflecting the influences of the Social Gospel and the emergence of industry's effect on people. Read it. It still holds up.
But we've not always been so bold.
We equivocated on slavery. We were embarrassingly slow on women in ministry and then patted ourselves on the back for how forward thinking we were. We change only after the issue is no longer prophetic in witness, just a sad commentary on why it takes us so long to do the God thing.
Systemic change though is another thing altogether. It's a tough one. Once established, systems seem to live on held together with the glue of arrogance that the world must adapt to the realities of its existence, not the other way round.
Unwilling? You bet. What we're seeing in Tampa is a global delegation who arrived convinced on certain questions. There is no room for the Spirit to move if you're already locked in on how you'll vote on certain questions based on the constituencies who have you in their back pocket.
There's nothing wrong with differing perspectives seeking to get theirs to you in advance. I signed the Common Witness statement. I did it because the Church is wrong and needs to change. I did it because this is not an issue, these are people, people I know, people I love, people whose faithfulness to Christ often places into judgment my own. I believe...no, I know it is the more faithful response to the call of God than what we're currently observing, but beyond showing support, my signature doesn't mean anything.
What does have meaning is the willingness of those gathered to stop acting like Congress whose members have been sufficiently lobbied (with all that entails) who find it their sole mission to placate the gods of the special interests that put them there, and act more like disciples of Jesus Christ whose measure of faithfulness is whether or not we are following him.
Consider, we purport to be carriers of Good News that liberates, and yet we behave as if we don't need it. It's hard to make disciples of Jesus Christ for the transformation of the world when you're not open to being transformed.
We need to stop acting like we've arrived, and act more like people willing to follow wherever that leads us.
But that takes faith. And courage.
And when our intractability so supersedes our faith it then reveals our highest priorities...it doesn't matter how well we wrap them in religious speak, when our priorities and our votes persistently protect the ways we want and how we want them....the truth is before us.
The inability and unwillingness to adopt change of any kind - be it in structure, authority, or true inclusion have nothing to do with God and everything to do with a system impotent to reform itself.
Biblically speaking, think of it as hearts hardened, or the lack of power shown in the face of unbelief.
Absent substantive reform we've two options remaining---revolution, from a split (not likely because even that takes courage), or cascade collapse from the inside out as a result of a system that values its survival over faithfulness.
Nothing is more arrogant than thinking that the Realm of God can't come into being in its fullness unless The United Methodist Church is there. And while no one would say it quite that way in Tampa, we're acting like it's etched in stone.
Unless we show we've the capacity to move, to follow, to exercise faith it may just be etched in stone.
A tombstone.
But that may not be so bad. What's this Easter thing about?
I've got two more weeks---I'm out.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Eight
Eight years.
So much has happened in eight years.
So much life lived.
I look at my children and see what eight years looks like.
I look at myself in the mirror and there they are etched in winkles and grey hair.
Eight years ago our family lost Jimmy.
For most of those eight years it was my open wound whose pain I could not hide despite my best intentions to do so. It revealed itself in my appearance, demeanor.
Whoever said time heals all wounds is full of shit.
It doesn't.
God's grace does--in the people who love you and see you through, no matter what, even when you don't want to be loved. I'm blessed to have a few of those people in my life. I've not thanked them for who they are to me like I should. They're not seeking it.
We've all had to deal with the impact of Jimmy's life and death in our own way. My sister and my parents have had their own pains to wrestle with and through. Jimmy's wife and son are eight years in living life and seeking to do it well.
And so have any of you who knew him.
Make no mistake about it, the kid left an impression.
Eight years on I'm realizing he still does.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
So much has happened in eight years.
So much life lived.
I look at my children and see what eight years looks like.
I look at myself in the mirror and there they are etched in winkles and grey hair.
Eight years ago our family lost Jimmy.
For most of those eight years it was my open wound whose pain I could not hide despite my best intentions to do so. It revealed itself in my appearance, demeanor.
Whoever said time heals all wounds is full of shit.
It doesn't.
God's grace does--in the people who love you and see you through, no matter what, even when you don't want to be loved. I'm blessed to have a few of those people in my life. I've not thanked them for who they are to me like I should. They're not seeking it.
We've all had to deal with the impact of Jimmy's life and death in our own way. My sister and my parents have had their own pains to wrestle with and through. Jimmy's wife and son are eight years in living life and seeking to do it well.
And so have any of you who knew him.
Make no mistake about it, the kid left an impression.
Eight years on I'm realizing he still does.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
Saturday, March 24, 2012
It's Always in the Room
This post contains unedited, racially charged language. If that offends, good. It should. God knows it did me to write it. But we can't deal with what we won't address.
Treyvon Martin is dead.
I believe he's the victim of a crime....a hate crime. That, at this hour the person who pulled the trigger is not in custody propagates the perception that black kids, especially young black men are to be suspected, feared and a problem to be handled and "extreme prejudice" is a justifiable solution.
By all accounts, not least of which is the 911 tape, George Zimmerman was possessed to profile and pursue Treyvon. But why? What was it that deafened George's ears to ignore the order of the 911 operator to stand down?
Was it rage demanding action after a rash of thefts?
Was it lust for recognition that George was the neighborhood watch hero?
Was it a perceived need to protect territory from certain people who dress a certain way who were invading his space?
Whatever was true about why Treyvon sought cover from the rain, as he stood under the awing of an apartment complex clubhouse, on his way back home to catch the second half of the NBA All Star Game--to George, moved to get out of his vehicle, pursue Treyvon, brandish his 9mm, place his finger on the trigger and pull it, what is clear is this - Treyvon received no consideration whatsoever. And why should he? Unless my ears deceive me, to George, Treyvon was not a kid packing skittles and ice tea seeking cover from the rain as he took a short cut home. He was a hoodie wearing thug. He was a "fucking coon."
It's not unusual that when something occurs so egregious that the population collectively recoils at its injustice. The tendency, however, is that we isolate the issues the event raises to the place it occurred. True enough, Sanford has a history. In this case alone, how is it that Zimmerman wasn't placed into custody immediately, even if he was "standing his ground (how one stands one's ground when pursuing someone is a neat trick)? How is it that the weapon involved wasn't placed into evidence? Why was Treyvon's corpse drug tested but not Zimmerman?
Every community has a history. Some more tortured than others, but all communities do.
I've heard too many commentators in their relentless (if not fruitless) pursuit for relevance, set up the rhetorical straw man that it's so hard to believe that in the 21st Century we still have to deal with issues of race...as if but for the few caricatured reprobates out there we'd have the whole racial thing licked.
It's about the dumbest thing I've ever heard. The web of issues intertwined in all that occurred in Sanford that day are not the exclusive domain of that Florida town. The truth that must be acknowledged is this - they reside first in the human heart. As such, it's always in the room.
Always.
I don't care how enlightened you think you are...how above it all you position yourself to be, if there is someone else in your presence...anyone else, it's in the room.
Awareness of difference is as fundamental as realizing that "you" are not "me." That which is different impacts each of us, well, differently. As does different differences elicit different responses.
