My Reality

Forty Days of Community

2008-10-05T17:12:00.000-07:00

The always insightful Frederick Buechner writes:
"Your life and my life flow into each other as wave flows into wave, and unless there is peace and joy and freedom for you, there can be no real peace or joy or freedom for me. To see reality--not as we expect it to be but as it is--is to see that unless we live for each other and in and through each other, we do not really live very satisfactorily; that there can really be life only where there really is, in just this sense, love.”
As our church begins the Forty Days of Community series by Rick Warren and Saddleback Church, I can't help but believe that Buechner is right. That there is no real inner peace, no sense of true satisfaction unless there is peace for the people around us.
Christ said to "love your neighbor," a simple truth the Church has failed to live up to. We've evangelized the world. Come to Christ or burn in hell. We've pushed our social agenda. God created Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve. But we haven't done a fine job of loving our neigbhor. If you are hungry, we'll feed you. If you are tired, we'll give you rest. If you are hurting, we'll cry with you. If you doubt, we'll question with you.
The existence of Rick Warren's book, as necessary as it seems, indicates a collosal failure on our part.

"The Face in the Sky"

2008-02-14T16:24:00.000-08:00

I am participating in a small group where we are discussing Frederick Buechner's book The Hungering Dark. Our first session covered the chapter, "The Face in the Sky." It has been so long since I've posted on My Reality, that I thought it might be time to start up again.
One of the first points that our group discussed comes on page 13:
I think that is much of what the Christian faith is. It is for a moment, just for a little while, seeing the face and being still, that is all. There is so much about the whole religious enterprise that seems superannuated and irrelevant and as out of place in our age as an antique statue is out of place in the sky.
Buechner is referring to a scene from the movie La Dolce Vita when a statue of Christ sails beneath a helicopter. As the camera focuses in on the face of the statue, Buechner describes the theater as falling silent.
Our discussion began with the thought that Buechner may be off in his belief about Christianity. That, if the Christian faith is only about some striking moment, then why bother with the long held belief that Christ is present all of the time and in every moment.
But later, Buechner writes:
If holiness and the awful power and majesty of God were present in this least auspicious of all events, this birth of a peasant's child, then there is no place or time so lowly and earthbound but that holiness can be present there too.
And just like that, Buechner brings us to the heart of this chapter. We must learn to recognize that Face, whether it is in the sky, dancing in the night, or whether it happens across us in the foul mouthed beggar in need of so much more than the dime we can spare.
We are never safe, Buechner warns, from this God we choose to believe in, or have trouble believing in; because if God will make himself earthbound in such a silly place as that barn must have been, there is no moment "that holiness" cannot also be present.

And so, what if we took this to heart, you and I? What if we began to recognize that Face in the hundreds of faces we stare through on our way through our own life? And what if in recognizing that Face, and the incongruity of the world around us, we also suffered terrible doubt about the veracity of it all? That maybe it isn't true after all?
I wonder how that might change the way people view us--you know, if we were honest once in awhile about our own experiences with the people we wish to bring to Christ. Buechner writes, "But what of those who both believe and do not believe, cannot believe--which is some men all of the time and all men some of the time?" Would such honesty make us more human, more real to the world around us? That Face in the sky or in the crowd is the same Face for us all to see. The difference is only in what we actually do with it.

Godric: Of Falkes de Granvill

2005-12-16T14:16:00.000-08:00

I feared myself, writes Godric. I noted in the margin that I never go away. I have feared the dark, but each morning light would come. I have feared the unknown, but every day I find something to know.
I fear myself, but tomorrow I will still be here. If only I had paid better attention in Pscyhology, I might know how to better put this. But, the self that is me, my past, my present, and even my future will never not be there. No matter that I want some of it to go away, or not happen, it inevitably must remain.
As I prepare to be a father, I find myself fearing me more than I've feared anything prior. What if I...? Or if I...? So much to think about. I am now responsible for guiding a new part of me. Will I be better?

Godric: Of a band of pilgrims and a parting in a wood

2005-11-14T20:41:00.000-08:00

The ear takes comfort from the sounds of home, says Godric. There are moments, if you are like me, when I awake in the night to a familiar sound, a creaking or bed spring in need of oil. There are days when in the height of my excitement, I sound just like my father. At times the rain falls off the roof just like it did when I was young.
The sounds of home are comforting. For me, home will always be that cottage turned regular dwelling where Teddy barked at a slug sneazing, the steps that led upstairs clunking and clacking as I sprinted up them two at a time.
The hiss of old copper pipes. The pounding rhythm of West Side Story or Rent blaring from my sister's room. The walls creaking as she danced her way to escape. The shuttering of the shower as it awoke from a night's sleep to jolt me from my slumber. There is the distant clap of thunder over the western hills as late August storms dispell the thick humid afternoons. There is the buzz of outboard motors and splashing waves on the shore. There is the eerie splintering of solid ice, freezing us in our skates for fear of falling in. I cannot forget the crunching of iced over snow, nor the whir of a small electric heater. Aah, the thumping rattle of the old cast iron radiators. In my memories, my father will always snore and my sister always sing; the dog will always bark and the house will always moan.
No, those sounds will never leave me, Godric; they will always bring comfort to my home-sick heart.

Godric: Of Rome, a maiden, and a bear

2005-11-13T17:47:00.000-08:00

In one of Buechner's other books he penned a prayer that reads: catch us off guard today. Surprise us with some moment of beauty or pain so that for at least a moment we may be startled into seeing that you are with us here in all your splendor, always and everywhere, barely hidded, beneath, beyond, within this life we breath.

The pastor who performed my wedding read this prayer at my request. It speaks to those moments when we are truly caught by surprise by laughter or tears--when we aren't quite sure why it is our heart sinks or flutters.
Godric recalls his visit to Rome, his viewing of where Christians were once slain. Why did we weep? I asked myself. We wept for all that grandeur gone. We wept for martyrs cruelly slain. We wept for Christ, who suffered death upon a tree and suffers still to see our suffering. But more than anything, I think, we wept for us, and so it ever is with tears. Whatever be their outward cause, within the chancel of the heart it's we ourselves for whom they finally fall.
Ultimately it is our own life that we are living. When we get right down to it, all of our compassion or missed opportunity is what defines us. And when we sadden at the story of families torn apart, or our eyes well with sorrow for the grief of those whose children die in war, we are hurting for ourselves because we know, I think, that somewhere in the lives of others, our life, our suffering, has intermingled with theirs.
Sure, it is our life, but Donne told us that no man is an island, and we'd be foolish to disagree. We Christians have much to learn from the Buhddists who teach compassion, who understand suffering as a universal connection. So when your eyes well up, or a lump grows in your throat, pay attention not only to the outward cause, but the inward chancel as well.

