What I Am Reading

Invitation to a Journey:  A Road Map for Spiritual Formation.  Today:  the eighth chapter, "The Classical Spiritual Pilgrimage".  And on this journey there are - so the wisdom of generations tells me - four stages:  awakening, purging, illumination and union.  And in this ongoing process of learning to be "in Christ" is the ebb and flow of learning to trust ...

"This yieldedness to God is the 'trust' Groeschel describes as the deepest of the stages of purgation.  It is trust that rests one's being totally and completely in God's love and care without demands, conditions or prior expectations.  Even in the darkness of God's seeming absence, trust rests the weight of one's being absolutely in God.  The psalmist captures this deep inner posture of trust in Psalm 131:

O Lord, my heart is not proud

nor haughty my eyes.

I have not gone after things too great

nor marvels beyond me.

Truly I have set my soul 

in silence and peace.

A weaned child on its mother's breast,

even so is my soul.

"The first affirmation expresses the absence of self-concerned anxiety.  Then, in the image of the weaned child at its mother's breast, the psalmist reveals the life of absolute trust in God.  The unweaned child is at its mother's breast for its own need, its own agenda - milk.  The weaned child, however, has no such need or agenda.  It is content to rest in the mother's arms and receive whatever attention she chooses to give."  

Listening

It's official. I have joined the ranks. I have adopted a paternal saying that falls deaf upon my son's ears. The saying: "Wyatt, listen to me."

I didn't even realize I was prone to this customary form of parenting until I said these exact words to Wyatt the other day, and before I could even get another word out Wyatt turned around and tried to ignore me. He knew what was coming: either correction or instruction. In this case, it was a correction - probably something about how he can't hit me with the zylophone mallet.

Seeing his indifference to my plea, I immediately played back a number of other times I had begun sentences, "Wyatt, listen to me." Usually, I try to turn him towards me, and I crouch down seeking to meet him eye to eye - hoping this will magically turn my son into Plato at Socrates' feet and will allow him to lap up my helpful counsel. To no avail. He is as persistent in his stubborness and sinful ways as a pre-exile Israelite. Or, at least that's how I choose to see it. The reality is much different.

When Wyatt misbehaves, it is usually because I have failed to listen to him, not the other way around. He usually hits me with the mallet after I have watched football for three hours and ignored him. So, when I sweep in and seek to put an end to his tirades, we are way past the point when Wyatt is ready to listen to me. Having listened to and watched me in my non-parenting, he is certainly not going to take my last-ditch attempts at parenting seriously.

This was all illustrated last night while I was watching the Colts play. Wyatt was sitting beside me on the couch, eating some popcorn (even sharing some with me). As I become more and more involved with the game, I became less and less aware of what Wyatt was doing. Anna - cooking dinner - looked over at one point and said I was staring straight at the television (Elise in my arms, mind you), while Wyatt was jostling the popcorn bowl to simulate a popcorn maker bouncing seeds all over the place. The result was popcorn seeds all over the couch, not popcorn. It also happened to produce one frustrated parent (me) and one "don't-you-ever-say-my-job-is-easy" parent (Anna).

That was a very long explanation to come to one conclusion: I am not that great of a listener sometimes. In fact, (when I'm watching sports) I am downright deaf - choosing to tune everything out except what I want to hear.

I've been reading through Walter Brueggemann's commentary on Jeremiah recently (thanks J for lending me your copy for now), and he is quick to point out that Jeremiah's strongest word is that the people of Israel have ceased to listen; the Israelites have gone their own way, theologically turning away from God as guiding-parent and choosing instead to see what life they may find on their own or with the other attractive gods (aka "idols").

Keep in mind: Listening is the central command given to the Israelites, the very action (nay, inaction) that is meant to guide them as a people (Deut. 6:4-6).

"... what is commanded and required is listening (shema', Jer. 7:23.) That is all ... Listening is readiness to be addressed and commanded, to have life ordered by Yahweh. Listening is to cede control rather than to retain control ..." (Brueggemann).

Reading this, I am once again aware of the need to listen ... not just to my son, but - just as importantly - to my God. Both are two people who could use more of my attention.

Wes

The Idiot

Here is a funny thing.  I love Dostoyevsky's works.  Well, that isn't quite the funny part.  The funny thing is that when I read his books, I really don't understand them until I'm probably two to three hundred pages into the book.  I didn't even comprehend Crime and Punishment until I read the last chapter!  Then it all fell into place, and I instantly loved it.

Not surprisingly, it has taken me a great deal of time to work my way into The Idiot.  In fact, I started The Idiot three years ago, got several hundred pages into it, then finally put it down because I was entirely lost.  Mostly, I couldn't keep up with the characters (the story introduces probably a dozen and a half characters in the first hundred pages, and each character has two or three different names).  

But, hearing someone else recently finished the book, I decided to give it a go again.  As I trudged into it, I was overtaken by vague remembrances - like I was walking through one of my childhood homes:  recalling bits and pieces, struggling to put the whole together again.  But, most of my memory was tied to one scene:  Prince Myshkin ("The Idiot") encounters a painting in a dark hallway.  It is the painting titled "Body of the Dead Christ in the Tomb" by Hans Holbein, which is pictured here.

As Myshkin stares at this painting, an adversary (Rogozhin) declares that he likes looking at this very picture.  Myshkin responds:  "At that picture! ... At that picture!  Why, that picture might make some people lose their faith."

This line comes at a critical turn in The Idiot.  And in typical Dostoyevsky fashion, he uses art as an entry into theology.  

Dostoyevsky's writing - in total - is intent upon answering the questions posed by theology:  who is God, who are we, what do we have to do with one another?  Frequently, his characters are poised and created to answer those very questions, to determine who wins the conflict of life:  God or devil (anti-God).

Admittedly, then, it takes a certain type to enjoy Dostoyevsky, and not surprisingly many of his fans are pastors.  In fact, my search for the title of this painting also led me to a sermon given by a pastor in Wales during Holy Week, which you can find here.  The sermon has some wonderful quotes, including a classic one by Brueggemann.