He's white. She's poor. They're gay. These folks don't speak my language. He's a right winger. She's a bleeding heart liberal. They live on the other side of the tracks. While some differences prompt interest, curiosity and open willingness to know and learn something of humanity that we've not yet seen; other differences bring the response that those who are different must be perceived as a threat.
Any set of differences that gives rise to the thought "and you know how those people are," is a reliable indicator that those differences threaten.
Each of us must wrestle with the implications of "different than." Some of us celebrate difference in what we believe to be a sign of God's Realm. But even the most open minded and open hearted of us must confront the reality that not all our responses to difference are particularly holy.
George Zimmerman's reaction was based on a multitude of factors. It's hard to imagine that race was not chief among them. We all get to see the consequence of his reaction...a young man is dead, a family grieves, and Treyvon becomes another symbol of a long struggle.
The national media doesn't broadcast my responses to difference. But God knows my heart..which is too bad because there's much I try to hide. We who follow the way of Jesus know only too well that our responses to differences are to be molded in the way he did. How we accept the stranger is a sign of our faithfulness.
I can say "I love God" and that "God loves me" all day long. But those words fall empty in the absence of real outward expression. And I can only express my love for God outwardly by being in relationship with "you," whoever you are and with whatever particularities of difference from me in which you were created. My job is not to make "you," "me." It's to celebrate the "you" you are in relationship with "me" thereby creating "we."
Jesus embraced difference because he never ignored this truth....
It's always in the room.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
Treyvon Martin is dead.
I believe he's the victim of a crime....a hate crime. That, at this hour the person who pulled the trigger is not in custody propagates the perception that black kids, especially young black men are to be suspected, feared and a problem to be handled and "extreme prejudice" is a justifiable solution.
By all accounts, not least of which is the 911 tape, George Zimmerman was possessed to profile and pursue Treyvon. But why? What was it that deafened George's ears to ignore the order of the 911 operator to stand down?
Was it rage demanding action after a rash of thefts?
Was it lust for recognition that George was the neighborhood watch hero?
Was it a perceived need to protect territory from certain people who dress a certain way who were invading his space?
Whatever was true about why Treyvon sought cover from the rain, as he stood under the awing of an apartment complex clubhouse, on his way back home to catch the second half of the NBA All Star Game--to George, moved to get out of his vehicle, pursue Treyvon, brandish his 9mm, place his finger on the trigger and pull it, what is clear is this - Treyvon received no consideration whatsoever. And why should he? Unless my ears deceive me, to George, Treyvon was not a kid packing skittles and ice tea seeking cover from the rain as he took a short cut home. He was a hoodie wearing thug. He was a "fucking coon."
It's not unusual that when something occurs so egregious that the population collectively recoils at its injustice. The tendency, however, is that we isolate the issues the event raises to the place it occurred. True enough, Sanford has a history. In this case alone, how is it that Zimmerman wasn't placed into custody immediately, even if he was "standing his ground (how one stands one's ground when pursuing someone is a neat trick)? How is it that the weapon involved wasn't placed into evidence? Why was Treyvon's corpse drug tested but not Zimmerman?
Every community has a history. Some more tortured than others, but all communities do.
I've heard too many commentators in their relentless (if not fruitless) pursuit for relevance, set up the rhetorical straw man that it's so hard to believe that in the 21st Century we still have to deal with issues of race...as if but for the few caricatured reprobates out there we'd have the whole racial thing licked.
It's about the dumbest thing I've ever heard. The web of issues intertwined in all that occurred in Sanford that day are not the exclusive domain of that Florida town. The truth that must be acknowledged is this - they reside first in the human heart. As such, it's always in the room.
Always.
I don't care how enlightened you think you are...how above it all you position yourself to be, if there is someone else in your presence...anyone else, it's in the room.
Awareness of difference is as fundamental as realizing that "you" are not "me." That which is different impacts each of us, well, differently. As does different differences elicit different responses.
He's white. She's poor. They're gay. These folks don't speak my language. He's a right winger. She's a bleeding heart liberal. They live on the other side of the tracks. While some differences prompt interest, curiosity and open willingness to know and learn something of humanity that we've not yet seen; other differences bring the response that those who are different must be perceived as a threat.
Any set of differences that gives rise to the thought "and you know how those people are," is a reliable indicator that those differences threaten.
Each of us must wrestle with the implications of "different than." Some of us celebrate difference in what we believe to be a sign of God's Realm. But even the most open minded and open hearted of us must confront the reality that not all our responses to difference are particularly holy.
George Zimmerman's reaction was based on a multitude of factors. It's hard to imagine that race was not chief among them. We all get to see the consequence of his reaction...a young man is dead, a family grieves, and Treyvon becomes another symbol of a long struggle.
The national media doesn't broadcast my responses to difference. But God knows my heart..which is too bad because there's much I try to hide. We who follow the way of Jesus know only too well that our responses to differences are to be molded in the way he did. How we accept the stranger is a sign of our faithfulness.
I can say "I love God" and that "God loves me" all day long. But those words fall empty in the absence of real outward expression. And I can only express my love for God outwardly by being in relationship with "you," whoever you are and with whatever particularities of difference from me in which you were created. My job is not to make "you," "me." It's to celebrate the "you" you are in relationship with "me" thereby creating "we."
Jesus embraced difference because he never ignored this truth....
It's always in the room.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
Location:Faxon Ave,Memphis,United States
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Turn the Page
Some thoughts as 2011 has given way to 2012.
Wildernesses are hell. Always. But wildernesses journeyed through tend to bring focus and clarity where it is most needed. And what is "most needed?" Invariably, it's that of us too long enabled, or denied. It's that which perpetuates dis-ease. It's finally confronting the cumulative effect of going along to get along. It's wrestling with the failure to share the genuine self crippled by the fear that to do so is to jeopardize life as we know it. It is a spiritual death by a thousand little cuts.
I begin 2012 with a keener sense of liberation. My ministry partner these past many years is want to employ the phrase, "you get to pick" when it comes to the choices we make in life. And for all that I've ever believed or taught about free will being a sign of God's love and grace I'd found it difficult to make real in me when guided more by fear than the liberation that comes from living in grace.
It's one thing to say "I'm free." It's quite another to live freely. As it is with all expressions of freedom, there is an expectation of responsibility. But that responsibility is not to make sure everyone's happy. It is the responsibility that what is being lived out is true in me.
2011 was a significant year to draw that distinction into high relief.
It would be a lie to say I'm thankful for the wilderness. It sucked.
But 2011 brought with it some wonderful rites of passage -
A high school graduate and now college freshman whom I've so enjoyed watching taking the same field I did 30 years prior with the same trumpet I played and playing the same fight song. It's not that I'm living vicariously through him. Rather, I remember me when I was that age. I remember what I did and who I did it with, and that makes me smile.
I've got another teenage driver who could not believe that I was about to write a check for his car. How'd he think I was going to buy it? That car is him. My growth in the depth of my relationship with "L'il Bit" is among the things for which I am most thankful in the last year. He's quite a young man.
