I know kung-fu....

Not really. But as I watched the students under the jovial yet watchful eye of their Sifu (Master), I wanted to learn.

But the fact is, I know kung-fu about as well as I can identify the actual animal used in sweet-and-sour pork. However, I'm counting on the unique advantage that comes with ignorance: a blank slate. An empty cup.

"Hungry, I come to you for I know you satisfy
I am empty, but I know your love does not run dry.
So I wait for you. So I wait for you..."

... says the worship song. An honest psalm of despair and trust (interesting, how one often precedes the other).

Modern faith convinces on fixing ourselves. Who needs God when your hope is in human ability. Legend has it, that Ben Franklin, enlightened and lettered statesman/scientist of his Revolutionary day, attempted to mend his own character flaws by dedicating each week to repairing one of his broken virtues. He would perfect one and move on to another, only to find that after a short time, he needed to revisit the first one again. Certainly no surprise there for anyone who has sought to live a "good life".

And yet, God seems more interested in our availability than our abilities; a humble willingness as opposed to prideful prowess.

For you have no delight in sacrifice;
if I were to give a burnt offering, you would not be pleased.
The sacrifice acceptable to God is a broken spirit;
a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise.
~ Psalm 51:16-17

Vroom! Vroom!

I don’t understand. People laugh when I tell them that motorcycling is a religious experience.

Spring brings with it an abundance of new life. From the view atop Bent Mountain, looking down into the Roanoke Valley, I’m filled with wonder watching fingers of lime green creep up the slopes day by day. Before you know it, they’ll be overrun. Flowers are already defying last week’s frost and the sunshine thaws the earth from its wintery freeze. And the motorcycles begin waking up from their long hibernation.

Many people do not understand why some of their fellow mortals would dare such a reckless hobby. One thing they teach you in the “New Rider Training” program is that there are two elements to riding that sets it apart from driving: balance and protection. In a car, the seat cradles your entire frame, like a giant’s hand, suspended between four wheels that keep you stable on terra firma. On the motorcycle, you are responsible for remaining oriented right-side up to gravity, whether in motion, braking or standing at a stop light. In a car, you are surrounded by layers of steel and metal. On the bike, you are entirely responsible for whatever flesh you choose to expose to the elements and (if the worse should happen), the pavement.

Needless to say, there’s extra work involved piloting a motorcycle. It requires at least five additional minutes of preparation to put on all the armor of leather gloves, reinforced jacket and donning the brain bucket (doubly so when you have glasses) and then to do a once over to make sure lights and brakes in working order. Then once you pull out, staying upright means vigilantly watching for gravel, oil slicks and road-kill to spring up around a corner, negotiating turns at the proper lean angle, and staying balanced as you stop. This is to say nothing about negotiating the other drivers who aren’t accustom to looking for you or the drivers that are practically sitting on the seat behind you that don’t realize a motorcycle requires about half the distances as a car to come to a halt. (Believe me: for those who laugh when someone says motorcycling is a religious experience, this can do wonders for your prayer life!) Why risk it? It never escapes me every time I saddle up, if things goes south, I’m going to be the one to pay for it, regardless of who is at fault.

Because there is nothing else like it in the world: that’s why. I’ve never considered myself a thrill-junky. But I have yet to experience anything remotely akin to the rush of scenery all-around, the “groove” of a sweeping mountain curve, the exhilaration of the metal hooves pounding you forward just beneath your seat. Roller-coasters and convertibles do all the work for you. But in the extreme concentration of it and exposure to the beauty of the natural elements, you are so deeply connected to the machine that’s launching you along that when you pull in to the safety of your driveway (having defied the statistics and conquered gravity), you do so with a gigantic grin on your face.

So you’ll probably laugh again when I say that the Christian faith is so very much like riding a motorcycle. It is a dangerous, misunderstood trust in Christ that leaves others scratching their heads as to why you bother with such archaic superstitions or unscientific beliefs.

“For the message about the cross
is foolishness to those who are perishing,
but to us who are being saved
it is the power of God.” ~ 1 Corinthians 1:18

It is a way of living life that requires different external apparel and a certain balance with the truth so as to negotiate dangers along the way.

“Therefore take up the whole armor of God,
so that you may be able to withstand on that evil day,
and having done everything, to stand firm.” ~ Ephesians 6:13

And there is no greater joy than joining with Christ in His glorious work of bringing us home.