How the water rose, and Godric spoke of time, and the road to Rome.

2005-11-02T20:13:00.000-08:00

Where did the time go?, I have muttered on more than one lazy afternoon. One moment we are waking from our dreams, the next we are dropping heavily onto our beds returning to our dreams.
Of the many abstractions of life, time baffles me the most. In my daydreams, I have stopped time for all but me. Pictures of men and women frozen in whatever position when I spoke the magic words. And off I'd go to do my business, roaming the streets to see what all the world is doing in that very moment that is mine to keep.
I have begged with God for just a few more hours in a day, and pleaded with him the next to simply speed up the hours. Time is the here and now as much as it is the past then or the future then. Time is troubled. Time is magical.
The Abbot Ailred speaks of time, saying, "Time is a storm. Times past and times to come, they heave and flow and leap their bounds like Wear. Hours are clouds that change their shapes before your eyes...But beyond time's storm and clouds there's timelessness. Godric, the Lord of Heaven changes not, and even when our view's most dark, he's there above us fair and golden as the sun....God's never gone....It's only men go blind."
True, isn't it? Just like we often wonder at the end of those lazy days where the time has gone, even as we watched it away, we sometimes wonder where God has gone, even as we watched him away.

How Godric journeyed home again and Aedwen's dream

2005-11-01T19:43:00.000-08:00

"She [Burcewen] did not speak her plea, for like our prayers to God, the deepest prayers we humans ask of one another speak but silence for their tongue."
One of the sub-plots that weaves throughout the tale is one of family, of love and loss. Burcewen is the one whom Godric loves most; she is his sister. Family relationships tend to be difficult, convuluted if only because of the sheer amount of time we spend with each other. And yet it is often our family that knows us least because we almost expect them to hear the words we cannot say. "I love you," we think to ourselves, but the words don't quite make it off our lips. "I miss you," our hearts cry, but the words get choked by the lump in our throats.
It is no wonder, then, why our relationship with God also tends to be difficult, muddled because of the sheer amount of time we spend together--and I don't mean the time spent in church. If the scripture is true, then God surrounds us whether we make the trip to him or not. He is there, our ever present help in time of need and all of that. There he is in the stars. Walking the side of the road with a sign that reads "Homeless--anything helps." Crying at the funeral of an aunt, or a friend. There he is under the tree, crowds of children playing at his feet and bigger crowds still listening to him teach.
Buechner says, "Listen to your life, hear it for the unfathomable mystery it is." I say, pay attention to your life, see the commonplace for the moment of grace that it is. Recognize the thousands of prayers prayed in the glances of lonely strangers; see the heart of those around you in the smile of your friend. Every moment is a prayer, whether intentional or not, because we are all, at one time or another, pleading with the world to see us for who we really are; and that, in all of its simplicity, is the heart of prayer. A wanting to be known, to be heard.

How Godric became Deric and sailed the seas with Roger Mouse

2005-10-27T18:50:00.000-07:00

We must all have in our lives a Roger Mouse. Godric says that Roger "...lived and game me lessons in the art." What would life be without a friend to tear us away from the mundane, the self-righteous, or even the thrilling of our own making?
"We loved each other, Mouse and I, and our love was born of need, for so it always is with mortal folk. God's love's all gift, for God has need of naught, but human folk love one another for the way they fill each other's emptiness," says Godric. The truth of that rests in the notion that we are empty in places. There is a sad hollowness that reigns in us all, at times, and too often at many a time. We are searching, restlessly, like Godric for the holy isle of Farne, for our own place of acceptance. And in the friendships we find, we hope to have a momentary place of rest in the midst of the vast sea that is our life.

How Godric met a boar and a leper and how people sought him in his cell

2005-10-26T20:25:00.000-07:00

There is so much to hear from this chapter. Word is out that this hermit, Godric, has healing in his hands. He says, "To touch me and to feel my touch they come. To take at my hands whatever of Christ or comfort such hands have. Of my own, my hands have nothing more than any man's and less now at this tottering, lamewit age of mine when most of what I ever had is more than mostly spent. But it's as if my hands are gloves, and in them other hands than mine, and those the ones that folk appear with roods of straw to seek. It's holiness they hunger for, and if by some mad grace it's mine to give, if I've a holy hand inside my hand to touch them with, I'll touch them day and night."

What amazing grace it is, really, when we get right down to it. These earth worn hands, humbled by our own folly, given the chance to touch the hurting world. Who could have thought it up? Who could have dreamed it in their wildest imagination?

Godric wonders after his first encounter whether misery has "a savor too." He wonders if, though sick with sin, we cannot help but reach out to those in need.

A great professor of mine, and if it wasn't she who said it, it was she who first told it too me, calls it the "sheer lunacy of God." This business of wretched humanity reaching out from all of our own murkiness to touch the heart of someone who momentarily needs it much more than we.