And then there's the 10 year old. He is my constant puzzle to figure out. None of my old tricks work with him. "He's not scared of you," I'm told. It's not that he sees me as his equal. I think he sees himself as my boss. And while I know you're supposed to encourage reasoning for decisions made to help the development of good choices...let's be honest, sometimes when you, the parent, says, "It's time for bed," the following 20 minutes should not be a debate. "Because I said so," sometimes needs to be enough.
-------------------------
Pre"Occupy"ied - I've not commented on "Occupy" phenomenon except for a multi-threaded, at times heated, Facebook exchange. Here's where I am on this. What I hear is lament. Yes, there is anger at the clear abuse of power and privilege that is perpetuated by a manipulation of rules. Yes, there is anger that the political system either knowingly conspired to put the pieces in place for the 2008 financial crisis, or they were too inept to know the difference.
I hear lament in the manner of the people Israel exiled from their Promised Land crying out in anguish and anger that the chance to have the life they prayed for is gone and there's nothing to be done about it. The unthinkable for the people Israel was that they could ever lose the reality of that promise. And yet, there they were in Babylon crying out, "How can we sing the Lord's song in a foreign land?"
Whatever you think about "The American Dream," there is a hue and cry from those who expected to have a fair shot at it finding that the rules of the game were changed by those in charge. It is the collapse of the American middle class. It is the unconscionable disparity of wealth in our country. And when that is acknowledged out loud critics call it "class warfare."
And they're right. It is class warfare...a war waged by stealth until the consequences could no longer be hidden. It began when those with most figured out how to get even more.
Pillars of the financial system weren't playing with house money...they were playing with yours. And, in the most audacious example of "heads I win, tails you lose," they bet against terrible risk clients that they would default while insuring themselves that if/when there was default they still got paid. Pretty sweet if you're in on that deal.
To label these folks as drum banging hippies is just too easy. It's one of the things we do. If we can put a label on someone that demeans and disparages, we really don't have to listen to what they say. Everything is filtered through our image of them.
The other critique too easily called upon is to compare how we have come to our station in life with theirs. Invariably, it is because they are lazy that they have no job, we'd say. The presupposition that each of us has the same shot at success just ain't so. So before we slip too much further into this new Gilded Age, we good Jesus people would do well to remember that it is the use, abuse and lust for money with all the implications thereto appertaining that Gospel writers have him speaking to most.
And then there's this - "Those to whom much is given, much is required." Just sayin.
--------------------------
The "Hobby" - So, I found one this past year. Some might say I've found two, that walking is one of my hobbies. But it's not. Walking is for survival. I walk to live. I do it instead of taking meds. In fact, walking is a daily medication that must be taken. That's how I've made sense of it.
So, if not walking, then what? Recording.
I first recorded with Glad River back in the mid 90's. What a wonderful time that was. Didn't have a clue what we were doing, and what I'd give to be able to go back in and redo project knowing what I know now....and yet, when people think of Glad River, that's the project they remember.
We did a little two song deal in the late 90's and then another CD in 2003.
John Kilzer and I did our Travelling Cokesburys CD in 2010.
I've always wanted to record material that I'd love to sing but would otherwise have no way of doing. I have musicians in our contemporary band who have recording equipment, and I thought I'd ask for help to record some love songs for Kristy when we had our anniversary last May. So I spent a couple of nights and put together a little 7 tune project just for her. It went so well it made me think of doing something more my mother, who always asked me to just sing something for her and give it to her for Christmas. Right.
Technology has come so far, though, that I started entertaining the thought of doing something that would suit my own expectations, that I could do myself in my own timing, and be fun to do.
You know, iPhone's are pretty versatile things. So here's what I did. Bought an adapter that allowed me to override the internal mic and plug in my EV N/D767a, my solo mic I use when I sing in public, and monitor through headphones. I downloaded the Vocalive app, a four channel recorder with vocal effects. I then went on an exhaustive search for the best and most authentic backing tracks to Standards from the American Songbook, and began to record, here and there, when I could. I began in June and finished 13 tracks in November. I burned them on a CD, had my buddy Mike take a pic for me, wrapped it up and put a bow on it. Mom opened a CD with me on the cover in black and white except for one thing - the title? "I've Got Blue Eyes, Too."
My love of the Standards is life long. I had more fun doing this than I could have imagined. The creative moment of working with a group or in an actual studio is unmatched. But because I was functioning as artist and engineer simultaneously, it was a bit of a rush.
I did -
Mom has the one and only "official" copy. There is a ghost copy that exists that I shared with someone for "quality assurance." I'm not telling who it is, but he's my drummer.
As I finished up in November, Kristy said to me "You know, when your mother opens this, your sister is going to want it, too." But I really only wanted mom to have this. I decided to put something together for her that captured the music I remembered growing up with her starting in late 60s. So, with a quick turnaround and not as much time to perfect it, I did 10 tunes for my sister on a project titled "Sealed With a Kiss."
It's got the title song, "It's Not Unusual," "Bridge Over Troubled Water," Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me," "He Ain't Heavy He's My Brother," "Brandy" (You're a Fine Girl), "Precious and Few," "More Today than Yesterday," "Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word," and in an intentional homage to Joe Cocker (and probably some Belushi doing Joe Cocker) I did, "With a Little Help From My Friends."
The thing about this that I take away, beyond the obvious fun and the hard work that went in to it, is that I've never been quite so willing to put myself out there like that. I'm long known as the one who's always running with shields up. This was an exercise in learning how to drop the shields and just be. It was good for me.
I did take note that after they had opened their presents and before than had even listened to them they asked for another one next year. Really?
----------------------
In many ways, more than I can safely articulate through this medium, 2011 has been as challenging a year as I can remember. My posts during most of this year reflect that. No need to rehash, except to say that I find myself now at a place with deeper perspective.
Wildernesses are hell. Always. But wildernesses journeyed through tend to bring focus and clarity where it is most needed. And what is "most needed?" Invariably, it's that of us too long enabled, or denied. It's that which perpetuates dis-ease. It's finally confronting the cumulative effect of going along to get along. It's wrestling with the failure to share the genuine self crippled by the fear that to do so is to jeopardize life as we know it. It is a spiritual death by a thousand little cuts.
I begin 2012 with a keener sense of liberation. My ministry partner these past many years is want to employ the phrase, "you get to pick" when it comes to the choices we make in life. And for all that I've ever believed or taught about free will being a sign of God's love and grace I'd found it difficult to make real in me when guided more by fear than the liberation that comes from living in grace.
It's one thing to say "I'm free." It's quite another to live freely. As it is with all expressions of freedom, there is an expectation of responsibility. But that responsibility is not to make sure everyone's happy. It is the responsibility that what is being lived out is true in me.
2011 was a significant year to draw that distinction into high relief.
It would be a lie to say I'm thankful for the wilderness. It sucked.
But 2011 brought with it some wonderful rites of passage -
A high school graduate and now college freshman whom I've so enjoyed watching taking the same field I did 30 years prior with the same trumpet I played and playing the same fight song. It's not that I'm living vicariously through him. Rather, I remember me when I was that age. I remember what I did and who I did it with, and that makes me smile.
