I discovered this morning that the center of political discourse on the earth resides neither in Washington, New York, London, nor in any of the other usual suspected places, but rather at the McDonalds near Baylor University on I-35.
The restaurant was full, and Fox News was on the big screen. You could feel the tension in the room as about half the people were visibly annoyed, the other visibly enjoyed. Finally, someone tipped their hat and made some comment about something one of the anchors said, which set off a brief heated argument about something or the other.
But a realization of decor set in and each elderly combatant retreated back to his coffee and Egg McMuffin.
Then the news turned to news of the election in Afghanistan. At the mention of Karzai's runoff opponent, Abdullah Abdullah, the entire place came together in uproarious laughter.
"Abdullah Abdullah! Now THAT'S FUNNY!"
I'm glad we can find common ground in something.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
A Story...
Before the news of last week fades into the roar of more pressing matters, I should probably share this story...
In 1997 two of my fellow interns and I entered the elevator of the Russell Office building on our way up to the third floor. Already on that elevator was a grey haired man reading the newspaper while a younger guy, presumably his assistant, was standing next to him. In Washington you are always aware because there is always someone of consequence very near. Which is why we were all surprised that we didn't notice the old guy standing with us until he lowered his papers and inquired with a booming voice "How are you young 'uns today?" We looked over at Senator Kennedy and our jaws dropped. Each of us managed a stuttered "Good." He asked who we were interning for. (If our youth didn't give us away, our intern badges did.) When we said Senator Hutchison, he responded, "She is a fine colleague," exhibiting what most people don't know actually goes on daily in Washington, once the cameras are turned off-- civility even to those with whom you disagree.
This was the end of my brush with greatness.
(Incidentally, my fellow interns, both attractive females, got several more follow up questions beyond the "How are you" that I was limited to.)
In 1997 two of my fellow interns and I entered the elevator of the Russell Office building on our way up to the third floor. Already on that elevator was a grey haired man reading the newspaper while a younger guy, presumably his assistant, was standing next to him. In Washington you are always aware because there is always someone of consequence very near. Which is why we were all surprised that we didn't notice the old guy standing with us until he lowered his papers and inquired with a booming voice "How are you young 'uns today?" We looked over at Senator Kennedy and our jaws dropped. Each of us managed a stuttered "Good." He asked who we were interning for. (If our youth didn't give us away, our intern badges did.) When we said Senator Hutchison, he responded, "She is a fine colleague," exhibiting what most people don't know actually goes on daily in Washington, once the cameras are turned off-- civility even to those with whom you disagree.
This was the end of my brush with greatness.
(Incidentally, my fellow interns, both attractive females, got several more follow up questions beyond the "How are you" that I was limited to.)
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Back...
The world has changed since I stopped blogging regularly. My world, your world, the world.
My days are no longer spent trying to reason with irrational customers who complain that Barnes and Noble censors conservative authors while standing in front of displays packed tight with Glenn Beck and Bill O'Reilly books. Instead, I go to classes and spend the rest of my time trying to "be present" to a campus full of a diverse range of students.
There are new friends along with the old group of stalwarts who keep my life anchored and full of purpose-- if only the purpose of making it to the weekend to sit around a table and laugh until we cry as the babies are playing all around us. The new friends keep me interested, always keeping me in check, reminding me that as soon as you think you've got people figured out, a curve ball will always be thrown.
As for you, gone are the days when you have the thought to check my blog for a funny story or surprising update. In fact, if it weren't for the "Facebook Import" option, these words would probably go largely unnoticed. You have kids, jobs, and a sneaky suspicion that tectonic plates have shifted in my life to such a point that writing has become a long lost dream. Perhaps this is true.
This earth is still spinning, relatively oblivious to the affairs that make up the tempest of our lives. But the more things stay the same, the more they change. There are new stories to write, new personalities to examine, even new values to be had.
So I will try to return, ever aware that the pain of loss that made writing so easy, and so cathartic has faded away into a (somewhat) distant memory. I will speak truth as I see it, share love as I experience it, and throw words together in as messy of a manner as I can, in the hopes that some of them will land in a meaningful and life-giving order.