Enjoy,

Wes  

Honoring The Body

"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God … And the Word became flesh and lived among us …” 

John 1 

"Your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you …” 

Paul to the Corinthian believers 

Ain't Nothing the Matter with Matter

“Matter is real. Flesh is good,” the wise pastor tells us, “without a firm rooting in creation, religion is always drifting off …The Word did not become a good idea, or a numinous feeling, or a moral aspiration; the Word became flesh.”1 This is such an important point that both the beginning of the Old Testament (Genesis) and the New Testament (the Gospels) begin by telling us plainly God has blessed and honored the created world. We cannot practice our faith by bypassing our bodies and moving into our heads or our souls. We must begin where God begins: with the matter of creation, with our very bodies.

There is something incredible about our bodies … no doubt about that. The intricacy of nerves and synapse, the unbelievable complexity of all that our bodies do every minute to sustain and produce life, the coordination between eyes and hands: all bespeak of God’s amazing design. But, just as our bodies speak of life, when we truly consider them, they also teach us something else.

Our bodies teach us the sacredness of vulnerability, the holiness of finitude. We live as temples of flesh and blood, flesh that ages, blood that can spill. You realize that when you hold a baby, when you care for a dying parent. Stephanie Paulsell who wrote the article “Honoring the Body” for the book Practicing Our Faith emphasizes this sacredness in our vulnerability, a fact we frequently do recognize while holding babies. But, the sacredness of our condition doesn’t just end with swaddling blankets. Our bodies are at all times in need of care, of nutrition, of protection. Our bodies are at all times marching towards the cessation of life. From dust we came, to dust we shall return our ancestors remind us.

Many people, though, prefer to ignore that reminder and run from their vulnerability and finitude. Christianity itself has not been immune from such tendencies. In fact, in the 2nd Century a type of theological mid-life crisis occurred. Certain believers began to question the sacredness of flesh and blood. They tried to mask God-realities of blessed creation by dividing life into matter (bad) and spirit/wisdom (good). Gnosticism was its name, and while Gnosticism was declared heresy on several occasions that hasn’t stopped the same thought from creeping up again and again. It’s not all that uncommon to hear a devout soul exclaim the word “flesh” in a vile and repugnant tone. And we can’t forget that even the great apostle Paul opened the door to such division when he declared that terrible conflict between “spirit” and “flesh” (Romans 7).

But, despite all that, here we are. We are human beings. We have eyes and ears, limbs and organs. While we may prefer to have other materials to work with, there are none. As the poet Jane Kenyon tells us our life is a “long struggle to be at home in the body, this difficult friendship.”

Many of us don’t do very well with this friendship. We compare our bodies to the images we see on television or those printed in magazines. We wonder why God has given us too much of this or not enough of that. We curse our bodies for failing us, for straining against us even when we seek to do them well by exercising.

Learning to Honor the Body in Community

Perhaps this is why honoring the body is a practice that is best learned in community. In community we discover this paradox: often we learn to care and honor our body when we cease to focus on our bodies and focus instead on the needs of others. This is where the sacredness of vulnerability becomes essential again. 

Seeing Christ in Others … and In Us

When we take time to consider those around us, to see them as real, matter-of-fact people with real needs, real beauty and real blemishes, we begin to see the godliness in those persons. That even includes the sacredness of the wounded. In fact, the more we allow ourselves to see wounded or handicapped persons as human beings, the more apt we are to see the world with godly compassion. Paulsell explains: “The practice of honoring the body keeps these wounded bodies visible not as objects but as persons made in God’s image. The practice of honoring the body leads us to prophetic action by forming us as persons who love every human body and the ravaged body of earth itself.” It is this same prophetic seeing that Jesus invited when he encouraged the disciples to go out and feed and clothe those in need (Matthew 25).

Jesus’ words are especially important. They demonstrate that any gospel that seeks to divorce itself from the body (from real people with real needs) is empty. And just as important: Jesus’ very life proved God’s recognition of both the sacredness of the material and the necessity to redeem us fully—including our bodies. Christ came bodily and Christ was resurrected bodily. Christianity is, as Paulsell declares, an “embodied” faith.

The Body in Worship

The Christian Church has also sought to marry both soul and body in distinct worship practices.  In fact, Christian worship is itself intended to honor the body. Worship is corporeal: “in the meal of communion, we eat and drink, gathered together by Christ’s own wounded body; in baptism, it is our bodies that are bathed in cleansing water; in the passing of the peace, we touch one another in love and hope” (Paulsell, 16). But it is not just the Lord’s Supper, baptism and the passing of the peace that makes worship corporeal. All of worship demands our faculties. It is impossible to worship God without first recognizing the role our bodies play.  

So as you prepare to worship this Sunday, take a moment to consider those who will gather with you, the body of Christ. While you don’t have to stare, do notice them. Then, locate the baptismal font and the communion table. And invite the Holy Spirit to give you an awareness of God’s presence, to help you understand more fully the psalmist's expression: “taste and see the Lord is good” (Psalm 34:8). 2

1 Peterson, Eugene. The Contemplative Pastor. Pg. 68.
2 This article is heavily influenced by Paulsell’s article and the quote from Jane Kenyon also comes from her work in the book Practicing Our Faith.

(Re)reading the Bible

I began reading John Thompson's Reading the Bible with the Dead:  What You Can Learn from the History of Exegesis that You Can't Learn from Exegesis Alone tonight, which is a fabulous book, even if you don't know what the word "exegesis" means (okay, so now you're curious:  exegesis).  

John Thompson is the professor of historical theology and the Gaylan & Susan Byker Professor of Reformed Theology at Fuller Theological Seminary.  He is also the same man who taught me how to navigate the steep descents of the Los Angeles National Forest on a mountain bike and the man who taught me Reformed history.  Needless to say, I mastered the first endeavor about as well as the second, and I came no where close to the proficiency, skill and artistry that John did with both disciplines.

On top of that, John and his wife Marianne Meye Thompson, helped guide me through my final years of seminary and helped prepare me for pastoral ministry - a transition that is much more difficult than what you might expect or hope for pastors.  