Godric: How Godric Fared on the holy isle of Farne

2005-10-12T20:49:00.000-07:00

In all of Godric's story, two places have become so real to me that I often wonder if I in fact have been to these places. The first is chilly Wear, the river that Godric finds wholeness in. The second is mysterious Farne, the island that Godric finds himself in.
On his first visit to holy Farne, Godric means to pay penance for his sins, but instead watches the birds. How often have I found myself in need of penance only to watch the birds instead. There is always something to distract us from what we need most.
While on that isle, Godric meets the ghost of Father Cuthbert who tells him, "...your shadow fell here long before your foot, and that's a kind of haunting too. Farne had long been calling you..."
Buechner has called life itself the sacred journey; and if it is a journey true, we must consider where we shall go next. What is next? Where am I going? And do those places know already that I am on my way?
Godric replies to Cuthbert, "I heard no call, Father...I came by chance." And in that, Godric shows his lack of vision. What in life is mere chance? Certainly not where we end up after a long day's journeying. Cuthbert's response has etched itself into my heart, mostly because I feel a sense of connection to those who leave home to journey far away from what is known and safe. "When a man leaves home, he leaves behind some scrap of his heart....It's the same with a place a man is going to....Only then he sends a scrap of his heart ahead."
Two things make me pause. The first is what part of my heart I left behind. I must believe it is true, what Cuthbert says. I left my childhood name at home. Andy. To those who knew me in my youth, Andy is someone far different than who I am today. He is only a scrap of me.
And somehow my talents for teaching, a career I had not yet considered when I left home, were waiting for me at Northwest University. It was there I became Andrew. Matured, I thought. And part of that maturity, of being Andrew, meant I would find that scrap of me, that piece that had always existed, but never materialized, only at college, where that scrap had been waiting.
We will know we are in the right place in our lives when arrive because it will simply feel right. Every other place we stop will seem uneasy, not quite right.

Godric: Of Peregrine Small and how Godric came to prosper in trade

2005-10-09T18:18:00.000-07:00

"...nothing human's not a broth of false and true..." claims Godric as he relates a tale of misfortune for Peregrine Small. And doesn't that just about sum up our life. With moments of truth, we perhaps demonstrate to our friends and family the good that was intended for us all. God looks down from heaven with satisfaction and says, as he did at the very start, "It is good."
We happen across the haggard old man, his beard greyed and stringy, and our heart yearns to help. We haven't much in the way of money at the time, but in a place tucked away from the world, we pray for him. It is a moment of truth for us. No one is looking, all eyes are closed. It is a solitary moment when the truth of who we want to be shines at its best.
And that moment is added to the broth of our life.
Or, we happen across the haggard old man, his eyes greyed and tired, and our heart quicks to judge. Our pockets are filled with coins and cash at the time, but in a place tucked away from the world, we barely even pity him. It is a moment of falsehood for us. No one is looking, all eyes are closed. It is a solitary moment when the falseness of who we pretend to be shines at its worst. And that moment, also, is added to the broth of our life.
Both are mere moments. On the one hand, grace is given, the other mercy is needed. In the final analysis of our life, when the broth of truth and falsehood has simmered quite long enough, we must rest only in the knowlege of a loving and forgiving God, and hope that the two separate enough to show the truth of our hearts.

How Godric Left Home

2005-10-06T19:05:00.000-07:00

The priest Tom Ball says to Godric, "This life of ours is like a street that passes many doors...nor think you all the doors I mean are wood. Every day's a door and every night." Every moment, Tom Ball is saying, is a choice we must make. And oh, the number of choices I have made.
I fell in love with Godric's story because I see so much of myself in him. Like Godric, I left home to make my own journey, a path that was mine alone. But if, as Godric says, "...I should trace it back, it's to my father's hand that it would lead." At the time, of course, it was my father's hand I wanted to leave; but "fool that I was, I thought that day it was only home I left."
When all is laid to rest, I wonder how the open doors behind me will speak of my journey. For surely if someone cared to look, those doors might tell a tale of absurdity and grace. And isn't that what the story of God really is. A tale of absurd happenings splattered blood red with countless moments of grace. Because for every time the door opened and a path of failure emereged, I hope that there are two doors that I opened to which grace was present.
If it is not the case, then why do we struggle so hard? If we cannot believe that in the midst of hopless failures, God continues to reach out to us, then why do we bother? And ultimately, when we leave home, if it is not for an entirely different kind of home we seek, for what then should we leave?

Godric: How Reginald asked and Godric answered and the Blessed Virgin's song.

2005-10-03T21:34:00.000-07:00

"Know Godric's no true hermit but a gadabout within his mind, a lecher in his dreams. Self-seeking he is and peacock proud. A hypocrite. A ravener of alms and dainty too. A slothful, greedy bear. Not worthy to be called a servant of the Lord when he treats such servants as he has himslef like dung, like Reginald."
But who of us is worthy to be called a servant of the Lord? We all need validation at some point in our lives. It could be from a girl we fancy or a boss we respect. We seek validation from a God that rarely speaks to us, if he speaks to us at all anymore. It seems absurd to me, in certain moments, that in the back of our minds we know this to be true: ...not worthy to be called a servant.... And yet we continue to seek his pleasure. We doll ourselves up on Sunday morning to attend a ritual gathering together of the bretheren. We pause in our hunger to toss a prayer of thanks, making sure God knows we know who is to be thanked.
Now, I am not saying we shouldn't do those things, only, maybe those are the insignificant things. The things God himself might laugh at the way people in power laugh when the subordinates suck-up to them. "Hey Jesus, did you forget to tell them I just want them to do two things, 'Love their neighbor and love me. Sometimes, these guys really crack me up. See, look there. That guy walked past a bum on the corner and thought, 'Get a job,' then with everyone watching at lunch, stopped to pray.'"
Unworthy we all are, but few of us understand what that means.

Godric: Of the family of Godric, his youth, and a sign from the sea

2005-09-27T19:58:00.000-07:00

After nearly drowning in the surf, Godric speaks of three lessons learned. The first was that the sea is mighty and one must always keep a wary eye on it. The second was the love of his sister. And the third, well that is the lesson we all of us must learn.
"He learned that it was Jesu saved him from the sea, though saved him why or saved for what deep end he did not learn, nor has he ever learned it to this day."
Of all the mysteries of life, even the mystery of God's existence, I find most puzzling the mystery of why. From the very beginning, God sets into motion a series of questionable choices. He chooses Jacob, the deceiver. David, the murderer and adulterer. Noah, the drunkard. Peter, the liar and quick-tempered. He picks out of the mulititude not the holy, but the weak, the spiteful, the arrogant.
Even greater to me than the question of God, only, I suppose, because I believe in God, is the crazy and bewildering question of why me, why any of us in this sick and ugly world? Peculiar choices we are, if we get right down to it.
And yet, over and over, without hesitation, unlike us, God chooses to dwell among us in the form of compassion, truth, beauty, or even an unexpected tear or burst of laughter. Perhaps we should stop with that chorus of "What a mighty God we serve," and begin anew with "What a perplexing God we serve."
The porpoise in that drowning surf that nearly took Godric's life said, "Take and eat me, Godric, to thy soul's delight." And God himself said to us, that final night, the same healing thing.