“Though you have not seen him, you love him;
and even though you do not see him now, you believe in him
and are filled with an inexpressible and glorious joy,
for you are receiving the goal of your faith,
the salvation of your souls.” ~ 1 Peter 4:13

Religious experience, indeed!

Is it well with my soul?

Lately, I've noticed more and more how often the word "well" gets used in daily conversations. It subconsciously affixes itself to the beginning of most of our sentences.

How was work today, dear?
Well, it was hectic..

Why is it that this word becomes the automatic prelude to any idea or response? If we replayed an audio recording of our day and tallied all the "wells" that sneaked past our teeth, my guess is that we'd be surprised. When you stop and think about the word (the times it is used consciously), it generally denotes a level of contentment or satisfaction with an event, project or one's state of being.

How did the business meeting go today, dear?
It went surprisingly well!

And yet, "well" can attach itself to the beginning of almost any variety of phrase, whether in answer to a question or to continue a conversation; whether it is good news or bad.

What is the prognosis, doctor?
Well, it doesn't look good...

I add it on all the time, whether I'm telling a funny story or talking about cancer. And I do it without thinking. Does tacking on the word give an additional second and a half to formulate what one is going to say next? That makes sense to me.

But why the word "well"? Why not "See" or "Lookie here" or just take a breath? This four-letter word can be a harbinger of dismal news as much as it can characterize peace, almost as if it is actually pointing toward the noun-ish definition instead:

-n.- a pit or hole sunk into the earth to reach a supply of water.

It's ironic that many people might be using this particular image to subconsiously characterize their own life or circumstances rather than convey a sense of peace. Or maybe we grasp at this word, because we'd like some well-ness to affix itself to our circumstances; to let the prelude to our day be to some peace to reach for out the bottom of the pit.

Then again, maybe it is in the darkest pit of death that the waters of baptism spring cool and deep.

Quote of the Day

"I am concerned with a certain way of looking at life that was created in me by the fairy tales, but has since been ratified by the mere facts." G.K. Chesterton


Me too.

A Lonely Desk and Small Hopes

The photo wasn't where I'd left it.

It was a picture of myself and two good friends that I do not get to see often enough. He, a professional, licensed, and rather skilled Christian psychologist. She, beautiful and extremely gifted with young children with a quick wit that lays quietly and then pounces out of the brush like a patient lioness springs after her prey. The psychologist and I are in ties and dress shirts; she in a stunning evening gown as we playfully hold her horizontal across our arms, all of us smiling for the camera. It's a fun memory of a friend's wedding. I'd left the photo in my desk drawer intentionally so I would bump into it often in my hunt for pencils or ibuprofen. But now, it was lying on top of the desk.

Someone else had moved it, just as they'd discarded the tall, slender lamp that usually stood sentry on the end of my desk onto the floor, oddly underneath it, looking like a wounded soldier lying on the field in too much pain to move. Those same hands that displaced these fixtures yanked the neatly tucked bottles of communion wine from cozy sleeves in their box, disemboweled several filing cabinets, helped themselves to some lemon pound cake in the refrigerator and whose sticky fingers are perhaps typing across my laptop keyboard as I peck away on this unfamiliar one.

"I'm sorry you had a rough day," several people shared. I was grateful for their loving and genuine concern. But "rough" wasn't the word I would have used. While certainly I wasn't happy that someone (or "ones") chose to take from me the peaceful morning routine of reading, communiques and sermon preparation I was looking forward to (to play CSI with police investigators, complete with dusting and pictures) or that they thoughtlessly imposed the inconvenience of calling repairmen to restore the broken window in the fellowship hall and filing insurance claims (ironically, the agent had just been robbed too), I wouldn't say I felt "rough" or harried or panicked. I didn't even feel stressed-out about it (although I was certainly tired at the end of the day). I was even a little curious why I didn't feel "violated" or "unsafe" as many testimonies after a theft confess.

As I sat in my chair, picturing some flannel-and-jean clad young men anxiously rifling through my space, heard their dull-witted delight at finding the stash of wine, mused on why they moved the baptismal font off the chancel to the front doors of the sanctuary, imagined them sprinting down the hall of the church with their loot, I found myself feeling sadness; sadness for the small hope that looks forward to nothing bigger than $30 in cash, a tablecloth full of wine bottles and a laptop after the prime of its life. If indeed, the glory of God is a life well-lived (as Irenaeus said), I grieve their loss that comes with such little gains.