All that to say, I was deeply thankful to pick up John's book and to sink my teeth into something I knew would be judicious, hilarious, insightful and devoted to seeking God's word above all.  And, I have not been disappointed.

The aim of the book is to reintroduce to pastors and biblical scholars alike the virtue and reasonableness of consulting the treasure trove of commentaries compiled by church leaders throughout the last two thousand years - to see what they have to say about the bible's most difficult passages (many of them detailing horrible atrocities committed against women).  In so doing, Thompson hopes to dialogue with modern critical scholars (including feminist scholars) and modern churchmen and women who assume God's verdict has been cast one way or the other regarding the morality of these tales.  

The first chapter has to do with the story of Abraham, Sarah and Hagar - specifically the way that Genesis both honors and vilifies Hagar for her role in the first family of faith.  I won't go into how the Christian church read this story (including the Apostle Paul's own interesting interpretation in Galatians 4).  But I do want to say something briefly about Genesis.

What strikes me tonight - especially after reading about the remarkably virtuous, resourceful and endearing manner in which Hagar handles herself and her child (Genesis 16 & 21) - is how frequently God turns things upside down in Genesis.  God appears to use not only the foolish to shame the wise, but - in Genesis - God appears to use the duplicitous and deceitful (Jacob), the innocent and arrogant (Joseph), the demanding and jealous (Sarah), and - in Abraham's case - the neglectful and passive-aggressive to somehow still bring forth a blessing.  Or, in other words, the people we so often celebrate as our grandfathers and grandmothers in faith are often times the very ones who fail to exhibit the nobility of their calling and role.  It is as if God goes to great lengths to show that God can work a blessing even out of the most crooked of characters.  That is the story of grace:  the working of the greater miracle even against or in spite of our own deficiencies.

So, thank you John ... for your continued pursuit of the blessing in the "whole counsel of God," and your willingness to reintroduce the very stories that challenge and beg our faith to be more than we would have it be on our own.

Wes 

Those Windows Into Our Souls

I've been dreaming lately.  A lot.  Not nightmares per se, but nor of comfort or peace.  

Like the dream I had of driving home in the rain, my windshield wipers on at a steady pace, the rain smothering the windshield.  I was plagued by the shortness of my vision, unable to make out lines and turns, oncoming traffic or signs of counsel.  I eventually, somehow safely, pulled up behind a stopped car only to realize that one of my headlights was out.  And the other headlight was a dim haze in the slow-churning storm.  I woke up.  I never made it home.  

Or the dream I had of trying to find the route home on Interstate 65 up through the north side of Indianapolis to Zionsville.  On my way home, I was displaced and dislocated into a small urban area on the near north east side of Indianapolis.  For the remainder of the evening, I was caught in a building with several children.  And in that place there was the chaos and comedy of adolescent energies, bouncing between rooms and out of bunk beds, unable to stay centered in a chair.  I longed to get out of those rooms and walls.  When I did finally secure an escape, I was left walking the streets as an obvious stranger, a wanderer with no awareness of how to find my car, my street, my exit.

So, I'm listening to what those dreams are saying within me - letting fears surface into my mind like pockets of air trapped in deep seas.

But, during the day, I've returned to reading the Scriptures.  I am taking those same fears and immersing them into ancient counsel and steady assurances.  I am reading about Joseph and betrayals that end in reconciliation and deep, overwhelming gladness.  I am reading about Peter and shortcomings that are overrun by the one who traverses even the chaos of the sea - turning the very object of terror into a playground of faith.  And, I am learning that even my faith can be buttressed by pauses of remembrance and loosening of demands and time tables.

And tonight I not only read but understood what Julian of Norwhich said in courage and hope:  

"Just as our flesh is covered by clothing; and our blood covered by our flesh, so are we, soul and body, covered and enclosed by the goodness of God.  Yet the clothing and the flesh will pass away, but the goodness of God will always remain and will remain closer to us than our own flesh ...

"All shall be well and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well."

Then sings my soul the same.

Wes

God and Mammon

I referenced this article by D'Vera Cohn of the Pew Research Agency for a sermon and thought it might be interesting to other folk:

Baby Boomers:  The Gloomiest Generation

America's baby boomers are in a collective funk. Members of the large generation born from 1946 to 1964 are more downbeat about their lives than are adults who are younger or older, according to a new Pew Research Center Social and Demographic Trends survey.

Not only do boomers give their overall quality of life a lower rating than adults in other generations, they also are more likely to worry that their incomes won't keep up with inflation -- this despite the fact that boomers enjoy the highest incomes of any age group. (read the entire article by clicking here).

Fathers and Sons

I really appreciated reading the following article that appeared in the most recent alumni email for Fuller grads:

Slowly but Surely
By Philip Carlson (ThM '93, MDiv '87)

We bring with us into every new day the memories and experiences of the past. For all of us there are parts of our story that are hard to forget: the injustices of life, experiences of being treated unfairly, the times when we were misunderstood, relationships that ended badly with no closure, hurts where no one ever said I'm sorry. How our past impacts our future is largely determined by the way we apply God's grace to our own hearts and the hearts of others.

Emotional healing has come slowly but surely for me through a growing recognition of God's love. The forgiveness I've received and given has helped facilitate the emotional healing that has set me free not to repeat the past. As God gave Carole and me our children, I committed to the Lord that they would grow up in a very different environment than I had. This meant more than avoiding the negative things that can leave lasting wounds in our children, but finding ways to convey the high value I place on each of them and leaving positive memories of a father who loved God by honoring them.

One of the things that I have done periodically over the years is to recite to my children the stories of the days they were born. I describe the events with careful detail, explaining our emotions throughout the day, especially as they were born and we held them for the first time. We may be sitting at home or riding in the car and I will just launch into the story. This is one of my idiosyncrasies of which they have never tired. I love to watch their expressions as I tell their stories. Each of them has favorite parts that I must not exclude. Brendan loves the end of his story the best. As I arrive at that part of the story he gets a look of enthusiasm that says, 'I love this part.' The end of his story goes like this: 'It was almost midnight and I was about to leave the hospital and go home. I decided to go to the nursery to see you one more time. When I got there the nursery was full, but you were front and center and the nurse was taking care of you. A number of people were standing there and several commented on how cute you were. As I stood there I felt so much love and joy that I thought my chest was going to explode and I pointed to you and said, 'That's my boy. That's my boy.''

