Silence of the Lamb

I wonder at the silence of God. Each day, millions of prayers are hurled his way. But in the midst of it, he remains oddly silent. In the world he created, he doesn't speak much to us anymore. Sure we have the Bible, but I've read it, almost literally, to death. Shocking as that may be, I think the truth for many Christians is that we often long for more than a canned verse given to us on Sunday morning or by a faceless devotional writer.

In a way, I think I have given up on prayer as it is usually formatted. Maybe it is precisely becasuse we talk too much at God, that God remains oddly silent. I rember the first time it occured to me to remain quiet before God as a form of prayer. The esteemed Dr. Elmes, who at the time taught at Northwest College, stood before our Sociology class, and as he did each class period, said let's pray. He proceeded to say nothing for an honest minute and a half. Concluding that awkward silence with "Amen." I recall thinking, how odd and how powerful. The class, sensing the awkardness of the moment looked around at each other with wondering eyes. No one much talked of it afterwards. But I've held that moment with me and now wish to use it for myself.

I've learned that often times the most honest and true prayers proceed from the heart and not the mouth. My most real moments with God are the ones that seem the least important. Those moments of unexpected tears. Those moments when I am moved beyond words by the powerful images of the hurting or the happy. Those are prayers that should never be ignored, and always understood as prayers. Those are the real moments, not the ones fabricated by words. And perhaps that was why Jesus stood silent at his trial and why he stand silent today.

Ode to the Mushy Ball

This post is in loving memory of "The Mushy Ball"--a magical whiffle ball unlike any other I've ever known. It has been 6 years since that ball moved on, but I was recalling my childhood and that ball represented everything good about being young.

We found you hiding under a house alone beneath the leaves and dirt. You were round and smooth like all the others we had, but one defining trait that set you apart. You had no holes, no whiffles to slow your your speed. Instead of being hard, you instead were mushy, capable of regaining your shape should some uncouth child push your walls in. The seams on your cover were not raised like a real baseball, but slightly indented as a form of grip. For hours each day during the fleetingness of our youth, you sped through the summer heat or slowly broke across the plate. You layed on the ground listening to three boys argue the fairness of a call. You sailed into the humidity still hearing the boyish cheers. Into trees, over fences, or floating on the lake, you always returned. There were times you ran away for a while, over night at most. But in the end you came back, somehow. In a way you were our talisman, our good luck charm. And when you sat in our room, alone and without use, as we grew up and forgot you, something inside you called out to be used again. And when, on that fatal August day, in a state far from where you first appeared, you floated down on the other side of an unfamiliar fence, you ran for good. It is hard to believe that our talisman is gone, but I know as sure as there is hope, that a group of young boys found you, hiding under the leaves and dirt, and you are carrying them through the fleetingness of youth.

Lies

"Cheaters never win." Not always true.
"Hard work pays off." Not always true.
"Honesty is the best policy." Not always true.
"Your time will come." Not always true.
"You get nothing for free." Not always true.
"Interesting piont." translated to "you're an idiot"
"I understand." translated to "I don't have a clue, but this sounds better than silence

The Paths We Choose

"Listen to your life. See it for the fathomless mystery that it is. In the boredom and pain of it no less than in the excitement and gladness: touch, taste, smell your way to the holy and hidden heart of it because in the last analysis all moments are key moments," writes Frederick Buechner. And I go to him because he can say it so much the better. Remembering back to a youth convention, I can still remember when I felt an need to devote my life to young people. In my narrow mindset I knew I was "called" to be a youth pastor.

When Northwest College accepted me, I gladly went off to learn. Enthusiastically, I devoured all that I could, wanting nothing less than greatness. Faces of students I worked with still linger, and sometimes haunt my memory. Moving deeper into the program, I felt a sense of restlessness that I could not make sense of. God had called me, but why didn't this feel right. It didn't feel like that day at youth convention--no burning desire, no fulfillment. The typical youth group meeting bored me, and though I could pen a terrific sermon, the relentless get-t0-know-you games gave me little pleasure. Yet I pressed on towards the goal which Jesus had clearly set out before me. Had I only payed attention to the boredom and pain of it, perhaps I'd have a bit more money in my bank account.

Three years into the program, I realized that the path I had chosen was not the one for me. Though it had appeared prosperous and much less daunting than anything else I had on the table at the time, I was uneasy. So, like many college students, I switched my focus to an emerging and urgent feeling. As I finished my Youth Ministry degree, I began work on a teaching certificate. I was happy, content, and passionate. I still am.