I've got another teenage driver who could not believe that I was about to write a check for his car. How'd he think I was going to buy it? That car is him. My growth in the depth of my relationship with "L'il Bit" is among the things for which I am most thankful in the last year. He's quite a young man.
And then there's the 10 year old. He is my constant puzzle to figure out. None of my old tricks work with him. "He's not scared of you," I'm told. It's not that he sees me as his equal. I think he sees himself as my boss. And while I know you're supposed to encourage reasoning for decisions made to help the development of good choices...let's be honest, sometimes when you, the parent, says, "It's time for bed," the following 20 minutes should not be a debate. "Because I said so," sometimes needs to be enough.
-------------------------
Pre"Occupy"ied - I've not commented on "Occupy" phenomenon except for a multi-threaded, at times heated, Facebook exchange. Here's where I am on this. What I hear is lament. Yes, there is anger at the clear abuse of power and privilege that is perpetuated by a manipulation of rules. Yes, there is anger that the political system either knowingly conspired to put the pieces in place for the 2008 financial crisis, or they were too inept to know the difference.
I hear lament in the manner of the people Israel exiled from their Promised Land crying out in anguish and anger that the chance to have the life they prayed for is gone and there's nothing to be done about it. The unthinkable for the people Israel was that they could ever lose the reality of that promise. And yet, there they were in Babylon crying out, "How can we sing the Lord's song in a foreign land?"
Whatever you think about "The American Dream," there is a hue and cry from those who expected to have a fair shot at it finding that the rules of the game were changed by those in charge. It is the collapse of the American middle class. It is the unconscionable disparity of wealth in our country. And when that is acknowledged out loud critics call it "class warfare."
And they're right. It is class warfare...a war waged by stealth until the consequences could no longer be hidden. It began when those with most figured out how to get even more.
Pillars of the financial system weren't playing with house money...they were playing with yours. And, in the most audacious example of "heads I win, tails you lose," they bet against terrible risk clients that they would default while insuring themselves that if/when there was default they still got paid. Pretty sweet if you're in on that deal.
To label these folks as drum banging hippies is just too easy. It's one of the things we do. If we can put a label on someone that demeans and disparages, we really don't have to listen to what they say. Everything is filtered through our image of them.
The other critique too easily called upon is to compare how we have come to our station in life with theirs. Invariably, it is because they are lazy that they have no job, we'd say. The presupposition that each of us has the same shot at success just ain't so. So before we slip too much further into this new Gilded Age, we good Jesus people would do well to remember that it is the use, abuse and lust for money with all the implications thereto appertaining that Gospel writers have him speaking to most.
And then there's this - "Those to whom much is given, much is required." Just sayin.
--------------------------
The "Hobby" - So, I found one this past year. Some might say I've found two, that walking is one of my hobbies. But it's not. Walking is for survival. I walk to live. I do it instead of taking meds. In fact, walking is a daily medication that must be taken. That's how I've made sense of it.
So, if not walking, then what? Recording.
I first recorded with Glad River back in the mid 90's. What a wonderful time that was. Didn't have a clue what we were doing, and what I'd give to be able to go back in and redo project knowing what I know now....and yet, when people think of Glad River, that's the project they remember.
We did a little two song deal in the late 90's and then another CD in 2003.
John Kilzer and I did our Travelling Cokesburys CD in 2010.
I've always wanted to record material that I'd love to sing but would otherwise have no way of doing. I have musicians in our contemporary band who have recording equipment, and I thought I'd ask for help to record some love songs for Kristy when we had our anniversary last May. So I spent a couple of nights and put together a little 7 tune project just for her. It went so well it made me think of doing something more my mother, who always asked me to just sing something for her and give it to her for Christmas. Right.
Technology has come so far, though, that I started entertaining the thought of doing something that would suit my own expectations, that I could do myself in my own timing, and be fun to do.
You know, iPhone's are pretty versatile things. So here's what I did. Bought an adapter that allowed me to override the internal mic and plug in my EV N/D767a, my solo mic I use when I sing in public, and monitor through headphones. I downloaded the Vocalive app, a four channel recorder with vocal effects. I then went on an exhaustive search for the best and most authentic backing tracks to Standards from the American Songbook, and began to record, here and there, when I could. I began in June and finished 13 tracks in November. I burned them on a CD, had my buddy Mike take a pic for me, wrapped it up and put a bow on it. Mom opened a CD with me on the cover in black and white except for one thing - the title? "I've Got Blue Eyes, Too."
My love of the Standards is life long. I had more fun doing this than I could have imagined. The creative moment of working with a group or in an actual studio is unmatched. But because I was functioning as artist and engineer simultaneously, it was a bit of a rush.
I did -
"Days of Wine and Roses," "I Left My Heart in San Francisco," I'll Be Seeing You," "Lazy River," "Here's That Rainy Day," "My Funny Valentine" "The Way You Look Tonight," "Don't Worry About Me," "Moon River," "Embraceable You," "The Shadow of Your Smile," and "One For My Baby, and One More for the Road."
Mom has the one and only "official" copy. There is a ghost copy that exists that I shared with someone for "quality assurance." I'm not telling who it is, but he's my drummer.
As I finished up in November, Kristy said to me "You know, when your mother opens this, your sister is going to want it, too." But I really only wanted mom to have this. I decided to put something together for her that captured the music I remembered growing up with her starting in late 60s. So, with a quick turnaround and not as much time to perfect it, I did 10 tunes for my sister on a project titled "Sealed With a Kiss."
It's got the title song, "It's Not Unusual," "Bridge Over Troubled Water," Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me," "He Ain't Heavy He's My Brother," "Brandy" (You're a Fine Girl), "Precious and Few," "More Today than Yesterday," "Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word," and in an intentional homage to Joe Cocker (and probably some Belushi doing Joe Cocker) I did, "With a Little Help From My Friends."
The thing about this that I take away, beyond the obvious fun and the hard work that went in to it, is that I've never been quite so willing to put myself out there like that. I'm long known as the one who's always running with shields up. This was an exercise in learning how to drop the shields and just be. It was good for me.
I did take note that after they had opened their presents and before than had even listened to them they asked for another one next year. Really?
----------------------
No, I'm not going to miss 2011. But I'm beginning to suspect that when I look back on it years on it will be what emerged from me in 2011 that helped give direction to life thereon.
We'll see.
But for now? It's time to turn the page.
But for now? It's time to turn the page.
Monday, October 03, 2011
24601
The whispered conversation took place during a service of worship.
Words of support, love, solidarity and friendship were shared, as they had been many times over the past year even if I couldn't hear them. There came the observation that the spirit was noticeably freer, the countenance more joyful, the fog of the wilderness seeming to have cleared.
"I'm not sure when, how or what happened," I said.
He said, "Grace happened."
"Yeah, I guess so."