Years ago I read in Gordon Dalbey's excellent book on the healing of the masculine soul that the thing sons most need to hear from their fathers is not 'I love you,' but the words 'You are my son. You belong to me.'

A couple of years ago, I took Brendan with me to visit someone in the hospital. As we walked holding hands, I said to Brendan, 'I love you, buddy. You are so precious to me. I am so glad that you are my son.' Brendan, who was about six, stopped dead in his tracks, looked up at me and said, 'I love it when you say that.' Now, I had made several statements and wanted to be clear about what he meant. So I asked, 'When I say what?' to which he replied, 'When you say what you just said: 'You are my son.''

'How great is the love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God!' (1 John 3:1)

Life in General

Representatives from a local Christian mission spoke to our congregation last night - trying to help our church understand the needs facing persons with serious addictions or other destructive habits that are ruining their lives. Shortly after enjoying a good plate of ham, potato casserole, green beans, and pineapple upside-down cake, the audience was shown a video with testimonies from people who had used or were using the mission's services. One of the men in the video quoted some advice a staff member had given him as he was in the gutter so to speak: "It isn't that you want to die; you just don't know how to live."

Bullseye. That line lodged itself into my conscience, germinating a number of other thoughts and conversations that lay dormant. How do we live? That is - isn't it - the essence of it all. What path are we intended to follow, what rules are intended to instruct our days?

I also read recently that the Hebrew tradition sought to answer those questions for us. Torah is meant to give instruction for living - all of it. Author A. J. Jacobs - a Jew by birth but not by practice (until recently) - has been making waves by drawing out this conclusion. He literally tried to follow the Bible for an entire year. His sense was that the prescriptions for holy living truly were profitable.

The Christian Scriptures too seek to illuminate a way of life: discipleship or a life-long willingness to follow the pattern of Christ. I have been reconnecting with this reality by tapping into some modern teachers like Dallas Willard and Richard Foster all over again. These two men have put in significant time studying and communicating answers to the question, "How do we live?" Foster in particular has established Renovare - an ecumenical effort to give Christians and churches a deeper appreciation for the long, deep history of others who have sought to answer this question. The resources that Foster and others are producing through Renovare are some of the most helpful and hopeful I've come across in a long time.

Of particular value is the book Streams of Living Water: Celebrating the Great Traditions of Christian Faith. The simple aim of this book is to present clearly how various traditions have tried to live faithfully God's call to be disciples of Christ. According to this study, there are six streams of thought and action: contemplative, holiness, charismatic/spirit-empowered, social justice, evangelical, and incarnational.

As I work with and minister to people of varying social and economic situations, the knowledge of how to live is clearly missing ... and I say that for my own soul much of the time. Our culture is good at determining how to be successful, how to progress, how to compete and win. But, there is very little awareness of how to live a good life - well, aside from the materialistic, shallow definitions given to us through television ads and billboards.

Those streams of culture - or more likely flood waters - are quick to suggest that meaning comes through acquisition and possession. But, the more I read rich souls and study Scripture, the more I get the sense that the good life comes through a deep awareness of God in all of life and through practices and habits that train us to be more deeply and fully aware of God. There is no easy way around it: living well means a good deal of training and preparing to live well. This - I am aware - flies in the face of what Dallas Willard calls "vampire Christianity" where we willingly take the blood of Christ for our forgiveness and peace of mind but abandon a life of decency, justice and holiness as the cross that it is (click here for more; Willard cites A. W. Tozer as the source of this modern heresy).

This takes me back to the voices of homeless men and women I heard last night on the DVD. When you get to the point of homelessness - of being down and out - there really isn't anything you can buy or obtain that will get you out of the pit. At the bottom is only a long, arduous path of recovery, which includes learning all over again how to live: how to manage money, how to say no to destructive forces and yes to positive habits. That's about it. Well, there are two other critical things - two things the Christian tradition holds dearly:

1. The role of the Spirit in leading our regeneration in Christ.
2. The value of community and ceremonies to help us remember that we are not in this alone.

Without those two realities, our efforts - so others have said - amounts to strict legalism, frustration, and ultimately a return to despair.

So, there it is: we all have a need to know how to live well. I guess that's why Joel Osteen can sell a ton of books and why self-help is now quintessentially American. People are dying to live well. And, if someone can promise to help you in that endeavor (especially with an ivory smile), why wouldn't you want to listen. It is even more complicated because there is a great deal of truth in these self-help methods and "positive Christianity" efforts.

But (and I swear this will be the last thing), there is a problem with that stream ... and to illustrate, I want to tell you about Cool Whip.

Cool Whip promises to have 50% less calories than real whipped cream. The assumption here is that you'll consume less calories, but it denies the underlying problem: people don't need less calories; they need a different understanding of how to eat.

In the same way, we don't need better products (specifically new and flashy ones) to live better. What we need are ancient, proven rhythms and postures. To hand ourselves over to the current best seller is to let in any number of "additives" that may just be counterproductive, if not destructive. So, that's it. I just finally had some pieces of the puzzle fall into place after a long period of looking long and hard at disorder.

Shalom,

Wes

Tornado

A tornado - or three - blew through Owensboro last Thursday, doing some pretty significant damage to the historic regions of this city. Third Baptist Church had its steeple collapse inward to the sanctuary - a terrible blow that could have been much, much worse considering there were people in the sanctuary who vacated a mere five minutes before the collapse.

That day was a bizarre day in general, and I had intended to publish a blog that night about one of the strange occurrences. It didn't happen; but here it is ...

---------

By the time I was ready to leave the home of a church parishioner, the rain was dropping in sheets and wind was howling across the eastern hills of Daviess County. I had arrived around 3:30 pm in the afternoon to give a 3rd grade girl a bible – a bible we had intended to give her back in August. Family travels had kept them away from the church and poor excuses and old routines had kept me away from them.