Looking back this past weekend at some of my old Youth Ministry material, it was completely obvious that I was on the wrong path. All of the inventories on spiritual gifts showed a tendency towards teaching. All of the sermon's I wrote came across more as passionate classroom lectures than bible-thumping doctrinal works. And yet, knowing now that I should listen to my life, I still find it difficult in the midst of my life to cup my ear to the shell that is life and hear it for what it is. Fathomless. Mysterious. Boring. Exciting. And quite possibly on my best day: Holy. Open your ears with me.

The Dream

In all of my schooling there are two speeches that I will forever hold in my heart. Oddly enough, both speeches respond to the same issue, one that I have never known or can ever know. The first speech is Abraham Lincoln's "Gettysburg Address," in which he honors the fallen of a war fought for many reasons including slavery. The second speech is Martin Luther King's "I Have a Dream," which is more a sermon than a speech lamenting racism and hoping for a bette day.

As we celebrate and honor Dr. King for his unyielding determination, I am struck still by the words he spoke that day. I have a dream that my four children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character....I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight, and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together. These words are just a few of the many beautiful and honest words spoken, but the meaning still breaks through for all the world. Whether our differences and distrusts rest in the color of our skin or the creeds of our heart, I find it immediatley necessary for all of humanity to look beyond those separations to the content of our hearts. So that we might be able to stand with all of God's children, or Allah's, or Buddha's or whoever else's you might worship or not, and be free together.

Jars of Clay "See the Art in Me"

Images on the sidewalk speak of a dream's descent (We are constantly inundated with images. I've been to the LACC schools of Panama, a great work being done by missionaries like my in-laws, and the images of impoverished children with joyous grins will forever be with me)Washed away by storms to graves of cynical lament (But walk around downtown Seattle and it is much harder to feel the same pity or care)Dirty canvases to call my own Protest limericks carved by the old pay phone In your picture book I'm trying hard to see (Through a glass darkly as Paul puts it. And yet, despite wanting to see, the question is could I handle it) Turning endless pages of this tragedy (My own perhaps and yours as well--that is the great mystery of humanity)Sculpting every move you compose a symphony (The intricacies of great symphonies is astounding; how much more the masterpiece of humanity)You plead to everyone, "see the art in me" Broken stained-glass windows, the fragments ramble on Tales of broken souls,(The stories of the poor, the rich, the loved and unloved all are built somewhere on broken glass. Everyday, students wander into my class, their faces and bodies rambling on about tales I cannot fathom) an eternity's been won As critics scorn the thoughts and works of mortal man (And it is not just the critics as we think of them. Its you and I. Teachers, pastors, police, grocery store clerks) My eyes are drawn to you in awe once again (We sing that song in our churches: "I want to see your face" is the line, and I wonder sometimes if we are drawn to him only out of the absurdity of our own existence, in spite of ourselves because we know that to see him would be all the more painful because it would open our eyes to the way we really are.) And in your picture book I'm trying hard to see Turning endless pages of this tragedy Sculpting every move you compose a symphony You plead to everyone, "see the art in me" And in your picture book I'm trying hard to see Turning endless pages of this tragedy Sculpting every move you compose a symphony You plead to everyone, "see the art in me."

Liturgical Evangelicals

The orthodox traditions are rapidly gaining popularity among the younger generations. I was first drawn to a more liturgical style of church after attending a Christmas Eve Midnight Mass with my grandmother; though, I currently attend a Foursquare church. My sister-in-law, despite being raised under the umbrella of the evangelical Assemblies of God, has been attending the Eastern Orthodox church.

Much of my life, having also grown up inside the Assemblies of God, it was implied that the liturgical churches were somehow wrong in their approach to worship. Those churches didn't allow for the moving of the spirit and were far too rigid and structrued. I believed that to be true. However, as I have developed my own beliefs, I have come to regard liturgy with a certain amount of respect. And, have found that most evangelical churches also have their own liturgy.

I was reminded of this after attending an Assemblies of God church on Sunday--something I haven't done since the last time I was home with my parents. And even though I am removed by both time and space from that small Connecticut church, I was immediately brought back to the time and place of my childhood. The sanctuary, the clumsy sounding vocals, the types of prayer and the placement of prayer. The order, or liturgy, of the service. I don't mean to imply that all Assemblies of God churches are this way, only that even inside of the "spirit driven" churches, a liturgy exists. And why not? When Jesus taught us to pray, he said "this is how you should pray." And when he was readying himself for the cross, he ate and drank and told his disciples to do this, eat and drink, in rememberance of him.

Sometimes I think that human beings need liturgy. We need a set of guidelines to follow for our own protection.