My days are no longer spent trying to reason with irrational customers who complain that Barnes and Noble censors conservative authors while standing in front of displays packed tight with Glenn Beck and Bill O'Reilly books. Instead, I go to classes and spend the rest of my time trying to "be present" to a campus full of a diverse range of students.
There are new friends along with the old group of stalwarts who keep my life anchored and full of purpose-- if only the purpose of making it to the weekend to sit around a table and laugh until we cry as the babies are playing all around us. The new friends keep me interested, always keeping me in check, reminding me that as soon as you think you've got people figured out, a curve ball will always be thrown.
As for you, gone are the days when you have the thought to check my blog for a funny story or surprising update. In fact, if it weren't for the "Facebook Import" option, these words would probably go largely unnoticed. You have kids, jobs, and a sneaky suspicion that tectonic plates have shifted in my life to such a point that writing has become a long lost dream. Perhaps this is true.
This earth is still spinning, relatively oblivious to the affairs that make up the tempest of our lives. But the more things stay the same, the more they change. There are new stories to write, new personalities to examine, even new values to be had.
So I will try to return, ever aware that the pain of loss that made writing so easy, and so cathartic has faded away into a (somewhat) distant memory. I will speak truth as I see it, share love as I experience it, and throw words together in as messy of a manner as I can, in the hopes that some of them will land in a meaningful and life-giving order.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
One Book One Waco...
The Waco Tribune Herald this morning ran a guest editorial I wrote for Little Chapel on the River. Below is the original article I wrote, before edits...
______________________________
In 2005 Waco lost one of its beloved pastors to a tragic accident. In the weeks and months after Kyle Lake passed away those of us who were close to him needed a lot of things, but mostly we just needed to be near each other. We gathered at homes, parks, restaurants, coffee shops and bars to laugh, cry, and share stories. This was a time for regrouping. It was a time for solace. Surprisingly, though, it was also a time of discovery.
What many of us discovered is usually spoke of in theoretical terms but seems to become much more tangible, and necessary, in the midst of tragedy. We discovered community. And in the midst of discovering community, we discovered Waco. Many local establishments became safe places for us that provided comfort and a sense of the sacred that exists when people share life together.
In 2001, after the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center drove her out of her neighborhood, Gwendolyn Bounds found herself in a similar situation. In the midst of her displacement she discovered what seemed to be a buried treasure of history, a place that compelled her to slow down, listen, and to become a participant in the community that was being revealed right before her eyes. In the Hudson River Valley, just across the water from West Point, sat Guinan's, an Irish pub and general store that was ground zero of the life of Garrison, NY for many decades.
I am honored to announce that Bounds' book chronicling the life of this special place is the summer 2009 One Book One Waco selection. Little Chapel on the River is equal parts biography and social commentary. It tells the story of a place that infused vitality and meaning into the lives of the people who entered its doors. In many ways it is also a lament for a way of life that is quickly fading away in our country. Mostly, though, it is a celebration of what happens when people make a conscious choice to be near each other.
The theme for One Book One Waco is "Unity in the Community." It should be noted that unity and uniformity are not the same. In reading Little Chapel on the River you are likely to encounter characters with vastly different lives, values, and beliefs as your own. On the barstools at Guinan’s sat Democrats next to Republicans, pacifists next to soldiers, and Christians next to agnostics. Places like Guinan’s, and the numerous “Little Chapels” that exist in our own city, teach us that while our differences matter, they should never be deal breakers in our search for community.
We already exist in close proximity to each other. We may as well make the most of it by gathering together for a choice beverage, a good meal, and a conversation about a wonderful book.
______________________________
In 2005 Waco lost one of its beloved pastors to a tragic accident. In the weeks and months after Kyle Lake passed away those of us who were close to him needed a lot of things, but mostly we just needed to be near each other. We gathered at homes, parks, restaurants, coffee shops and bars to laugh, cry, and share stories. This was a time for regrouping. It was a time for solace. Surprisingly, though, it was also a time of discovery.
What many of us discovered is usually spoke of in theoretical terms but seems to become much more tangible, and necessary, in the midst of tragedy. We discovered community. And in the midst of discovering community, we discovered Waco. Many local establishments became safe places for us that provided comfort and a sense of the sacred that exists when people share life together.