-------
We all like those clear as a bell, definitive moments. They serve as markers...boundaries from what was to what is. They help us make sense of things. If we can say when something happened and know why, then we retain the perception of control. At certain times in life they are remarkably identifiable. And then there are others that you happen in to and realize sometime after having crossed into something new that you are no longer where you were. You don't know when, how or what happened, you just know that Dorothy's line from "The Wizard of Oz" applies to you: "Toto, we're not in Kansas anymore." Control? What control?
Maybe that's how grace operates. Despite my preference that it be so clear as to be unmistakeable, it comes, filling in the trenches - the lines of demarkation I've drawn - overflowing their banks. Life exempts no one from what is hard...what is bad...what is crisis of spirit making. But what grace seems to do is make it so that once you come to yourself (which is itself a work of grace), that you had to endure the hard thing is not the first thought. Rather, we are reminded that despite what may have seemed to be, we were never alone. That we endured what was is the thing. And those "agents of grace" dispatched along the way stand watch and hang on to us whether we want them to or not and declare "the darkness is not going to get you...not on my watch."
I know this to be true - I bear witness.
My own sense of self and vocation has been mired in the mucky question, "Who am I?"
It hasn't been an existential exercise so much. It's more like "who will I be?"
Maybe it's my age (although I do think there's more to it than the easy "mid-life crisis" crap). As I've wandered, I've wondered about where I am, how I got here, is this what I thought I would be and does it square with what, at some point way back when, I imagined.
It's been at times a dark place. Really dark.
Do I believe what I proclaim?
Is this whole church thing a game?
Is there something else, something more I could be doing...was I always to be a local church pastor?
Let's tick these off one at the time, shall we?
Do I believe what I proclaim? At the risk of sounding an apostate, the most honest answer I can give is "sometimes." When the way gets dark, it's easy to wonder what is, what isn't so, and what it all means. But as I've been reminded by wiser counsel than I can ever give, the older I get the less and less I'm convinced that certain things have only one answer, and the more and more comfortable I am with saying "I don't know." There is something to a Rilke-esque living of the questions not as an intellectual exercise, but as a journey of the spirit, that has integrity. Cast against the presupposed certitude that someone in my position is to exude--I've become comfortable with defying that expectation placed on me (I'm comfortable about defying that expectation in more ways than one!). As I've often repeated but now know in a very intimate way, "the opposite of faith isn't doubt, it's certainty."
Is this whole church thing a game? As dreamed and imagined? No, it's not at all. As lived out systemically? Abso-freakin'-lutley! I've never known "church" apart from a mainline denomination. The one I've known is one now desperate to survive. We cast before us as cautionary that which was perceived to be so by Mr. Wesley even before he died..."not that we cease to exist, but rather than we become a dead sect, having the form of religion without the power." And then there's that line attributed to Augustine: "The Church is a whore, and she's my mother." I understand the truth in both statements. Having now been "in the system" as either candidate or ordained for 30 years, having been in the church from birth, and having never lived as anything other than being a part of a clergy family, the wonder-eyed days of being United Methodist for the sake of being United Methodist have long since passed. And yet, it is because of her than I claimed faith in Jesus and through her that I sought to give myself to the Church for service beyond self.
The Church decries its leadership deficit as causal to the situation it finds itself. And it's right, but only to a point. It is right that there's a deficit in leadership, if the leadership it seeks is systemic maintenance. And even then it's misplaced. It points to the void of leaders now and what we are to do about it. It's the issue de jour to train up leaders. The irony is not lost on me. The ones insisting that my generation and the ones younger than me are ill equipped to handle the ever so important matters of church are of the generation that helped us get in the ditch in the first place (oh yes I did!). My own conference won't appoint from our ranks those positions deemed "crucial" because we don't believe we have leadership within to guide them. I'm not clear I can communicate adequately through this medium how condescendingly offensive that is. Truth is, I don't desire any of those appointments, but I know there are within the family of my sisters and brothers of this conference extraordinarily talented people who will never be given a chance because our very own treat their very own with an attitude not unlike Nathanael's when asked to follow Jesus from Nazareth. "Nazareth? Can anything good come from there?" (Jn 1.46) Maybe somebody needs to speak up as Philip did: "come and see."
Whatever is or isn't true about a void of leaders to direct the systemic church, nothing compares to the lack of leaders imbued with sufficient holy boldness to announce the Realm of God coming into being that demands we do what is just, love what is kind, while walking humbly with God. To walk with God is to do justice and love kindness. Why? Because that's where you'll find the One to whom we claimed we've given our lives.
When Jesus commanded that we "follow him," it wasn't rhetorical.
We need a helluva lot more prophets, pastors and priests than we do managers and CEOs. Nothing will "comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable" more than proclaiming the radical character of Gospel. You want to make disciples? Preach that. You want to make church members? Preach the other.
Is there something else, something more I should be doing..was I always to be a local church pastor? When I was at Vandy, I was the envy of so many of my friends. They came to divinity school in search of a vocation. I walked in the door knowing mine. Declared at 17, certified at 18....it was the next step in the long journey. They were stunned that I served churches while going to school. They couldn't imagine it (by the way, none of them were United Methodists...they were Disciples of Christ, UCC, and Presbys). I told them then that I couldn't imagine doing this work for all of my life. It was an integral part to who I was and what I was to be, but it wasn't the only thing. And while that "what else?" was undefined then, it was as it is now, a very unsettling thing that still seeks an answer. In the last couple of years it has been screaming at me...causing me to panic. It has been the catalyst for much of my wanderings of late. Being "trapped in life" is not good thing. Despite what may seem to be so, it's an issue that lives independent of my pastoral context. It was starting to rise up in me even before I left midtown.
So what is it? Beyond my fantasies (you know, be a rock star), I've thought about writing and teaching. I don't live apart from music, so that's in there by necessity. Do I have to leave the local church to fulfill that? My wilderness journey has finally provided an answer to that question. I don't have to leave it, but I may. That sounds like splitting hairs, but let me tell you, it's a clarifying answer that I've wrestled angels through the night to gain. If it is possible to fulfill what I believe I'm made to be within the local church, then I embrace that opportunity. If not, then there must be other avenues for me to pursue. It's hard to articulate how big it is to just give myself permission to say that out loud.
In the meantime, I've found contentment in the instruction of Jesus to his disciples,"where ever you enter a house, stay there until you leave." (Mk. 6.10) For this season, I am where I am. I will serve as completely as my gifts allow. And when this season has reached its end, I will lean forward into what comes.
What I do leave behind me is the expectation for what I'm supposed to be in this Conference, what I'm supposed to do, and where I'm supposed to go. I embrace the opportunity to pursue downward mobility (with all due deference for Fr. Nouwen).
Another friend looked into my eyes a few days ago. Having not seen me since I was very much in the mess, she noted, "You're better."
"Is that a question or a statement?" I asked.
"A statement," she said.
"Yes, I am."
I don't know exactly what, how and when the emergence occurred. It's been over the Summer. Often, we think that whatever fix comes to our plight, it comes from outside of us to directly influence what's inside of us. But it doesn't work that way so much. We all may want a Damascus Road experience, but they don't come around everyday. For me, there is a direct correlation between where I am now and certain decisions made in the Summer.
