Forward thinking

I'm not generally a fan of forwarded e-mails. They often hold the same sentimental platitudes and flimsy theology of a church marquis. But this one, while no weighty dissertation, was still a refreshing reminder of the immutability of God (in the spirit of Psalm 18:1-2) and His activity in an ever-changing global landscape. After a year of tremendous changes (albeit beauty-filled ones), one can be left feeling a little road-weary nonetheless. This forward was a breath of cool air on a warm face.


TOP TEN PREDICTIONS FOR 2008

1. The Bible will still have all the answers.

2. Prayer will still work.

3. The Holy Spirit will still move.

4. God will still inhabit the praises of His people.

5. There will still be God-anointed preaching.

6. There will still be singing of praise to God.

7. God will still pour out blessings upon His people.

8. There will still be room at the Cross

9. Jesus will still love you.

10. Jesus will still save the lost.



I love you, O LORD, my strength.
The LORD is my rock, my fortress, and my deliverer,
my God, my rock in whom I take refuge,
my shield, and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold.
~Psalm 18:1-2

Blocked Out, Part 2

I've had continued reflections on the way Tetris is a metaphor for "real life."

There is something oddly satisfying in watching the blocks fit into places. When you get the blocks you need to complete the line, you experience a sensation of success; of overcoming the challenges. You are victorious over the challenge presented to you. You are in control.

When you get blocks that don't fit neatly anywhere, you experience a sense of frustration. That ill-fitting shape is an obstacle to order; it is getting in the way of the plan. The screen becomes untidy as small gaps appear in the middle of the work, unaccessible until you clear the clutter above it. Until then, they keep vigil; visible reminders that we've made a mistake and are imperfect or the game has thrown us something that doesn't make sense, and juts out annoyingly, hindering our plan.

I know I want my life to be simple. And when all the blocks fit into the right place, I experience a sense of accomplishment that says "I have control of my life." Control matched with simplicity gives the illusion of power and safety. If I am in control, nothing can surprise me and I can protect myself from getting hurt.

But nothing prevents the ill-matching issues from coming. And eventually, whether I like it or not, I have to accept I have no control over what comes crashing down. Things don't fit in an orderly fashion and I have to learn to negotiate it; those blocks that jut annoyingly into life, in the walk way and sure to be tripped.

But whatever blocks come (the one's that fit neatly into our well-constructed lives or the ones that simply get in the way and nag) we are responsible with what we do with them. Control over life is a myth. Control over how we deal with it, however, has always been in our grasp, despite the temptation to "play the victim" (this is to distinguish from those who are true victims of violence or circumstance), and hand over the controls to someone or some thing else. Or even to a false ideal. Then there comes the temptation to set the game down, refusing the work to fit them at all, and excuse ourselves from confronting the challenge and the hurt doing so can bring. Of course, then life eventually becomes a wreck as the pieces stack themselves haphazardly, giving the illusion that we are more victim of cruel life than ever and granting permission to shut down and die.

Blocked Out

I made a big mistake. Recently, I downloaded the highly addictive game, "Tetris", onto my cellphone. Seeing as I have never shown compulsive behavior with any other video game, I figured I would write about it now.

In my leg-numbing sessions of wasted time playing it, I've come to realize that life is very much like Tetris.

It is a game that you can never win. You begin with the shapes descending laughably slow, slotting the chunks neatly into form-fitted spaces. You feel a subtle sense of mastery in this small success. The pace picks up. You can still handle all the pieces and you feel good about how well you're doing but you develop a knot of tension between your shoulders. Now the blocks are sliding down like raindrops on a window and the intensity increases. You make a mistake here and there, causing some empty pockets that keep you from keeping up, but you manage to stay afloat despite the gnawing sense of inevitability. Now they're streaking down like comets and suddenly things are piling up haphazardly. The pieces shoot down faster still as you hopelessly watch the blocks fill up the screen until you fall apart altogether. The game wins again. As it always does.

And yet this "game" remains one of the most addictive and timeless diversions ever (and believe me, for a video game to have any notoriety that lasts more than several months, much less two decades, is an accomplishment). Despite inevitable defeat, you hit start and go again. And again. And again. Like the fly slinging his body into the screen, desperate for freedom.

With time as one of our most precious gifts to steward, why spend it practicing futility? When wanting a diversion from the pressure of "real life" (what an oxymoron: what most people call "real life" is neither real nor life), why do we hand over the 20-40 minutes to something that is not real? You might pat yourself on the back for getting farther. But then you drag your mind out of the game, lift up your eyes and look around the room at a world that cares nothing for the numbers on the screen. And it is definitely not changed or made beautiful, nor does it know God more because you managed to push certain buttons in a certain sequence into a certain end.

The game is the "world". We pick it up every morning to play by the game's rules: rules that favor the house and ensures that no matter what, we do not win, nor, in the end, do we matter. And as we lower our attention into the well to dangle in darkness, we are unable to notice the real world shining above us, seemingly far away: the reality of God and His Kingdom that does not keep score by the rules of the game or place value on how high our scores may seem.

At the helm

The church is quiet this morning, as if I were the First Officer on a sailing ship in the middle of the night, manning the tiller while everyone else is asleep. This is accentuated by the fact that the town is also quiet due to the icy glaze on the pavement that keeps people safely on dry ground. It is something of a holy, pregnant moment, as if the building itself were waiting for something to happen. The phone will rip into the silence or the front door's distinct clack-hiss when the metal flap that keeps the wind from blowing through the crack between the double doors springs open and the weather-stripping slides over the tiled narthex.

But then the expectant waiting blankets this place again, as if the walls were bracing themselves for what is to come. Soon, the decks will be swarming with activity as sailors attend their specific duties to which they are trained. I can see each of them with my mind's eye, out of focus with the present. The words of a true smith come to mind:

There is the sudden silence of the crowd
above a motionless player on the field,
and the silence of the orchid.

The silence of the falling vase
before it strikes the floor,
the silence of the belt when it is not striking the child.

The stillness of the cup and the water in it,
the silence of the moon
and the quiet of the day far from the roar of the sun.

The silence when I hold you to my chest,
the silence of the window above us,
and the silence when you rise and turn away.

And there is the silence of this morning
which I have broken with my pen,
a silence that had piled up all night

like snow falling in the darkness of the house -
the silence before I wrote a word
and the poorer silence now.

"Silence" by Billy Collins

A thought that woke me up this morning:
Preaching: A moment of transformation, bound together by the Holy Spirit, around the study, reading and proclamation of Holy Scripture.