Godric: Of Godric, his friends, and Reginald

2005-09-26T19:28:00.000-07:00

It is that time of the year when I pull Frederick Buechner's Godric off the shelf, dust it off and dive in to the most profoundly poetic novel Buechner wrote.
"Five friends I had, and two of them snakes," he begins. And quite literally he means snakes. Friendship is, of course, that element of humanity that has the power to stir in us a great depth of loneliness. For at last, even after the most raucous of gatherings, friends must leave. They come and they go, not just in the way we leave a party only to return again another night, but friends are often a backdrop to a particular season in our life.
And what friends they are, when we find ourselves immersed in that season. The truest of friends will linger a bit longer, just like they might at that party; but in the end, eventually, they leave. It is a rare happening to maintain a friendship, an honest, open, friendship much beyond any particular season. It takes a remarkable human being to uplift us in our trials, celebrate in our victories, and finally to forgive us our mistakes.
Very few of us have that capability ourselves, let alone the ability to find that in someone else. But when we do, we must fasten ourselves quickly and tightly, for without it, the world would feel all the more empty.

Beyond Time

2005-09-18T21:24:00.000-07:00

The final section of Buechner's The Sacred Journey is titled "Beyond Time." Mostly, he considers the happenings of life, in their infinite reality, as they happen to us in our finite reality.
He says:
The question is not whether the things that happen to you are chance things or God's things because, of course, they are both at once. There is no chance thing through which God cannot speak--even the walk from the house to the garage that you have walked ten thousand times before, even the moments you cannot believe there is a God who speaks at all anywhere. He speaks, I believe, and the words he speaks are incarnate in the flesh and blood of our own footsore and sacred journeys. (77)
I have often struggled to understand how God speaks to us today. There is the Bible, of course, in which we can read the sayings of Jesus and the stories of men. It certainly speaks to us, I believe, though not so much differently than the common everyday experiences we have.
In years past, I have relied heavily on the words of that great book to fortress myself against the sorrow of life or to chastise myself for the many errors in judgement I have made. But at sometime, and I certainly cannot recall when or why, the words of that great book became trite cliches tossed around without any concern for the magnitude of truth they spoke. Fascinating, isn't it, that even the great masterpieces of music and art, if played or viewed too often, lose something of their depth.
It wasn't until I read this memoir by Buechner that I began to look for those words incarnate. It wasn't until I read from his Holiness the Dalai Lama much of the same teachings of Jesus that I began to hear afresh the words of Jesus. Compassion. Humility. Service. And then to listen to my life, to catch myself by surprise at the many ways I did hear Jesus. No, not audibly as I had so long hoped for, and perhaps feared, but I heard him in the hello of a stranger; I saw him in the tears and laughter of a child.
And that, that is the greatest of all the moments of our journeys. That moment when for the first time we recognize God in us, in the world around us.

Once upon a time

2005-09-07T19:57:00.000-07:00

Getting back to my reflections on Buechner's The Sacred Journey, I respond to chapter two, "Once Upon A Time."

But when it comes to putting broken lives back together--when it comes, in religious terms, to the saving of souls--the human best tends to be at odds with the holy best. To do for yourself the best that you have it in you to do--to grit your teeth and clench you fists in order to survive the world at its harshest and worst--is, by that very act, to be unable to let something be done for you and in you that is more wonderful still. The trouble with steeling yourself against the harshness of reality is that same steel that secures your life agianst being destroyed secures your life also against being opened up and transformed by the holy power that life itself comes from (46).

I wonder if those words would be of any value to the desperate families who now suffer in Lousianna, Alabama, or Mississippi? Difficult, isn't it? To realize that in the face of obscene tragedy our need for resilience and steeled determination may in fact do more damage to the heart of who we are. And yet in the midst, with chaos all around, desperate pleas of "Why God?" shotputted into the clouds, grace somehow appears.

Who can ever foresee the crazy how and when and where of a grace that wells up out of the lostness and pain of the world and of our own inner worlds? And holy because these moments of grace come ultimately from farther away than Oz and deeper down than doom, holy because they heal and hallow (57).

Come, God of Mercy, into that hell.

Cal Ripken Jr.

2005-09-06T15:14:00.000-07:00

I'm looking at a poster, one of those inspirational ones you might find in an office. Perseverance--to continue a course of action in spite of difficulty. Cal Ripken Jr. is pictured, waving his hand at an adoring crowd. Ten year ago today, my boyhood hero, Cal Ripken Jr., broke the unbreakable record of consecutive games played in baseball. To this day, Ripken remains a part of my fascination with baseball. His love of the game and his dedication have influenced the way I live my life. Thank you Cal!
It started one afternoon while I perused my baseball card collection. I was eight years old and not very bright yet. I realized that in my collection, I had three Cal Ripken Jr. 1983 Topps cards. It was a sign, though I had not heard of Cal Ripken Jr. at the time, that he was good. Surely there wouldn't be so many of his cards if he weren't. From that day on Ripken was my favorite player. In Little League, I had to play shortstop--just like Cal. I threw like Cal. I batted like Cal. My room was filled with Cal posters. I collected whatever I could get my poor hands on.
I suppose my fascination with Cal is fueled by the way he presented himself on the field. I have no idea if he is as classy as he has always been called. But it does not matter. What matters is that a baseball player, one of the last of a different generation, showed this man how to be a professional. So, everyday in my classroom, my students who are struggling to master 9th grade English, can look at that poster and have the chance to learn from Cal.

The Sacred Journey

2005-08-03T14:53:00.000-07:00

Anyone who knows me well recognizes my great love for the writings of Frederick Buechner, a wonderful author. My next few posts will be looking at his memoir The Sacred Journey. I have decided to revisit this work for the sake of my blog and explore some of the many lines I have underlined or jotted in the margin about.