In 2001, after the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center drove her out of her neighborhood, Gwendolyn Bounds found herself in a similar situation. In the midst of her displacement she discovered what seemed to be a buried treasure of history, a place that compelled her to slow down, listen, and to become a participant in the community that was being revealed right before her eyes. In the Hudson River Valley, just across the water from West Point, sat Guinan's, an Irish pub and general store that was ground zero of the life of Garrison, NY for many decades.
I am honored to announce that Bounds' book chronicling the life of this special place is the summer 2009 One Book One Waco selection. Little Chapel on the River is equal parts biography and social commentary. It tells the story of a place that infused vitality and meaning into the lives of the people who entered its doors. In many ways it is also a lament for a way of life that is quickly fading away in our country. Mostly, though, it is a celebration of what happens when people make a conscious choice to be near each other.
The theme for One Book One Waco is "Unity in the Community." It should be noted that unity and uniformity are not the same. In reading Little Chapel on the River you are likely to encounter characters with vastly different lives, values, and beliefs as your own. On the barstools at Guinan’s sat Democrats next to Republicans, pacifists next to soldiers, and Christians next to agnostics. Places like Guinan’s, and the numerous “Little Chapels” that exist in our own city, teach us that while our differences matter, they should never be deal breakers in our search for community.
We already exist in close proximity to each other. We may as well make the most of it by gathering together for a choice beverage, a good meal, and a conversation about a wonderful book.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
For Everett, Boone, Lillian, Emmy and Miller...
Several months ago eight year old Avery Lake told me she remembered being in her mom's belly. Intrigued, I asked "You do? What was that like?" Without skipping a beat she replied "VERY bloody."
My memory is not quite as long as Avery alleges hers to be, but there are some remnants from my late-babyhood that linger. The Buddy Holly Greatest Hits 8-Track that my family listened to in that red Ford Mercury. Walking along the sidewalk of Tuckers General Store during the Chandler Centennial celebration, where Ernest Tubb performed on the trailer down by the train tracks and several years before the downtown buildings burned down and were demolished. But the most vivid and numerous of these memories are from the inside of the little tan brick building on 3rd Street that held the congregation of First Baptist Church.
In that place we were free to roam. Of course we had to be in our classes when they began and in church on time, but in the in-between times, the building was ours. This was a different time and place, of course, where all parents assumed that every adult in the church was keeping an eye on the children and would keep them from harm and discipline them if they saw fit. It took a village, if you will.
But back to memories. It's strange the things you remember. What I remember most from those early years in church are the patterns on all the surfaces. The cheap linoleum in the nursery was cream colored with precise puzzle-piece type sections that probably originated from an early 70's drug induced creative streak of some floor manufacturer. The tile on the ceiling were perfect squares, suitable for counting when the church service became boring. The upholstery in the pews was solid red and had minuscule diamond patterns that would embed in your hands if you sat on them long enough.
These memories are random, but they are mine. They tell the story of a kid that always had a home aside from the one where he laid his head at night.
In conversation with someone a couple of weeks ago, a younger person who has many friends at UBC, I came to an epiphany-- No one at UBC, my church, ever feels like they really ever completely belong. Some of us who mostly sit on the side, us "older folk," can feel alienated from the language and emphases that are zeroed in like a missile on the life of a college student. Those in the center, though, see the way the older people walk the halls with confidence, familiarity, and a sense of permanence, can feel that, since they are transient and we are not, then the church belongs to us.
Though at home, we all can feel like exiles.
This morning we dedicated five babies. It was beautiful. The parents promised to raise their child after the way of Christ, said a personalized prayer, and then the church promised also to be family to these babies and to model Christian love in their lives. When that part of the service was over and the parents took their children back to the nursery, a little smile began to slowly form on my face as the realization formed-- Some people in the building today felt they completely belonged. Of course, and I guess this is the irony, they can't articulate all that this entails. They aren't in conversation with each other about the direction or lack thereof with the church. It really doesn't matter to them who is preaching and none of them are there because of who sings on Sunday morning. (Well, I guess technically Emmy Parker is.)