So after the mention of grace and my confirming words, "Yeah, I guess so," I said, "You know, this whole thing we've been doing this last year or so, your guidance and care have saved my life."
There was a nod of acknowledgment, and a smile as we stood up and took our places. The unmistakable sounds of Memphis reverberated throughout the sanctuary as John struck the strings and sang verse one. I took verse two:
"When my way grows drear, precious Lord, linger near,
when my life is almost gone,
hear my cry, hear my call,
hold my hand, lest I fall:
Take my hand, precious Lord, lead me home."
Words of support, love, solidarity and friendship were shared, as they had been many times over the past year even if I couldn't hear them. There came the observation that the spirit was noticeably freer, the countenance more joyful, the fog of the wilderness seeming to have cleared.
"I'm not sure when, how or what happened," I said.
He said, "Grace happened."
"Yeah, I guess so."
-------
We all like those clear as a bell, definitive moments. They serve as markers...boundaries from what was to what is. They help us make sense of things. If we can say when something happened and know why, then we retain the perception of control. At certain times in life they are remarkably identifiable. And then there are others that you happen in to and realize sometime after having crossed into something new that you are no longer where you were. You don't know when, how or what happened, you just know that Dorothy's line from "The Wizard of Oz" applies to you: "Toto, we're not in Kansas anymore." Control? What control?
Maybe that's how grace operates. Despite my preference that it be so clear as to be unmistakeable, it comes, filling in the trenches - the lines of demarkation I've drawn - overflowing their banks. Life exempts no one from what is hard...what is bad...what is crisis of spirit making. But what grace seems to do is make it so that once you come to yourself (which is itself a work of grace), that you had to endure the hard thing is not the first thought. Rather, we are reminded that despite what may have seemed to be, we were never alone. That we endured what was is the thing. And those "agents of grace" dispatched along the way stand watch and hang on to us whether we want them to or not and declare "the darkness is not going to get you...not on my watch."
I know this to be true - I bear witness.
My own sense of self and vocation has been mired in the mucky question, "Who am I?"
It hasn't been an existential exercise so much. It's more like "who will I be?"
Maybe it's my age (although I do think there's more to it than the easy "mid-life crisis" crap). As I've wandered, I've wondered about where I am, how I got here, is this what I thought I would be and does it square with what, at some point way back when, I imagined.
It's been at times a dark place. Really dark.
Do I believe what I proclaim?
Is this whole church thing a game?
Is there something else, something more I could be doing...was I always to be a local church pastor?
Let's tick these off one at the time, shall we?
Do I believe what I proclaim? At the risk of sounding an apostate, the most honest answer I can give is "sometimes." When the way gets dark, it's easy to wonder what is, what isn't so, and what it all means. But as I've been reminded by wiser counsel than I can ever give, the older I get the less and less I'm convinced that certain things have only one answer, and the more and more comfortable I am with saying "I don't know." There is something to a Rilke-esque living of the questions not as an intellectual exercise, but as a journey of the spirit, that has integrity. Cast against the presupposed certitude that someone in my position is to exude--I've become comfortable with defying that expectation placed on me (I'm comfortable about defying that expectation in more ways than one!). As I've often repeated but now know in a very intimate way, "the opposite of faith isn't doubt, it's certainty."
Is this whole church thing a game? As dreamed and imagined? No, it's not at all. As lived out systemically? Abso-freakin'-lutley! I've never known "church" apart from a mainline denomination. The one I've known is one now desperate to survive. We cast before us as cautionary that which was perceived to be so by Mr. Wesley even before he died..."not that we cease to exist, but rather than we become a dead sect, having the form of religion without the power." And then there's that line attributed to Augustine: "The Church is a whore, and she's my mother." I understand the truth in both statements. Having now been "in the system" as either candidate or ordained for 30 years, having been in the church from birth, and having never lived as anything other than being a part of a clergy family, the wonder-eyed days of being United Methodist for the sake of being United Methodist have long since passed. And yet, it is because of her than I claimed faith in Jesus and through her that I sought to give myself to the Church for service beyond self.
The Church decries its leadership deficit as causal to the situation it finds itself. And it's right, but only to a point. It is right that there's a deficit in leadership, if the leadership it seeks is systemic maintenance. And even then it's misplaced. It points to the void of leaders now and what we are to do about it. It's the issue de jour to train up leaders. The irony is not lost on me. The ones insisting that my generation and the ones younger than me are ill equipped to handle the ever so important matters of church are of the generation that helped us get in the ditch in the first place (oh yes I did!). My own conference won't appoint from our ranks those positions deemed "crucial" because we don't believe we have leadership within to guide them. I'm not clear I can communicate adequately through this medium how condescendingly offensive that is. Truth is, I don't desire any of those appointments, but I know there are within the family of my sisters and brothers of this conference extraordinarily talented people who will never be given a chance because our very own treat their very own with an attitude not unlike Nathanael's when asked to follow Jesus from Nazareth. "Nazareth? Can anything good come from there?" (Jn 1.46) Maybe somebody needs to speak up as Philip did: "come and see."
Whatever is or isn't true about a void of leaders to direct the systemic church, nothing compares to the lack of leaders imbued with sufficient holy boldness to announce the Realm of God coming into being that demands we do what is just, love what is kind, while walking humbly with God. To walk with God is to do justice and love kindness. Why? Because that's where you'll find the One to whom we claimed we've given our lives.
When Jesus commanded that we "follow him," it wasn't rhetorical.
We need a helluva lot more prophets, pastors and priests than we do managers and CEOs. Nothing will "comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable" more than proclaiming the radical character of Gospel. You want to make disciples? Preach that. You want to make church members? Preach the other.
Is there something else, something more I should be doing..was I always to be a local church pastor? When I was at Vandy, I was the envy of so many of my friends. They came to divinity school in search of a vocation. I walked in the door knowing mine. Declared at 17, certified at 18....it was the next step in the long journey. They were stunned that I served churches while going to school. They couldn't imagine it (by the way, none of them were United Methodists...they were Disciples of Christ, UCC, and Presbys). I told them then that I couldn't imagine doing this work for all of my life. It was an integral part to who I was and what I was to be, but it wasn't the only thing. And while that "what else?" was undefined then, it was as it is now, a very unsettling thing that still seeks an answer. In the last couple of years it has been screaming at me...causing me to panic. It has been the catalyst for much of my wanderings of late. Being "trapped in life" is not good thing. Despite what may seem to be so, it's an issue that lives independent of my pastoral context. It was starting to rise up in me even before I left midtown.
So what is it? Beyond my fantasies (you know, be a rock star), I've thought about writing and teaching. I don't live apart from music, so that's in there by necessity. Do I have to leave the local church to fulfill that? My wilderness journey has finally provided an answer to that question. I don't have to leave it, but I may. That sounds like splitting hairs, but let me tell you, it's a clarifying answer that I've wrestled angels through the night to gain. If it is possible to fulfill what I believe I'm made to be within the local church, then I embrace that opportunity. If not, then there must be other avenues for me to pursue. It's hard to articulate how big it is to just give myself permission to say that out loud.