Wyatt – bless his soul – traveled the fifteen or so miles out into the county to visit this girl and her mother – screaming for two-thirds of the journey. Two motives drove me to take him along with me: Anna’s need to prepare our home and a meal for guests and my desire to make this bible presentation as overtly family oriented as possible.

Wyatt was a good companion – only a minor distraction from time to time. Although he did find it terribly frustrating to get a lock on the family cat only to have it evade his affection.

And I can’t say that my attention was always focused. There is a disorienting awkwardness about entering a family’s home under the pretenses of pastoral work. But despite the timid nature of both parties, we made well at conversation.

I was welcomed by a young girl at the door. Her mom had told me that her daughter was terribly excited about this, and as I entered, I wondered what the girl was hoping or expecting. I needn’t wonder long; her eyes spoke truth. She focused her vision firmly on the burgundy book with minor gold lettering tucked into a corner on the front.

I was carrying a mystery of magic – some wonderful book that she knew not much about except that it had deep, profound worth to certain people, I being one of those.

After some good discussion about school and about pets, I asked her and her mom where she liked to read in the house. This inquiry threw her a bit – not sure if that secret was okay to reveal to me, a relative stranger. Her mom encouraged her: “you like to read in here,” (referring to the living room), “and in your bedroom.” Not wanting to gift God’s word to her in a realm that was too personal, I proceeded then and there to briefly express the beauty, truth and marvel that is scripture. “This is a light, a way to see as you journey through life. This is a seed planted, a seed that can grow to produce peace, joy, patience and kindness. It is not an easy book to read. Some of it is quite confusing. But, it is our story. And, if you ever have any questions, you know you can ask your parents. And you can ask Jonathan or me. You can ask your Sunday school teachers.”

After I stammered this out, the girl took the bible in her own hands – clasping it as though it were her highest prize. Before I left, she dug out three other bibles that were buried beneath some other books near a shelf in the dining room. She wanted me to know they had others. And she told me how she had just watched Evan Almighty, and how she knew the story of the ark. “Genesis 6:13,” she said. “That was the verse in the movie. Genesis 6:13.” And with the bible now in her possession, she hunted the chapter and verse down and read in her naively trusting voice, “Then God said to Noah, ‘I have determined to make an end of all flesh; for the earth is filled with violence because of them; and now I am going to destroy them with the earth.”

The mother quickly averted this apocalyptic word by pressing the conversation back to school. The girl: she was delighted, having taken her new book of wonder and utilized a key she remembered from a movie to unlock one of its mysteries.

Yes, it was about that time the storm broke, which took this already surreal moment into the realm of bizarre. Huge sheets of rain flooded the driveway and rolled quickly off the deck onto the ongoing acres.

I realized the chance to escape with Wyatt in a quiet, smooth fashion had come and gone. So rather than waiting out the storm, we made a fool’s attempt to keep Wyatt dry with two umbrellas, two adults and one sippy-cup.

We slipped Wyatt into his car seat fairly smoothly, the large sheets of rain kicking against the stony drive and our legs. I fumbled my way in front of the car and to the driver’s seat, the mother holding one of the umbrellas to the air like an olive branch against a flood.

On the way home, tornado sirens screamed all over the countryside as varying degrees of gray gathered and hurtled their way into the eastern sky. To the west, vaulting clouds of cotton white where trying to climb one another into the highest heavens, and in between the duality of dark and light, a pristine sky of blue stretched north to the Ohio River. To top it all, a rainbow stretched from north to south over a lone farmhouse. It seemed to disappear into my car it was so close.

I think about that drive now. The bible. And that girl.

The rest of the evening has played out with more fury from the sky. Tornado sounds blared all night long – emptying themselves upon the city and county, forcing families to find shelter and refuge against the sinister spiral. Water ran up and down the street, trees shook their arms as if celebrating the long-missed rain with Pentecostal flare.

I wonder: what if that girl truly believed what she read. What if her faith moved that storm up onto our county? Of course, that would be preposterous. But, you have to wonder …

She eyes that book as though it were a truly magical work – something Harry Potter might employ. She remembers some verse, focusing her mind upon it to give her a way to unlock this new gift. She speaks the verse in wonder and trust – letting the story come alive in her mind even as her mom dodges the brutality of it all.

And God hears the story written long ago, lets it come to life again in the heart of a child. And, for a brief moment, the floodgates are unbound, brining a torrent of rain onto the land. God speaks through the flowing river dropping from the sky:

“Yes, girl, that part is true. I came within a hair’s breadth from snuffing out all that ever breathed – like two fingers joined together against the flame of a candle. There was great violence in those days. Still is. Great violence to fill a world full of tears if I let those tears run from my own face. But my tears were too much for me to bear. And so I set limits upon the earth, and I set a bow in the sky – a weapon of war to mark the peace that will rule the day into eternity.”

I wonder.

Manish

About eight months after Anna and I left California we got some really troubling news about a dear friend, Manish Desai (left). Manish was told he had cancer in his hand. The short story is cruel: Manish sacrificed his hand in order to stave off the risk of the cancer spreading. Even worse, the hand that he lost severely restricted his professional skills as an architect. Almost two weeks ago, Manish began chemotherapy to further eliminate the risk of the cancer returning. Thanks be to God, right now there are no visible signs of cancer.

Still, the road is steep and hard for him and for his wife, Emily. Together, they are daily trying to relearn old rhythms and navigate life as parents to their beautiful son, Dillan.

The good news: Manish and Emily have an incredible amount of faith and perseverance of hope, and they have been a gift to Anna and I even as they've struggled through this battle.

And, yet, they are in need of more than prayers and encouragement. Manish is seeking the assistance of a prosthetic hand that would allow him to return more aptly to his work - not to mention his duties as father and husband. However, Manish's (and Emily's) hope of obtaining this prosthetic is severely limited by cost and the fact that his insurance company currently doesn't recognize the prosthetic that would best assist him.

This is why I am writing and posting this. Below is a letter written by a mutual friend of Manish, Marshall Allen (center of picture above). Marshall is a journalist for the Las Vegas Sun, and has also written a story about Manish for that paper, which you can read here. Also, here is a good website elaborating Manish's and Emily's journey: www.whatsleftisright.com

I hope you will consider Manish in your prayers. And if you can provide more, God bless whatever you give.