All they know is that sometime in the course of the morning they will be fed, played with, passed around by scores of people patiently waiting their turns, and may even sneak a nap in when they feel like it. Later they will hear songs that tell of God's extravagant love and the ancient stories of sin, sacrifice and redemption that reverberate into the narratives of our lives.
They will also notice the surfaces. The grainy-colored carpet they play on in the nursery. The corrugated tin that lines the hallways. Standing on stage, if they looked up, they could see the painting of the Last Supper.
As adults they will tell stories of that place. The surfaces, the people, the stories. And hopefully, they will say that there has never been a time when they didn't belong. To this church, yes, but also to the God that became a baby so we could all become children again.
My memory is not quite as long as Avery alleges hers to be, but there are some remnants from my late-babyhood that linger. The Buddy Holly Greatest Hits 8-Track that my family listened to in that red Ford Mercury. Walking along the sidewalk of Tuckers General Store during the Chandler Centennial celebration, where Ernest Tubb performed on the trailer down by the train tracks and several years before the downtown buildings burned down and were demolished. But the most vivid and numerous of these memories are from the inside of the little tan brick building on 3rd Street that held the congregation of First Baptist Church.
In that place we were free to roam. Of course we had to be in our classes when they began and in church on time, but in the in-between times, the building was ours. This was a different time and place, of course, where all parents assumed that every adult in the church was keeping an eye on the children and would keep them from harm and discipline them if they saw fit. It took a village, if you will.
But back to memories. It's strange the things you remember. What I remember most from those early years in church are the patterns on all the surfaces. The cheap linoleum in the nursery was cream colored with precise puzzle-piece type sections that probably originated from an early 70's drug induced creative streak of some floor manufacturer. The tile on the ceiling were perfect squares, suitable for counting when the church service became boring. The upholstery in the pews was solid red and had minuscule diamond patterns that would embed in your hands if you sat on them long enough.
These memories are random, but they are mine. They tell the story of a kid that always had a home aside from the one where he laid his head at night.
In conversation with someone a couple of weeks ago, a younger person who has many friends at UBC, I came to an epiphany-- No one at UBC, my church, ever feels like they really ever completely belong. Some of us who mostly sit on the side, us "older folk," can feel alienated from the language and emphases that are zeroed in like a missile on the life of a college student. Those in the center, though, see the way the older people walk the halls with confidence, familiarity, and a sense of permanence, can feel that, since they are transient and we are not, then the church belongs to us.
Though at home, we all can feel like exiles.
This morning we dedicated five babies. It was beautiful. The parents promised to raise their child after the way of Christ, said a personalized prayer, and then the church promised also to be family to these babies and to model Christian love in their lives. When that part of the service was over and the parents took their children back to the nursery, a little smile began to slowly form on my face as the realization formed-- Some people in the building today felt they completely belonged. Of course, and I guess this is the irony, they can't articulate all that this entails. They aren't in conversation with each other about the direction or lack thereof with the church. It really doesn't matter to them who is preaching and none of them are there because of who sings on Sunday morning. (Well, I guess technically Emmy Parker is.)
All they know is that sometime in the course of the morning they will be fed, played with, passed around by scores of people patiently waiting their turns, and may even sneak a nap in when they feel like it. Later they will hear songs that tell of God's extravagant love and the ancient stories of sin, sacrifice and redemption that reverberate into the narratives of our lives.
They will also notice the surfaces. The grainy-colored carpet they play on in the nursery. The corrugated tin that lines the hallways. Standing on stage, if they looked up, they could see the painting of the Last Supper.
As adults they will tell stories of that place. The surfaces, the people, the stories. And hopefully, they will say that there has never been a time when they didn't belong. To this church, yes, but also to the God that became a baby so we could all become children again.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
River...
A little over a year ago I began to consider returning to seminary. I had figured out that moving forward in my current career would require me becoming a person I wasn't willing to become. Before that point I assumed that if I was ever going to do vocational ministry it would come from stumbling into it in nontraditional ways. When I realized that wasn't going to happen, I decided to heed the gentle nudging of the Holy Spirit that came from passing comments of several close friends. Returning to Truett felt right, if a little scary. I was well past the point of asking my parents for financial help, so I spent the past year working and going to shcool full time.