In the meantime, I've found contentment in the instruction of Jesus to his disciples,"where ever you enter a house, stay there until you leave." (Mk. 6.10) For this season, I am where I am. I will serve as completely as my gifts allow. And when this season has reached its end, I will lean forward into what comes.
What I do leave behind me is the expectation for what I'm supposed to be in this Conference, what I'm supposed to do, and where I'm supposed to go. I embrace the opportunity to pursue downward mobility (with all due deference for Fr. Nouwen).
Another friend looked into my eyes a few days ago. Having not seen me since I was very much in the mess, she noted, "You're better."
"Is that a question or a statement?" I asked.
"A statement," she said.
"Yes, I am."
I don't know exactly what, how and when the emergence occurred. It's been over the Summer. Often, we think that whatever fix comes to our plight, it comes from outside of us to directly influence what's inside of us. But it doesn't work that way so much. We all may want a Damascus Road experience, but they don't come around everyday. For me, there is a direct correlation between where I am now and certain decisions made in the Summer.
- I've known the joy of reaching out and reconnecting with friends of long ago.
- I decided that I could no longer abide the impact my dark season was having on my health. The thought of it killing me was real. So, back on the wagon. Bring a little health to the body, and the spirit finally starts seeing the edge of the wilderness. It's amazing what walking at least 4/mi. a day can do for your outlook.
- Find a hobby and enjoy it. I have, and I can't talk about it. Yet.
- Pastor who seeks to listen, to comfort and to guide.
- Preacher called to proclaim gospel in places where it's easy and (gulp) where it's not.
- Teacher to open hearts and minds to something of the nature of God.
- Singer whose spirit goes to another place when I get to cut loose.
So after the mention of grace and my confirming words, "Yeah, I guess so," I said, "You know, this whole thing we've been doing this last year or so, your guidance and care have saved my life."
There was a nod of acknowledgment, and a smile as we stood up and took our places. The unmistakable sounds of Memphis reverberated throughout the sanctuary as John struck the strings and sang verse one. I took verse two:
"When my way grows drear, precious Lord, linger near,
when my life is almost gone,
hear my cry, hear my call,
hold my hand, lest I fall:
Take my hand, precious Lord, lead me home."
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Harmon's Whispering in My Ear
If you've ever had a mentor...someone who helped give shape and direction to the raw material that's you, you get it.
The imprint of their counsel on you is not confined to time and space. It's not like you had them in your life for a finite time and the benefit of their lives intersecting yours is subject only to your memory's recall.
Like the voice of Obi-Wan (the Sir Alec Guinness version, please) that seems to come to Luke in the moment of greatest import offering the guidance so sorely needed, the mentors of our lives continue to speak to us even when they are no longer physically in our presence.
I've been hearing the voice of one of mine the past couple of days--my friend, Harmon.
I written about my relationship with Harmon previously - click here for those posts.
I think it started during one of the recent debates for the Republican candidate for the presidency. It's the one than when the moderator, as preface for a question to the candidate who is the current governor of Texas, commented about the 230 some odd executions that have occurred during his tenure as the executive of the state. The opportunity for the moderator to actually ask the question was interrupted by applause from the crowd at the mention of the number death orders this governor has signed. Even more perplexing was the claim by most in that hall that they were disciples of Jesus.
I heard Harmon whisper, "Jesus was once asked for his position on the death penalty. He said, 'Let the one of you who is without sin cast the first stone.'"
I've heard him again today as the state of Georgia prepares to execute Troy Davis, a man convicted of killing a Savannah police officer. In a case in which:
The imprint of their counsel on you is not confined to time and space. It's not like you had them in your life for a finite time and the benefit of their lives intersecting yours is subject only to your memory's recall.
Like the voice of Obi-Wan (the Sir Alec Guinness version, please) that seems to come to Luke in the moment of greatest import offering the guidance so sorely needed, the mentors of our lives continue to speak to us even when they are no longer physically in our presence.
I've been hearing the voice of one of mine the past couple of days--my friend, Harmon.
I written about my relationship with Harmon previously - click here for those posts.
I think it started during one of the recent debates for the Republican candidate for the presidency. It's the one than when the moderator, as preface for a question to the candidate who is the current governor of Texas, commented about the 230 some odd executions that have occurred during his tenure as the executive of the state. The opportunity for the moderator to actually ask the question was interrupted by applause from the crowd at the mention of the number death orders this governor has signed. Even more perplexing was the claim by most in that hall that they were disciples of Jesus.
I heard Harmon whisper, "Jesus was once asked for his position on the death penalty. He said, 'Let the one of you who is without sin cast the first stone.'"
I've heard him again today as the state of Georgia prepares to execute Troy Davis, a man convicted of killing a Savannah police officer. In a case in which:
- the vast majority of witnesses have recanted their testimony,
- most of the witnesses commented that they were coerced by police hell bent to pin this horrible crime on someone, because, by God, somebody had to pay,
- the former head of the FBI has commented at how "pervasive and persistent" were his doubts about Davis' guilt,
- a former US President and the Pontiff have called for a stay,
- several jurors have commented that they would have voted differently,
- the state board of appeals proceeded with their blood lust, which they mistakenly call "justice," and barring a stay from the US Supreme Court, Troy will die today.
I hear Harmon whisper, "his guilt or innocence isn't even the issue, the state taking upon itself the role of final arbiter of who lives and who dies is beyond what any should have. For the state to kill in my name lessens us all and makes us culpable for it."
That there is a strong case to be made for Davis' innocence, I mean, really do I really have to spell out how screwed up this whole thing is if they're going to kill him anyway?
I hear Harmon whisper, "an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth is not license to kill, rather it is a code of reprisal that punishment cannot exceed the crime, but that the biblical standard is always to show mercy."
He would remind me, "the Bible says that 'vengeance belongs to God alone, not to humanity.' and that "regardless of what the state says 'justice' is, the biblical standard for what is just is not retribution, but it does always look for restoration and reconciliation."
The wisdom mentors whisper in our ears is not something we've never heard before. No, it's the words spoken by them in our past that ring so true that their impact cannot be overlooked and will not be ignored. Our mentors whisper in our ears what we need to be shouting.
This execution of Troy Davis is wrong. The execution of even the worst of us is wrong. We are better than the most base temptations we each have to get even and mistake that for justice.
When the sentence is given for a capital case, the judge offers words as a buffer between the sentence spoken and the removal of the convicted to death row. It's usually something like, "and may God have mercy on your soul."
I'm here to tell you, the soul of the convicted is not the soul we need to be worried about.
I know this to be true, Harmon whispered it to me.
Tuesday, September 06, 2011
Testify or Objectify
PREFACE - I've not pushed "Publish" in quite some time. I've written a good bit, but have kept several posts to myself in the "Draft" section. Don't know why. I've developed a good case of ambivalence about many things. Whether or not to write. Whether or not I want other people to read what I've written. Whether or not to....even care.