--------------

Dear Loved Ones,

It's a great honor for me to make a sincere appeal to you on behalf of my
dear friends, Manish, Emily and Dillan Desai. This family, as you may know,
have been stretched to capacity in the past six months during Manish's
battle with cancer. In this time of crisis they've been buoyed most by their
faith in Almighty God and the community of loved ones who has surrounded
them with companionship, support and encouragement. So, I greet you all as
Manish and Emily's "loved ones" because we may not know one another, but
this wonderful couple is the hub that joins us all.

It's been six months since Manish was diagnosed with cancer. I remember when Manish called me and told me about the cancer. He's a follower of Jesus, and given the depth of
his faith he said he's not afraid to die. But he said he does not want to
die. Manish is 31 and an architect - a gifted one with a passion for design.
He and Emily have been married about six years and have a beautiful
21-month-old boy, Dillan. The Desais have a lot of life to look forward to.
How we cried when we heard that news. And we prayed.

God was at work even before Manish found out he had cancer. First, he was
protected. The doctors are surprised that Manish is even alive because the
form of cancer he has is known to spread rapidly. Then, he and Emily were
sustained. Their attitudes have been a remarkable testimony through this
ordeal. And finally, they were looking to the future. The cancer doctors
were always clear that amputating Manish's left hand -- his dominant hand --
would be the best approach to dealing with this grave disease. Manish
mourned the loss, but Emily says the day he was given the news he also
started practicing writing and sketching with his right hand.

The cancer is gone (though it could come back, so keep praying) and we're
continuing with this push forward. I'm happy to say that the latest step
involves all of us. We have a God-given opportunity to give a remarkable
gift to Manish, Emily and Dillan -- a new hand. Manish is in the process of
getting an i-Limb, by a company called Touch Bionics.

This hand provides precision and fine motor skills that are unmatched among
other prosthetic devices, which are more hook- or claw-like. The i-Limb
boasts four fingers and a moveable thumb, each powered by its own motor and
directed by a central processing unit in the palm. It's an amazing piece of
technology and Manish's best bet to keep his career cruising in the fast
lane. (He has more work than ever, incidentally.)

There's one drawback, but this is our chance to shine. The i-Limb was just
introduced in the United States about two months ago and there are only 30
in the country. Insurance companies are not paying for this yet, and the
costs could be as high as $50,000 to get Manish set up for the first few
years (the hand itself is about $17,000, the cosmetic cover about $4,000,
the extended warranties are $4,000, the forearm fitting, labor and physical
therapy could be another $20,000, and there will be thousands in maintenance
annually and a new hand needed every five years or so).

Many of you have asked, as I did, how we can help pay for this hand. We've
set up a website that will provide that information, as well as tell Manish
and Emily's story for other people who may be going through similar
circumstances. Check out www.whatsleftisright.com to see the site, read
their story and check out the blog. You can also see a story I wrote about
Manish's search for a new hand. I'm a journalist at the Las Vegas Sun
newspaper, and by God's providence Manish and Emily came out here to a
prosthetics convention last week to check out the i-Limb.

Be sure to click on "Donate" to give via Paypal or see where to send a
check. We're sorry that there's no way to make this tax deductible, but you
can get points on your credit card by donating online, at least.

Some people may think that $50,000 sounds like a lot of money for people
surrounding Manish and Emily to raise. That's not the way I see it. First,
I'm asking that those of you who know Manish and Emily personally please
consider a sacrificial gift for this fund. That means a different amount for
all of us, obviously. Some people could give $5,000, some $1,000, some $100.
For some that might be $20. I just ask that you be generous and joyful about
this opportunity.

Second, I'm asking those of us who know Manish and Emily personally to
liberally forward this fundraising request to everyone on our email lists.
If the people who know each of us give only $10, or even $5, and if they
forward this request to their friends, we will have $50,000 in no time. I've
already had people at my office say they want to donate, and giving online
makes that really easy. Let's get this thing viral and send it around the
world!

You can keep up to date on Manish's progress via the website and his blog.
I'll be sure to write regular updates so you're informed, and am happy to
answer any questions you might have about the Desais or this fund-raising
effort. We are so excited to see God move in this next chapter of Manish and
Emily's life!


Grace and peace,

Marshall Allen

Walt

The year before Anna and I were to marry, a good friend - Ryan Lessmann - had the wisdom and care enough to recommend one book to me - a book to "prepare us" for the venture of covenant. "You should read Walter Wangerin's book," Ryan said to me. And then he went on to suggest that me - as a writer - somehow reminded Ryan of Walter Wanger, Jr. It was a compliment I didn't know was ludicrous and too gracious until well down the road.

Well, I'll let you see for yourself how ridiculous this claim was ... briefly.

Walter Wangerin, Jr. has been battling cancer for the last couple of years, and during this storming season, he's been plowing through it in the best way he knows how: writing. Occasionally, he offers up some of his thoughts and letters to a wider community. The following is the most recent of those letters.

-----------------------

August 10, 2007

Gentle souls and merciful spirits all:

Time used to tumble for me. Like the mountain stream that breaks at the big rocks, spouts and plunges at speed from crags to canyons. Time was narrow and very fast.

Now Time has slowed to a stately progression. I measure it in day/feet--feet per day. For there are fewer days left to me and heavier feet for the passage. Slowth: it requires enormous patience. Slowth: a damming of anxiety. The consequence of a body restrained, slower than an infant's crawl. My motion by disease reduced to the child's eternal wait for good things far away.

On the other hand, slowth's no trouble at all. Where once Time tumbled, now Time has widened. Like the river that covers a broad plain. And the patience I thought was severity has become my benefaction.

I don't look forward so much any more, dashing to grasp the future. I look left and right. I've the Time, you see, to scrutinize all that is. And what is companions me. The trees can't move. Well, then: let me abide by them a while. My toes, my roots. A good rain can linger almost forever.

The shorter my "Time," the vaster my scope.