Chapter One: Once Below a Time

Our childhood has a mystical aura that at times is as slippery as the morning mist. We see back into it, not clearly or tangibly, but instead in dreams and memories, some hidden deep away, some always the center of discussion when people from way back get together. Buechner writes, "And the place where I started out during this once-below-a-time was Eden, of course. One way or another it is where all of us start out, if we have any luck at all"(11).

Of all the places to begin, it seems fitting that Eden would signify, for Buechner, that place of beginning. Eden to the religious and not so religious carries with it a symbolic meaning of life, of beauty, of things at peace. I won't discount the very real notion that, for many, childhood is nothing close to Eden--I suppose this is why Buechner qualifies with "...if we have any luck at all."
Eden is a world where religious, ethnic, and gender differences are irrelevant. A place where humanity lives in a fascinatingly unreal peace with one another. Eden is the place I think we all long for once we leave, because if Eden is where we begin to branch out from, then Eden is in fact our home. Perhaps that is why most of humanity is so restless. We are longing for a home we are unsure even existed, maybe somewhere in the ephemeral mist.
Of this Eden, Buechner writes, "There is no way to recapture fully the wonder and wildness of it"(12). And he is very right, I think. We spend much of our time, though, trying to find it again. Relationships; money; career. We even try to find Eden in God. Though too often, for too many of us, we find God just as elusive as Eden.
Eden is of course a picture of the grace we long for. There was no dying in Eden. There was no heartache or disappointment. God walked through the trees, was present and known. When Eden disappeared, we were left with only trace amounts of God in a gigantic world of memories. We were forced to see God in the beauty of a snow-capped mountain standing tall in the gloaming. We had to reach deep into our collective memory to see God in the unexpected smile of a stranger.
I think it is because of this, exactly, that Jesus said we must become like children. Children are so much closer to Eden then we are. Their existence is in close proximity to the start point on the timeline of life, that is Eden. It is perhaps why we envy them so much. Their carefree questioning and unwavering love. We envy their ability to remember Eden better than we can.

Manny Being Manny

2005-08-01T11:27:00.000-07:00

The last week demonstrates for me what New England is all about. I've often struggled here in Seattle with voicing my opinion. People here in Seattle are "polite." They don't like confrontation because it might hurt someone's feelings.
Last week the fans in Fenway jeered Manny Ramirez for his antics and perceived affront on the team. Manny is loved in Boston, but he is not loved as much as people love the team. So, the fans reprimanded him. The talk shows lambasted him. His teammates shared their opinions.
Then Manny walks out of the dugout during a tie game, hits the game winning single, and is restored to his place of hero. What I love about New England is that the truth can always be told--even if it hurts. Here in Seattle, when Ken Griffey Jr. was whining and complaining, no one challenged him. The fans didn't boo him. The talk shows didn't lambast him.
Nathan Hale said, "Give me liberty or give me death." I say, "give me New England or give me death."

The Red Sox

2005-07-26T08:04:00.000-07:00

Part of my reality is being a Red Sox fan. So I have to lament yet another blown opportunity by last year's savior Curt "Shelling." But here are some number on my team:

There are 107 qualified starting pitchers according to ESPN.com.
#59 Bronson Arroyo 4.26 E.R.A
# 61 Matt Clement 4.30 E.R.A
# 69 Tim Wakefield 4.42 E.R.A
# 77 David Wells 4.57 E.R.A

Wade Miller doesn't qualify yet, but his E.R.A is 4.57
*The entire starting rotation is in the bottom half.
The AJ Burnett trade gets us the#25 guy at 3.48, but we give up a good young pitcher to get him. I'm sorry, but the David Wells and Wade Miller pick-ups look silly.

Now to our qualified positional players. Based on their averages here is where they stand:

1B Kevin Millar .272 avg. 4 hr 35 rbi ranked #15 of 23
2b Mark Bellhorn .216 avg. 7 hr 28 rbi ranked #18 of 18 *yes, he is even worse than Brett Boone.
ss Edgar Renteria .273 avg. 6 hr 34 rbi ranked #10 of 20
3b Bill Mueller .280 avg. 4 hr 39 rbi ranked #9 of 18
lf Manny Ramirez .274 avg. 27 hr 90 rbi ranked #14 of 20
cf Johnny Damon .335 avg. 7 hr 48 rbi ranked #1 of 21
rf Trot Nixon .294 avg. 11 hr 50 rbi ranked #8 of 25
c Jason Varitek .305 avg. 15 hr 42 rbi ranked #2 of 9

For my money, second base and the bullpen are the issues. We need Schilling back in the starting rotation, a dependable bullpen and some numbers out of second base.

A Separate Peace

2005-07-08T16:49:00.000-07:00

John Knowles writes in A Separate Peace, "...fear...surrounded and filled those days, so much of it that I hadn't even known it was there. Because unfamiliar with the absence of fear and what that was like, I had not been able to identify its presence. Looking back...I could see with great clarity the fear I had lived in, which must mean in the interval...I must have made my escape from it"(1-2). After reading this passage a few days ago, I've been thinking in regards to the fear that far too many Christians live in.
For the most part, Christians do not live in fear of persecution. But, I do believe we live in a great deal of fear. That fear encompasses our lives to the degree that, when we get right down to it, controls our every action. This word fear has a few meanings I would like to pursue here.
The first use of fear relates to God himself, or herself, if you are so inclined. A few years back I read Frederick Buechner's Son of Laughter, the historical fiction of Jacob. In the novel, the characters often refer to God, as in "I am who I am," as The Fear. It had never occurred to me to refer to God as The Fear, like one might refer to Ken Griffey Jr. as The Kid. And yet, it made sense. I recall the many Bible stories in which God, in his anger, destroys so-and-so, or this place and that. I grew up, like Gene in A Separate Peace, unaware that The Fear was always present. My life, and the life of many Christians, is swayed by that ever present Fear.
For I was convinced that, should God's son, Jesus, return to earth while I was listening to rap music, God would crush me with the heel of his foot.
Many of our churches do a great deal of keeping such beliefs around with great little diddies like: "Oh, be careful little feet where you go...for the Father up above is looking down with love." Nothing like the thought of an all seeing "eye" to prevent you from slipping up.
And so, in our fear of The Fear, we often grow fearful of our own peers, those who surely are far less sinful than ourselves. Because if you are caught sinning, well, at least the big sins, you may lose your ability to attend that church or sing in that choir. So, fear continues to surround us, only this time it is not The Fear, but those with Fear Envy. They shape our lives, dictating on behalf of The Fear, what is accaptable and what is worthy of condemnation.
Finally, with all of that fear circling around us, we begin to fear the very place we were called to be. The world. Go into the world, be the salt of the earth, be humble, and all of those other great ideas. That becomes scary to us because what if, in the middle of being out in the world, the world discovers that we are a sham. That all those things our preachers rant against, are the very things we ourselves do. What if, when the final bell is rung, this whole thing was a sham. That there was no virgin birth to a divine saviour, who lived a sinless life, only to be offered as a sacrifice for sin that never existed in the first place, finally to be raised from death in what amounted to nothing more than a made up story by some desperate soul thousands of years ago. Because if we are honest with ourselves, that is the greatest fear any of us has.
So I wish to begin a new organization, that starts with my life first. If the Palestinians can have and organization for a state of their own, than I think Christianity needs a new state as well. Only this state will not be land and settlements; instead it will be a state of mind--the Christian Liberation Organization. A new brand of Christianity that is no longer hindered by the sins of the past, both personal and collective, because God knows his church has caused a lot of unnecessary grief, but a group that in no longer fearful.