Anyway, prompted in part by friends who matter to me, I'm digging into the draft file and pushing "Publish" today. Here's one that sat there for a couple of months. It is what it is.
I never got an A from David Buttrick.
It wasn't for lack of trying. I did get a hard earned A- and you'd a thought I received highest honors!
I followed his method (still do, for the most part). I learned about homiletical moves and how their construction and sequencing, if done well, can spark the consciousness of the gathered people.
My problem with Buttrick, or better stated, his problem with me, was that I found it difficult to proclaim Gospel absent the context of the lives I knew, including my own. Any homiletics professor will tell you that making yourself the storied example for your sermons is too easy. Too often we do it when we've not done the due diligence to find resonant stories in the world in which we live that transcend the particular to reach the universal.
The other danger of placing self as the prime example of too many stories is that after a while it makes the listener wonder if there's anything or anyone more important in the preacher's life than the preacher---and how good he or she looks by having told on themselves or how heroic they are after having yet again come to save the day, in Jesus' name, of course. Or, the other end of the spectrum is making one's self the butt of every joke, the case study of what not to do and who not to be, the perpetual martyr.
Don't let the pretense of modesty fool you....preachers can be and often are driven far more by ego strokes than living the sacramental life. (Oops...was that too much?)
And then there's the other danger about stories told. It's the story you tell that's not yours to share. Contrary to what many may think (including and especially preachers), not every story you hear or over hear is yours for the taking--or better stated, for the stealing. Not every story we could tell we should. Not every story is in the public domain, and there are very good reasons for that.
And yet, at the core of our common life and mutual commission is "story." And it's a doosey! It's one we are to tell, one we are to live. It is the very thing that informs every story we tell and just as every story we tell is to inform it.
So, when I observe the objectification of a story, ostensibly to magnify "the" story to which we've pledged our lives..it offends me to no end. Because to tell someone else's story as if it's there's to tell is to be less than truthful. It lacks integrity, and it harms "the" story we're supposed to tell.
And it's done way too often by those who know better.
Anybody in Paducah last June? There you go.
It matters not if the one telling it carries the label of Rev'd, Lay Leader, cool Guest Preacher wearing indigenous attire, or Bishop. If in the telling of a story the person being talked about is referred to less as a person and more as object of the life they've lived, then you have a clue.
The ones telling stories that are not theirs to tell often reveal way too much of themselves unaware.
It happened often at Annual Conference. Sometimes the person being objectified was someone I didn't know. Once it happened and the person was someone I did...someone I call "friend."
It's one thing if the person who is the subject of the story seeks to bear witness to that in their lives from which the grace of God liberated and is liberating them. It's quite another if someone else does it without foreknowledge or permission. It could be argued that the story was so compelling it just needed to be told because people got so much out of it. But whether or not the masses liked the story is no excuse for telling that which is not yours to tell, especially when the one being objectified is in the damn room. What is popular and what is right are not the same.
To witness something so "violent" under the auspices of the "holy" shocked me. It's not the first time I've heard it done. Truth is, I've probably done it myself. I suspect my sensitivity to such things is higher than it's been in the past. But what I came away with from that experience was that the chasm between where the Church thinks it needs to be, and is out of systemic desperation "calling us to action" to abide, and what I believe I'm called to bring to it is ever widening.
The transition from "relevant" to "relic" is not nearly so far as one might think.
Hmm, relic...an object esteemed and venerated, no; a remnant left after decay, perhaps; a trace of some past or outmoded practice---there it is, that's the ticket.
Anyway, prompted in part by friends who matter to me, I'm digging into the draft file and pushing "Publish" today. Here's one that sat there for a couple of months. It is what it is.
I never got an A from David Buttrick.
It wasn't for lack of trying. I did get a hard earned A- and you'd a thought I received highest honors!
I followed his method (still do, for the most part). I learned about homiletical moves and how their construction and sequencing, if done well, can spark the consciousness of the gathered people.
My problem with Buttrick, or better stated, his problem with me, was that I found it difficult to proclaim Gospel absent the context of the lives I knew, including my own. Any homiletics professor will tell you that making yourself the storied example for your sermons is too easy. Too often we do it when we've not done the due diligence to find resonant stories in the world in which we live that transcend the particular to reach the universal.
The other danger of placing self as the prime example of too many stories is that after a while it makes the listener wonder if there's anything or anyone more important in the preacher's life than the preacher---and how good he or she looks by having told on themselves or how heroic they are after having yet again come to save the day, in Jesus' name, of course. Or, the other end of the spectrum is making one's self the butt of every joke, the case study of what not to do and who not to be, the perpetual martyr.
Don't let the pretense of modesty fool you....preachers can be and often are driven far more by ego strokes than living the sacramental life. (Oops...was that too much?)
And then there's the other danger about stories told. It's the story you tell that's not yours to share. Contrary to what many may think (including and especially preachers), not every story you hear or over hear is yours for the taking--or better stated, for the stealing. Not every story we could tell we should. Not every story is in the public domain, and there are very good reasons for that.
And yet, at the core of our common life and mutual commission is "story." And it's a doosey! It's one we are to tell, one we are to live. It is the very thing that informs every story we tell and just as every story we tell is to inform it.
So, when I observe the objectification of a story, ostensibly to magnify "the" story to which we've pledged our lives..it offends me to no end. Because to tell someone else's story as if it's there's to tell is to be less than truthful. It lacks integrity, and it harms "the" story we're supposed to tell.
And it's done way too often by those who know better.
Anybody in Paducah last June? There you go.
It matters not if the one telling it carries the label of Rev'd, Lay Leader, cool Guest Preacher wearing indigenous attire, or Bishop. If in the telling of a story the person being talked about is referred to less as a person and more as object of the life they've lived, then you have a clue.
Drug pusher. Crack whore. Drunk.
Might as well call them tax collectors, prostitutes and sinners.
And yet I'm reminded of how Jesus related to those folks...not as objects, but as people.
The ones telling stories that are not theirs to tell often reveal way too much of themselves unaware.
It happened often at Annual Conference. Sometimes the person being objectified was someone I didn't know. Once it happened and the person was someone I did...someone I call "friend."
It's one thing if the person who is the subject of the story seeks to bear witness to that in their lives from which the grace of God liberated and is liberating them. It's quite another if someone else does it without foreknowledge or permission. It could be argued that the story was so compelling it just needed to be told because people got so much out of it. But whether or not the masses liked the story is no excuse for telling that which is not yours to tell, especially when the one being objectified is in the damn room. What is popular and what is right are not the same.
To witness something so "violent" under the auspices of the "holy" shocked me. It's not the first time I've heard it done. Truth is, I've probably done it myself. I suspect my sensitivity to such things is higher than it's been in the past. But what I came away with from that experience was that the chasm between where the Church thinks it needs to be, and is out of systemic desperation "calling us to action" to abide, and what I believe I'm called to bring to it is ever widening.
The transition from "relevant" to "relic" is not nearly so far as one might think.
Hmm, relic...an object esteemed and venerated, no; a remnant left after decay, perhaps; a trace of some past or outmoded practice---there it is, that's the ticket.
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