Oh, my beautiful granddaughter! What you are right now doesn't need a future to give it purpose or to make the present girl a better one. You are! You are, you are--and for me it is enough. Sure, you may marry. Will be there to kiss you? Right now I don't know. But now I don't beg for that particular piece of future, nor do I bargain for it. Child, you are! And I am. And I have the Time to let the whole of you fill the whole of my knowing.

This, girl: just this. Tip of my finger to the tip of yours. It is altogether enough.

Let me illustrate the pragmatic benefits of patience.

--------------

For years before cancer broke the speed of my Time and spread its silver motion as far as the horizons, I never took my socks off. Well, not my right sock. Under the nail of the great toe concealed was a fungus that blackened the length and breadth of it. I'd heard somewhere that rubbing petroleum jelly into the nail could kill the fungus and return the toe to its former health--and me to my former purity.

I tried the trick. Fairly often at first, sitting on the side of my bed, my right ankles upon my left knee. But then Time caught me up and rushed me straightway into my days. Narrow spout, hurtling stream, my paper boat breathless upon the waters, now! I had no Time or leisure to attend to the toe. Years, I said: black as compost.

But cancer cut the speed, enforced a more casual floating, and opened an eternity between my shower and my breakfast. If I could take interest in the motion of the sunrise, well, I could in my person mimic that solar motion--just as interesting--and rub the petroleum jelly slowly, deeply into the nail.

And I know you know how slowly the nail on your great toe grows. In a few weeks I noticed that the fungus, like a black window shade, was rising. The long morning of the black sun!

And it has arisen. And every Time I trim the nail, I razor away another slice of black.

Cancer has cured me.

Soon I'll remove that sock too.

Surely it's high Time--isn't it?--that we pay as much attention to the blessings of a long affliction as we do to the pain for which we curse it. Please: it's not a man's peculiar interpretation or a woman's particular gift for longsuffering patience which enables each to live the sickness better than another does. It's a faith available to everyone. (Though there always is a learning curve.)

Pay attention!

In Lakota: wachin ksapa yo!--whose meaning is closer to "Be attentive" than to something we do sporadically. It's a continual manner of being.

For the footfall of an ant may be as thunderous as a maverick at full gallop, and as meaningful as the sky.

Rather than drowning awareness, or drugging it, or shrouding ourselves in pity or persistent sorrow, consider companionship: the tree that waits upon our slowth in order to befriend us. The wren who, quick as she is, follows ever her singular path and by her repetitions sticks in the same places in Time. The child whose entire life it caught up in a minute as long as a lifetime.

The toenail healed in Slow Time. The fullness of experience between the shower and a cup of coffee.

Walt

The Good Web

Here is a wonderful resource and website: Practicing Our Faith. It includes some good thoughts on various spiritual activities that lead to greater depth and strength of faith. I am also intrigued by the Valparaiso Practice Grant, which seeks to gift groups or organizations that would like to enhance or develop some of these activities.

Wes

Spiritual Direction

Through a number of different means, I have been reminded recently of the value and importance of having an outside, seasoned voice to listen to and speak into my life. The short term for such a person could be many: pastor, counselor, director. I, however, am looking for a specific person: a spiritual director.

Recent nudges (and shoves) have reminded me of the importance to "get on this." So today I began asking some friends who know better than I where to look.

Spiritual direction is an avenue Catholic brothers and sisters have been pursuing much longer and much deeper than most other Christian traditions, so more than likely I'll end up in conversation with a local priest or nun.

But, what I found to be very cool in my initial search was the news that there is a website whereby you can track down a spiritual director anywhere in the world: Spiritual Directors International.

As the website just listed ... inviting someone to listen and speak to your journey is something you shouldn't do blithely. Still, this is a good resource.

Wes

Bankrupt

Jesus said today that unless I am willing to sell all of my possessions - to sever the bonds of mother and father - that I am not yet ready to be his disciple.

So, I wonder what it is that I am holding onto that keeps me from bankrupting my life to witness greater things than these ...

the fear of not keeping pace with the Jones'

the security of a life that doesn't require much faith

the insecurity of moving beyond professional religion to do God's work

the fear that I will offend or confuse people if I try to live by God's will first and foremost

...

Yeah, that's pretty much about it.

...

Then, later in the day, someone besides Jesus said this:

"worship is meant to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable."

God cuts both ways - taking us down to lift us up, and lifting us up that we might be bowed down low.

Wes

Mother Teresa

A compilation of Mother Teresa's letters and journals was recently compiled and published by a Catholic man hoping to bulster Mother Teresa's odds of becoming a saint. This book, Mother Teresa: Come By My Light, has been in the news much since its publication because it opens a new avenue into people's understanding of who this woman was. Or, more succinctly, people are in a stir because Mother Teresa doubted very much God's presence and pleasure in and for her life.

Here is an article from Time magazine about this book and Mother Teresa's dark night of the soul experience.

I hope to write more about her struggles and this article in the coming days. Briefly, though, what left the biggest impression upon me was the different ways other people analyze and critique her faith - from the religious leader to the psychoanalyst to the atheist. I have my own leanings, but I'd be interested to hear your own. What do you make of Mother Teresa's faith and struggles, her consistent humility (some would say groveling), and her inability to access any certainty of God's presence through her feelings?

Wes

The Whirlwind

I returned from a leaders' retreat for our church today ... only to be staring an unfinished sermon, another long day tomorrow, a fridge that needed to be moved, two rooms that needed to be painted, a family that I have been remiss to connect with, and the usual things I would love to be doing if I had a normal life (like seeing my wife and child).

But, instead of being reasonable, I tried to do the first thing that came to my mind: moving the fridge ... by myself ... with it full. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. I didn't realize how stupid it was until I had moved the fridge only about four feet AND punctured the brand new flooring that we just spent a pretty penny on to have installed. [Oh Snap!] Actually, Anna and I both had worse to say.

"What in the hell was I thinking," I thought. Anna told me I wasn't. She was right.

Thank God I am married to a woman who looks past my profoundly bull-headed, short-sighted attempts at doing good work (which only makes for bad work, in case you're wondering).