Punching in and out of work, studying for Greek, writing papers, all while balancing a new set of friends with my Waco friends has been equal parts exhilarating and exhausting. It ended for the summer with my final class on Monday. Yesterday me and some of my new friends took a "Daycation" down to south-central Texas. The biggest chunk of the day was spent floating in tubes down the Guadalupe River. This is the week when some Texas universities are in final exams and some have just finished, so there was a decent smattering of people in the water, but not enough to make it miserable. The weather was perfect and the sun shining.
On the water I was in and out of brief moments of sleep. Occasionally I would wake up near a cluster of frat guys engaging in some of the most vulgar talk I've ever witnessed. I found it quite amusing. I'll spare you the specific language used, but it involved names of girls the guys had been with as freshman and how they wish they could be with them again after four years of practice.
Another conversation ending in this sentence-- "I can't stand that chick. She not only divided our pledge class, but the entire fraternity as well!"
It was everything I could not to snicker. Instead I paddled away into less crowded territory.
I woke up again startled. There was no one near me. I looked up disoriented because I couldn't figure out where I was. I asked my friends if I was ahead of them or if they were ahead of me. It was the latter, so I paddled with my arms some more.
Several times I woke up in still water and decided not to work my way out.
There were rapids over low rocks. This was a pain because it required a decision-- Do I stand up and walk over the rocks (a prospect that was sure to cause humorous stumbling both because of the uneven surfaces and the decent amount of beer in my system at the time,) do I struggle with my arms and feet to push myself out, or do I just sit there like the beached whale I felt like at the time, hoping a swift enough current would pull me where I needed to be. I honestly couldn't tell you which one I chose, but I guess it was a hybrid of all three because I eventually found my way out.
Toward the end of the three hour adventure, Jake and I were the only ones left in the water. Chris and Josh were about fifty yards ahead of us, at the end. I tried to make the experience last. Closing my eyes I thought back through the past year. I've made new friends, learned new things, and in small ways become a new person. Yet I'm still essentially me, with the same hang-ups, virtues, vices, and general trajectory of life.
Opening my eyes to the fractured sunbeams coming through the tall cypress trees, I realized why the river has been such a powerful tool used by poets and novelists alike-- It contains everything and, in some strange way, goes to everything. I considered how the last three hours was what it is like to follow God in the way of Christ. It all begins by simply being in the water and ends on that distant shore. In between, though, is the stuff of life. Much of the trip requires hard paddling that will make your arms sore the next day. There are rocks that come along that require a little creativity, decision making, and luck. Discerning God's will for your life sometimes requires you to be shot in directions you don't want to be shot in. Other times, however, you have to be willing to be stuck for what can seem like an eternity. This is what is hard for many people.
Today I bear the scars of the rocks, the soreness from the paddling, and the color from the sun. But mostly I bear the smiles that come from the people in my life willing to float alongside me, and the God of the great river that is taking me home.
Punching in and out of work, studying for Greek, writing papers, all while balancing a new set of friends with my Waco friends has been equal parts exhilarating and exhausting. It ended for the summer with my final class on Monday. Yesterday me and some of my new friends took a "Daycation" down to south-central Texas. The biggest chunk of the day was spent floating in tubes down the Guadalupe River. This is the week when some Texas universities are in final exams and some have just finished, so there was a decent smattering of people in the water, but not enough to make it miserable. The weather was perfect and the sun shining.
On the water I was in and out of brief moments of sleep. Occasionally I would wake up near a cluster of frat guys engaging in some of the most vulgar talk I've ever witnessed. I found it quite amusing. I'll spare you the specific language used, but it involved names of girls the guys had been with as freshman and how they wish they could be with them again after four years of practice.
Another conversation ending in this sentence-- "I can't stand that chick. She not only divided our pledge class, but the entire fraternity as well!"
It was everything I could not to snicker. Instead I paddled away into less crowded territory.
I woke up again startled. There was no one near me. I looked up disoriented because I couldn't figure out where I was. I asked my friends if I was ahead of them or if they were ahead of me. It was the latter, so I paddled with my arms some more.
Several times I woke up in still water and decided not to work my way out.