I don't miss the laptop. But I do miss everything it represented: connectivity to friends and years of meaningful correspondence, its long memory of class notes and papers, sermons and Sunday school lessons; how it was a launch pad for new words and ideas and a vehicle for entertainment through games and movies. Of course pastors and friends have been functioning well for centuries without them. Nothing replaces face-to-face or even voice-to-voice, not even (most especially!) e-mail. But perhaps for my generation, there is some shadow of community; some small awareness that through these plastic boxes, at the other end of thousands of miles of fiber optic cable, are real breathing human beings that mean something to

Post-Script: I discovered a dear friend's church also fell prey to hungry hands. His reflection offers profound illumination into our church's activity. Check it out here.

Picture Albums and Home Videos: Anecdotes of a Forgotten Past

I'm in a paradox about that oft-used/oft-abused instrument of preachers, the anecdote. I confess publicly now my own over-trained cynicism that comes second nature as I sit on the other side of someone else's pulpit some Sunday I'm out of my own. And I cannot help but start taking notes about how they do things, their method and technique (i.e., manuscript or free form, narrative or 3 point style, etc). And one thing I always seem sure to note is if they fall prey to the great cover-up: telling some story or anecdote or joke at the beginning in an effort to "break the ice" or "warm up the crowd". In other words, to entertain.

Sadly I fail to remember where I heard this (which is appropriate to where this blog seems to be taking me) but I've heard it said that often preachers look for a quip or clever yarn to open up sermons as a way to hide their own insecurity; to please the crowd before prophesying; to win them to your side before you bend them over and tell them what they don't want to hear. So in my over-educated, well-oiled superiority complex, I give the preacher a demerit and am then on the lookout for other indications of their short-comings (which, any good psychologist would probably tell you has far more to do with my own insecurities and short-comings than anything else). Nevertheless, the anecdote in this context becomes the sugar coating on a bad-tasting Gospel. It seems to me the Gospel deserves to be taken more seriously than a punchline or bad medicine; and is certain bigger than the kind of joke that is only laughed at to make the teller feel okay with themselves.

But this is a paradox because Jesus himself is an amazing Storyteller. He weaves images with words to give us a tapestry of the Kingdom. The most memorable, engaging sermons I've heard are often full of stories and personal testimony that reveal the Kingdom in the syntax of real-life. This accounts (sometimes humorous, sometimes grave) offer a tangible memory of the Gospel for a parishioner to take home and play with for a while.

I am rather humbled by all I've experienced by God's grace in my short life; travel, relationships, musical performances, unique experiences, etc. I love living this life God has so carefully set-up around us. And yet whenever I rummage through my memories for an illustration that I hope will not entertain or cover-up but give hand-holds to the Gospel, I have trouble making the connections. I've driven long miles, hiked through mountains and deserts and highlands, flown over oceans and timezones, but I cannot find an illustration to illuminate the journey of the friends to Emmaus (Luke 24).

My wife will grow frustrated with me from time to time (hehe, look at this, an anecdote) when she asks, "Don't you remember when ..." followed by a memory of something she or I said and despite my conscientious effort to [i]not[/i] be like those insensitive, dull-witted cavemen portrayed in TV sitcoms, I'll give her the stereotypical, "Um..." and wince. Recently, after repeating this scene, I realized that I don't remember conversations much, but impressions. In other words, I think I remember in photographs, not in video.

Perhaps a psychologist could better explain what that's about. Or maybe it is simply a sign that I'm not a very practiced observer of life but instead, I spend my energy thinking about how I feel about life (i.e., spend more time thinking about how [i]I[i/] look at life instead of just looking at life!). It's as if Monet paints my memories: as if the images are cast behind a sheet of water; a still picture that shimmers with movement. If my life were a book, it would probably be one of those coffee table books, and have more pictures than words. While I appreciate how God is created me, it would be nice to have eyes to view the world and not orbit around my own perspective; to start with the world and see where I fit, instead of starting with self and moving out.

Maybe to actually be less self-aware and just more aware is the faithful task for preachers.

Quote of the Day

"The human mind is never more resourceful than when it is involved in self-justification," author Jean Garton has written.

I don't know who Jean Garton is, but they certainly have a point.