I swear the only reason to buy nice things is to have them get marred or broken (usually by me), which only makes me realize how fragile and dumb I am (and we are), and how much I depend upon God's mercy just to keep things in some sort of order.

Not to be too narcissistic or Calvinistic, but sometimes I think the greatest proof of God is that I live to see any beauty or clarity at all in my life. Left to my own devices ...

Anyhow, we did get the fridge moved. And the floor isn't as bad as we first dreaded and cursed. And I did finish the sermon ... thanks to God's grace again in the eleventh hour.

Preaching on Philemon tomorrow, which is a great story ...

Philemon and Onesimus were estranged. Paul had a welcome mat for each. Thanks be to God. Amen.

The Good Samaritan

I have just returned from a two day stay in Nashville where I attended the National Presbyterian Evangelism Conference. This was the first Presbyterian conference focusing on evangelism in 10 years - a fact caused by multiple reasons. Well, actually, it is probably pretty simple: as a denomination we have not had a clear voice about what is "good news" lately.

Jim Wallis - editor and author - was invited to address the 400 or so Presbyterians gathered in the Opryland Hotel. Anna had the chance to hear Jim Wallis at Fuller, but for some reason that I cannot recall I missed it. And, to be honest, I did not read his popular book God's Politics: Why the Right Gets it Wrong and the Left Just Doesn't Get It. So, I was excited to hear his stance and pitch.

Wallis essentially told all of us that what is needed is nothing less than a revival of 19th Evangelical Christianity ... or, in other words, a type of Christianity which is adamantly spiritual but that is also purposefully concerned with social justice. He said we need a "prairie fire" effect. And, to demonstrate his point, he lifted up the example of Charles Finney - the great preacher and prophet who was part of the Second Great Awakening in America.

Now, here's the crazy thing: Finney can not be classified by today's Christian labels. He fits both and neither. For he was ardent in his theology and justice-oriented in his worldview. As Wallis pointed out, it was Finney who began the practice of "altar calls" - that oft used and embarrassing technique we've all experienced at some point. But, here's the kicker: Finney used altar calls so he could sign up and register new believers for his abolition campaigns!

A consuming passion for God and a deep love and interest to create justice: Finney wanted them both.

...

Fabio Saccoriaz - a Cuban immigrant and former acquaintance from my Zionsville days- was also at this conference. He has been doing immigrant ministry in the Indianapolis area for the past six years. His language skills, his interest in immigrants and his experience with day-labor workers and tenant farmers makes him especially gifted for this work. You would think this conference - which was also about multiculturalism and ministering to immigrants - would be perfect for a person like Fabio. And, he was deeply thankful for it ... but not enough to cover his discouragement and exhaustion incurred from doing his work in Indianapolis.

I sat over lunch on Sunday listening to Fabio's struggles these past six years ... about how the Latino population of Indianapolis continues to grow as well as the need for assisting them ... legal help, dentistry, child care, ESL classes, job training. But, those are struggles he wants - needs he can meet. What is truly vexing for him is the lack of support from other Presbyterian churches in the area and from the regional governing board, which blesses his ministry superficially and is quick to claim it has a Latino ministry in Indianapolis but is absent in equipping Fabio's church with pastoral support.

By this point, I am getting worked up, because one of the major churches in the area - Zionsville Presbyterian Church - was my home church. So, I ask Fabio, "What about ZPC? Why aren't they helping?"

Fabio was clearly trying to be diplomatic. He said that yes, without ZPC's funding and assistance, he could never have begun this ministry. But ... I could tell there was a "but." He went on to say that he can't get the people of northern Indianapolis - including the congregation and leadership of ZPC - to engage in the ministry with him. Or, in Fabio's words, "I can get 300 people together for a mission trip down to Mexico, but I can't get more than a dozen people to volunteer for a bilingual VBS week in Indianapolis." Nor can he get more than a handful of dentists to do charitable work or more than one lawyer to do pro bono work. "And I know there's more than one lawyer in Zionsville," Fabio joked. I was not laughing.

Now, I love ZPC, and the pastoral staff at that church have been integral to my own faith journey. I know if they were to hear Fabio speak, they would be crushed and likely penitent. But, the fact of the matter is this: ZPC - and many other evangelical congregations - is too busy trying to be a church unto itself. A church that is doing great ministry, yes, but a church that is becoming more and more isolated. Think of Saddleback or Willow Creek. These type of churches are becoming bastions of Christianity, becoming regional poles but also losing a grip upon local realities. By and large mega-churches are suburban churches, so they inevitably lose contact with the ministry needs and injustices of the city's poor and rural poverty.

I kept thinking of what Fabio said ... about how suburban Christians were eager to travel thousands of miles once a year for the sake of Christ but couldn't engage the poor and overlooked in their own city. "That's the parable of the Good Samaritan," I said - that convicting and ironical tale about the religious leaders who go out of their way to do ministry while ignoring the injured in their path.

Unfortunately, Fabio and a few others are the only good Samaritans in this story. The rest of the church is walking to the other side of the street to do ministry somewhere else.

...

Yeah, it is time for a revival: to see our own streets and local communities with the grace and mercy of Jesus Christ.

Music

Hey, everyone. I am ready once again to stretch my musical awareness (which usually means some minor purchases on iTunes). So, if you have any ideas how I should spend $20 or so, let me know.

...

In other news, Ingmar Bergman died this week - film maker and philosopher. His most famous film is The Seventh Seal, which involves a medieval knight playing chess with death:


Anyhow, I've been co-leading a bible study on Revelation for our church, and - wouldn't you know it - this weeks study has us looking at Revelation 8:1 ... about the seventh seal. Clearly this is true evidence that history is now nearing its fulfillment.

Anna and I watched The Seventh Seal not too long ago ... actually, I think I was the only one to make it through that one. I remember being bored at times by the heavy imagery and overt philosophy, but I loved the overall message. In short, it is about the triumph of love and faith over despair, death and disbelief.

Wes

Neither Hot nor Cold

"We are too Christian to enjoy sinning, and we enjoy sinning too much to be real Christians." - Anonymous