There were rapids over low rocks. This was a pain because it required a decision-- Do I stand up and walk over the rocks (a prospect that was sure to cause humorous stumbling both because of the uneven surfaces and the decent amount of beer in my system at the time,) do I struggle with my arms and feet to push myself out, or do I just sit there like the beached whale I felt like at the time, hoping a swift enough current would pull me where I needed to be. I honestly couldn't tell you which one I chose, but I guess it was a hybrid of all three because I eventually found my way out.
Toward the end of the three hour adventure, Jake and I were the only ones left in the water. Chris and Josh were about fifty yards ahead of us, at the end. I tried to make the experience last. Closing my eyes I thought back through the past year. I've made new friends, learned new things, and in small ways become a new person. Yet I'm still essentially me, with the same hang-ups, virtues, vices, and general trajectory of life.
Opening my eyes to the fractured sunbeams coming through the tall cypress trees, I realized why the river has been such a powerful tool used by poets and novelists alike-- It contains everything and, in some strange way, goes to everything. I considered how the last three hours was what it is like to follow God in the way of Christ. It all begins by simply being in the water and ends on that distant shore. In between, though, is the stuff of life. Much of the trip requires hard paddling that will make your arms sore the next day. There are rocks that come along that require a little creativity, decision making, and luck. Discerning God's will for your life sometimes requires you to be shot in directions you don't want to be shot in. Other times, however, you have to be willing to be stuck for what can seem like an eternity. This is what is hard for many people.
Today I bear the scars of the rocks, the soreness from the paddling, and the color from the sun. But mostly I bear the smiles that come from the people in my life willing to float alongside me, and the God of the great river that is taking me home.
Sunday, April 05, 2009
So let His people sing, sing, sing...
I think I can trace the day I became a grumpy old man spiritually back to about ten years ago. I was a part of the planning for some sort of orientation at ETBU, the alma mater where I had returned to work for a year. We were sorting out the schedule and there was a block of time that we couldn't quite figure out what to do with. Someone made the comment that we could have a time of worship. I don't know what it was that brought such vitriolic reaction in me, but I turned my head annoyed and asked "Why does everyone around here think we need to fill every waking moment with a guitar and praise songs?" A faint audible gasp filled the room and I realized I had overstepped a boundary. And honestly, I was just as shocked at the words that came out of my mouth as anyone else. Up to that point I would have jumped at any opportunity to do a little praise-and-worshippin' with those around me. But I guess I had had enough of that, and have been on (somewhat) facetious crusade against planned-spontaneous worship ever since.
This morning we had what I think was our third outdoor Palm Sunday-Baptism service out at Indian Spring Park.* Before the service some of us were having breakfast when a friend mentioned some new emergent-type thing that was going on in town. In response I somewhat reflexively made the comment that I don't really have a desire to check this out because "I already have a church." I fully realize what an arrogant thing this was to say, because embedded within my sarcasm was the not-so-subtle suggestion that those who attended this particular event were aimlessly searching for the Next Cool Christian Thing, whereas I have found joy in the simplicity of the local church. (Yes, I can be quite the asshole sometimes.)
It was slightly more chilly at the service than it had been before, although the sun was shining bright. I made it a point when walking down the hill to receive communion to look around at the people around me. I've tried to do this more often lately, for if UBC baptism services have done anything, it is to make me try and memorize the moments I have with these people that I love.
Few people have bitched about this place as much as I have, but none of that maters in moments like this. It is all peripheral.
Later Josh and I were hanging out for a brief moment while Britt took three-year-old Roy down to see the river. The girls were behind us mingling. I recently commented to Josh that one of the things that makes me smile is thinking about how Britt and Roy interact, and watching them head down the hill toward the water, sun blaring down on all of us, made me think that once more.
There were dogs around. Most belonged to somebody, but one didn't seem to have an owner. Andrew brought his and Katie's new puppy over and baby Lillian reached out to grab it. Fearless, she put her face right in front of the dog's nose and got a face full of puppy tongue.
Did I mention the sun was shining?
I looked around. The Gunvordals were there with their beautiful Collie. I see only see those people once a week for a few minutes. That's about all it takes to realize what top-shelf people they are.
To the left and down the hill a bit some college guys were wrestling while Kelly was going around making a birthday video for Larissa, who is in Kenya. The Crowder Band was loading their gear and Miller was snotting on his dad's sweater.