The Cycle

2005-06-13T22:37:00.000-07:00

My spiritual director Jon Darrow, from Susan Howatch's Church of England series, explains spiritual life like this:
"It's a cycle. You sin. You go down into hell. You repent. You face the pain. You acknowledge the way forward--and the way forward signifies forgiveness as well as the chance to begin a new life, by the grace of God, in faith and hope and in charity. Birth, death, resurrection...yes, it's all a cycle, isn't it, a timeless cycle far older than Christianity, but of course Chrisitanity is a divine manifestation of eternal truths."

So often we allow ourselves to halt the cycle. Don't get me wrong, I'm not advocating blatant sin, but shouldn't we come to understand that what makes us uniquely human--and therefore different from God--is that we are capable of sin, that we do all too often give in. Then we start the cycle in motion. We dip down into hell, staying far too long. The pain of our sin chokes our breath and we wallow. I think, for me, it is easier to accept my hell, my pain, and steward that than it is to accept the way forward. Too much work sometimes, isn't it? All of that repenting, wondering if God even heard you.
But in the end, what gets me everytime is that grace of God. The undeserved, mostly unrequested grace. That is what sets us apart from God, the lack of grace on our part. Oh, we are good at the justice part, even at times the mercy part, but true honest grace, now that we struggle with. Because to offer grace demands a powerlessness that we fear. We must humble ourselves to such an extent that, in our charity, we give the other the power to do with that grace whatever fancy might strike. And that is painful.

Prayer

2005-06-01T23:43:00.000-07:00

I don't know when it happened, but somewhere along my journey, I stopped praying for my meals. Well, that isn't exactly true; I pray, just not out loud and with the rote: "Dear Heavenly Father, thank you for this day, thank you for this food. Bless our time together and in the future. Amen." No, I shortened it to crossing myself. As I make the sign of the cross before I eat, my mind thinks all those things.
But yesterday, while eating out at Ruby's Diner, my wife asked me if we were going to pray for our food, like, hold hands and stuff like that when we have children. Were we going to teach them the importance of praying for one's food through active demonstration of that. I told her that I always thought it pharisetical (like the pharisees) to make an overt prayer circle while eating at a restaurant. I am not embarrassed to pray over my meals; but, I've always felt that prayer is a deeply personal event.
Well, as we continued our discussion I looked up at a family of 6, just like mine growing up, as they began to pray for their food. In a recent post, my brother Keith wrote about hearing voices. Perhaps that was a voice I heard yesterday. Either way, whether coincidental or part of a larger plan, the moment was holy, as I ate my fattening burger and fries.

Riding the Avalanche

2005-05-12T19:05:00.000-07:00

The first section of Susan Howatch's novel Ultimate Prizes is titled "Crisis." That is precisely what I found myself in last week and into this week. Because I chose to speak my mind, and the misinterpretation that followed, I discovered that I was in the middle of a professional avalanche. The triteness of my religious upbringing quickly crept out of the corners I've kept dark for far too many years.
I am a doubter. And that is the foundation for my faith. I perceive the worst and prepare for it. I tired of those all too familiar scriptures and catch phrases. "It's in God's hands," or "Trust in the Lord." Pastor Merril from John Irving's A Prayer for Owen Meany, says to the two boys, "...doubt was the essence of faith, and not faith's opposite." For the past two weeks I have lived in that world of doubt. A place where I was certain God might still remain quiet despite the pleas from me and all of those who supported me. The only comfort I had were the trite catch phrases of my youth. I could not control the ride. There were not snowmobiles or snowboards to help me down the mountain. I was left in the whimsical hands of a God who knows my inner thoughts--a frightening propostion.
But as the avalanche tumbled around me, I found myself tumbling along, trusting that in the end, air would be found. Now the avalanche is in the final stages, settling where it may, and I still have life. I've been tattered a bit, but for now I have breath. And of all the ironies, my life-string was a laundry list of catch phrases that are daily being proven true.
That doubt that I carry with me makes life tough sometimes. It seems so blissful when a person can just trust, simply believe without a hint of fear. But for me, when God delivers in the middle of my doubt, those moments are the truest moments of my life--those moments are key moments.

Weariness

2005-05-07T18:14:00.000-07:00

This last week I walked through hell. On my professional blog I posted my thoughts regarding the attire worn by some students at my school's Junior Prom. Apparently I was not careful in my word choice, resulting in misinterpretation. The students found out, the parents were irate, the administration unhappy.
I slept very little, fretted exorbitantly, and now my body and mind are depleted. The entire situation has frustrated me because I let people down and what I inteded and what was perceived did not match up. I feel like I have walked not just into the valley of the shadow of death, but right smack into death himself.
Jesus says to find rest in him. I couldn't. Maybe it was my own stubborness, or maybe I was sure that when I actually did call out to him, he wouldn't show up. But by mid-week, that ancient and used Psalm trudged out of the dark corners of my heart, where it has hidden since Sunday School. The Lord is my shepherd--and how I need one.

Odd questions by an odd man

2005-04-22T12:28:00.000-07:00

Religious Questions:
1. If God had it to do over again, would he?
2. If we were all "in the light" as He is in the light, what would He have to keep himself busy?
3. Why don't pastors ever discuss Hosea from the pulpit, or Onan?
4. Is there another earth, created by God, where his experiment didn't fail?
5. How come animals don't talk, like Baalam's donkey did?
6. At what point did having 700 wives, like Solomon, become unacceptable?
7. Did Jesus ever talk back to his mother, or would that negate his sinless life?
8. How do we make sense of Jesus descending into Hell and preaching to the dead?
9. Why is it dangerous to communicate with the dead?
10. Is everything in the Bible literal?

Career Questions:
1. At what point do I just accept that a kid is not bright?
2. Why do faculty members act like high schoolers when they disagree?
3. Why do students feel the urge to write on the whiteboard?
4. Why do students beg for extra credit and then not take the opportunity?
5. Is it a law of nature that in every class I teach, there has to be one emotionally draining student?

When teaching is insignificant

2005-04-11T08:40:00.000-07:00

Spring break represents a new life in a way. The trees blossoming in the courtyard, flowers budding in front of the office offer the teacher refreshment. One more quarter go. I spent my spring break grading essays and planning the last push towards June.
Monday morning arrives with a spring shower and a coolness in the air. I print off my next assignment sheet and head to the copy room. "Attention staff, there will be a brief faculty meeting at 7:oo a.m. in the faculty room." Unusual, I think. I head over.
The principal gathers us all in and tells us that over the break, we lost one of our students. JK, I'll call him here. He died last Thursday at 18.
Teaching doesn't seem to matter much today. Literary analysis or self-to-text connections, unimiportant. Third quarter progress reports, pointless.
I taught JK, last year and the year before when I long-term subbed in his English class. His is a story worth much more than what I can offer here. But, I will do my best.
JK suffered from Cystic Fibrosis, a disease that debilitates a person, and causes massive fluid build up in the lungs. My uncle died of Cystic Fibrosis in 1984. JK spent much of his school year at the Children's Hospital, always wanting to be at school. When I taught him last year, he attended school maybe 1/3 of the time. But he always asked for his work before he went back to the hospital. He ran for ASB office and won. He was elected homecoming king. He wasn't big, the disease stunted his growth. He wasn't physically strong--most of the time he looked pale and weak. But when it comes to strength, he possessed it where most of us lack it.
To be able to push on, as JK did, requires an internal fortitude that I cannot comprehend. To live life to the fullest, in the face of impending death, is to be the most human that we can be. To be a selfless young man, when no one would question selfishness, is to demonstrate the best and most fantastic about humanity. To fight, literally until your last breath, when giving up seems just as noble, is to demonstrate for all those that knew him, what true courage is.
JK, we have been blessed to live alongside you; we have been honored to learn from you. I pray your life will forever be remembered by our storied traditions here. Let us revel in your life and grow in your death. Thank you, JK, may you rest in peace.

Romans 8:28

2005-04-08T15:38:00.000-07:00

In Susan Howatch's Absolute Truths, Lyle Ashworth, wife of Charles Asworth, the bishop of Starbridge, is infuriated by the verse, "And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God"(KJV). She says, "I still think that's the most infuriating sentence St. Paul ever wrote....It wouldn't calm me down....I'd just want to grab a gun ans shoot St. Paul"(40).

I relate to Lyle's irritation at this overused verse. Well-meaning Christians pick it up early in their Christian Language course and drop it wherever it seems appropriate. Your daughter finds out she has breast cancer--but don't worry, all things work together for the good. A marriage falls apart and the prayer group encourages, all things work together for the good.

There are a few different ways to go with this thought. One would deride the triteness of the Christian Language. A second would deride the unthoughtful Christian, who can rely only on that trite Christian Language. But instead, I would like to question whether or not the statement is true, as we've come to believe it.

But to do so, I would much prefer to use the word intermingle in place of works. It is simply my distaste for the word work, which to me implies a singular goal that must be met. I suppose I have great difficulty believing that everything I do has already been decided for me, and thus all things in my life are working to that goal. Something about losing my free will that irks me a bit. Intermingle conveys a relationship, a partnership between the events of our lives and the reactions we tender. Theologically, in my version of reality, which is the only version I have, I can come to grips with daily life and personal response relating to each other on a grand scale.

So, now that I've inserted my word, intermingle, now let me try to convince myself that truly all things intermingle for the good, with the qualification that this only occurs for those that love God. I believe I love God. Though as a Gemini, oops now I'm not doing so good at loving God, I tend to have these two personalities intermingling inside of me. But, I guess that you too, have two personalities working inside of you. St. Paul calls one of them the sinful nature. The other is the nature of God, which, I suppose, was left with us at creation--if you believe in creation. Like St. Paul, often I do things that I don't want to do, or at least don't mean to do. Because let's face it, many of the things that entice us are rather fun--which is an interesting idea that is expounded upon in Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar when it reads, "Adam was but human--this explains it all. He did not want the apple for the apple's sake; he only wanted it because it was forbidden. The mistake was in not forbidding the serpent; then he would have eaten the serpent."

So if I do thing that are in accordance with my sinful nature, at what point do I no longer love God? As a child, I was regularly asking Jesus to forgive me of my sins because it seemed to me at the time that after each sin, I was no longer a part of the fold. I spent a lot of time praying for forgiveness--ask my parents. How many sins does it take to get to the center of...oh that is something different. But in all reality, is this verse a truth to which we can hold dearly to. Meaning that, in the midst of the storm, the type of storm that even Jesus wouldn't have been able to sleep in, can we always rest easy knowing that all things are intermingling for the good.

Where is the good in the death of your sister? Hell, you can't even comfort yourself in knowing for certain that she is in a better place. Only God knows that for sure. And even if you could know that for certain, what good does it do you in the midst of your pain?