I realized Tom and Beth weren't there, and neither were the Brownings. And I missed all of them. I also thought of Avery, Sutton, Jude, and Jen and how much I miss them as well. I thought of Kyle and realized how my grief has long ago given way to gratefulness for having been blessed with such a great friend for so long.
Ben and Jamie gave me a ride back to Cafe Cappuccino where I had parked. I had them drop me off around the corner so they didn't have to go out of their way. Walking to my car, the warm sun beating down while the cold wind blew around, I thought back to my comment earlier in the day-- "I already have a church." And again, it was an arrogant thing to say. People should not be disparaged for trying to find a sense of Christian community in places outside the bounds of a church. I just happened to have been lucky enough to find it inside those bounds.
So to all of you wanting to fill the empty moments with guitars and singing, sing away. Be caught up in the emotion caused by our risen redeemer. To those questioning their faith and reaching out to new forms of expression, question and express away. I think God is honored and pleased with what you are doing.
Never mind me when I roll my eyes. Remember, I'm just a grumpy old man. But one who has found his place for at least a bit longer.
________________________
* (I've written about the previous two outdoor services HERE and HERE.)
This morning we had what I think was our third outdoor Palm Sunday-Baptism service out at Indian Spring Park.* Before the service some of us were having breakfast when a friend mentioned some new emergent-type thing that was going on in town. In response I somewhat reflexively made the comment that I don't really have a desire to check this out because "I already have a church." I fully realize what an arrogant thing this was to say, because embedded within my sarcasm was the not-so-subtle suggestion that those who attended this particular event were aimlessly searching for the Next Cool Christian Thing, whereas I have found joy in the simplicity of the local church. (Yes, I can be quite the asshole sometimes.)
It was slightly more chilly at the service than it had been before, although the sun was shining bright. I made it a point when walking down the hill to receive communion to look around at the people around me. I've tried to do this more often lately, for if UBC baptism services have done anything, it is to make me try and memorize the moments I have with these people that I love.
Few people have bitched about this place as much as I have, but none of that maters in moments like this. It is all peripheral.
Later Josh and I were hanging out for a brief moment while Britt took three-year-old Roy down to see the river. The girls were behind us mingling. I recently commented to Josh that one of the things that makes me smile is thinking about how Britt and Roy interact, and watching them head down the hill toward the water, sun blaring down on all of us, made me think that once more.
There were dogs around. Most belonged to somebody, but one didn't seem to have an owner. Andrew brought his and Katie's new puppy over and baby Lillian reached out to grab it. Fearless, she put her face right in front of the dog's nose and got a face full of puppy tongue.
Did I mention the sun was shining?
I looked around. The Gunvordals were there with their beautiful Collie. I see only see those people once a week for a few minutes. That's about all it takes to realize what top-shelf people they are.
To the left and down the hill a bit some college guys were wrestling while Kelly was going around making a birthday video for Larissa, who is in Kenya. The Crowder Band was loading their gear and Miller was snotting on his dad's sweater.
I realized Tom and Beth weren't there, and neither were the Brownings. And I missed all of them. I also thought of Avery, Sutton, Jude, and Jen and how much I miss them as well. I thought of Kyle and realized how my grief has long ago given way to gratefulness for having been blessed with such a great friend for so long.
Ben and Jamie gave me a ride back to Cafe Cappuccino where I had parked. I had them drop me off around the corner so they didn't have to go out of their way. Walking to my car, the warm sun beating down while the cold wind blew around, I thought back to my comment earlier in the day-- "I already have a church." And again, it was an arrogant thing to say. People should not be disparaged for trying to find a sense of Christian community in places outside the bounds of a church. I just happened to have been lucky enough to find it inside those bounds.
So to all of you wanting to fill the empty moments with guitars and singing, sing away. Be caught up in the emotion caused by our risen redeemer. To those questioning their faith and reaching out to new forms of expression, question and express away. I think God is honored and pleased with what you are doing.
Never mind me when I roll my eyes. Remember, I'm just a grumpy old man. But one who has found his place for at least a bit longer.
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* (I've written about the previous two outdoor services HERE and HERE.)
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