Faces

2005-03-30T10:20:00.000-08:00

To face something implies that one should turn to whatever something might be. Suck-it-up and take it like a man. Take a direct approach, confront it. To face something means to see it for all that it is. See the coming storm, take it in because sooner and later you will be swallowed up by it, and it will batter you.
A face is what the world sees when we walk out of our door each morning. It is the first thing we notice, and often the last thing we forget. A face can at any time carry the weight of this troubling world, or it can reflect the beauty of this carefully crafted world. Some try to hide their face while others plaster the world with their face. We face our faces in other directions when the sight is too painful to bear. We face our faces to the ground when we are shamed.
The human face is an open book, laid bare for all to see the hurt, agony, or joy. We search the faces of a crowd in hopes of finding someone to connect with--a familiar face. By chance, maybe we will recognize somthing in a face that we know to be true. Maybe that familiar face will speak to us about our own loneliness or our own shortcoming. Ultimately, I think, when we search the faces of others, and even ourself, we are searching for the only face that really matters--God's.
We hope to recognize, in the face of humanity and in the face of pain or loneliness, the face of someone we can only experience. We long to see if the face of Jesus or of God is real, if that face really was full of the compassion we lack, if that face truly was nothing special to behold as people wrote. Because if that face is true compassion and true simplicity, then we too can face this world with our face and make it through. If that face is as honest as we hope it to be, then we can look out at the mass of faces we see each day, at the bus-stop or the Starbucks, and we can empathize with them.

An Open Letter

2005-03-24T10:25:00.000-08:00

Dear Jesus,

Or God, whichever gets it first, I must tell you that I'm not sure I want in on this whole Christianity thing anymore. It all seems like such a hoax sometime, the way I behave and the way so many of us behave. I wonder if what we have to offer on our side of the relationship is even worth that much to you.
My people are claiming to know what you think regarding the Terri Schiavo case. They are claiming that anyone who supports her death is evil and trying to play god. Maybe they are right, but I can tell you this, I think she's better off not in this world. I think that the Christians are trying to take your role from you by forcing her to eat from a tube when you know the only way she gets better is if you intervene. Again, that is if you really do want that. And interestingly, these same Christians, representing you, claim that a miracle is still possible. As if somehow taking the feeding tube out negates any miracle you might have in store. Funny how we limit you isn't it?
I've also been struggling with this whole, we're in, they're out, mentallity. We base our whole lives on faith in the unseen as Christians, but that is a difficult thing to do. It sure does make more logical sense to base our lives off of what is visible. Again, interstingly enough, compassion and love would still exist. So maybe that is the proof we need. But I feel like an outsider looking in on the world, wanting to take part in a lot of what they do. It seems so much more fun and pleasing. And at the same time, I feel like an outsider looking in on the church, believing on the cusp but not quite ready to act all exclusive. So I find myself saying what's the point of trying.

I wish I could say for certain I'd do a better job of following you. I wish I could know right now that in the end, following you will matter. That mercy will play out. Not that I want to go on sinning as Paul said, but simply because I fear the darkness hidden, and not so hidden, in me.

Andrew

The Road Unknown

2005-03-22T14:03:00.000-08:00

I like to know where I am going before I start the car. If I've never visited a certain place, I like to have clear directions, landmarks included. I need some semblance of control, otherwise my heart races, my palms get sweaty, and I am a big grump to drive with.
My life is much like that as well. I like to know where I am going before I start the car. Right now, I have only a vague idea of where I am going, and very few landmarks to help me get there. I need to have my Professional Certification, a Washington State teacher requirement, within the next three years. I've not started on the road yet because, frankly, I don't know where to go.
The wisest route travels across the city of Master's Degree. In that route I would also get the Professional Certificate. However, the city of Master's Degree is wrought with potential detours. I could go the Master's in English freeway, which gives me a pleasant trip, and is much more enjoyable than other options. I could go Master's in Education highway, except it seems to me like it is not filled with many sights. I suppose I could go the Master's in Administration route which winds through the city, and is quite a bit more complicated. One needs to be a bit more sure of their skills. I've only been driving this teacher vehicle for two years.
Ultimately, I am just not enthused about being rushed. I want to take my time navigating this city. I feel quite incapable of making such a huge decision so early in my career.

Thanks

2005-03-03T10:06:00.000-08:00

Dear Jim,

I know you've been around longer than that '90-'91 season, but that is when I joined Husky Nation. I was twelve years old. I'll even admit that I had already started up the stairs for bed when Tate George hit "The Shot." I figured it was over.
Having been transplanted into a different Husky Nation (Washington), I am constantly reminded how I rarely get to watch my Huskies. But I watched you take two teams to the National Championship, no small feat. And I sure as heck didn't mind paying the price on ESPN Full Court to watch you earn your 700th victory.
So thanks Jim Calhoun, for engineering one of the finest programs in the country; for always bringing class to the NCAA; for always being passionate about Connecticut basketball--even when there are only 10 seconds left and you have a 20 point lead.
You are joy to watch!

Don't Tell Me What to Do!

2005-03-01T10:01:00.000-08:00

Not too long ago I was driving home from an event I was attending and was pulled over by an officer of the law. He had noticed that I was not wearing my seatbelt--a punishable offense in Washington state and throughout the country. I was angry. Not that I received the ticket but because there is something contradictory in that law that has bothered me for some time.

Whenever Democrats attack the Conservative Republican, and by attack I do mean the hateful things that come out of their mouths, the issue of abortion will always enter the conversation. Now, I am not a Conservative Republican, but I am a Christian. And the issue of abortion is a touchy one. I don't agree that abortion should be used as birth control, as it too often is, but I understand the need for an abortion in those cases where mental strife or physical safety are an issue. The new DNC states that:
"The issue is not abortion," Dean told the closed-door fund-raiser. "The issue is whether women can make up their own mind instead of some right-wing pastor, some right-wing politician telling them what to do."(http://www.ljworld.com/deanfordrudge.html)

Okay Mr. Dean, I will believe you. The issue is whether a woman can make up her own mind instead of some right-wing pastor--sorry pastors but you don't have the right to an opinion because you are ignorant enough to believe in God and Jesus--how silly you are!-- or some right-wing politician telling them what to do. So then Mr. Dean, I am anxiously awaiting your support of a new law that will outlaw mandatory seatbelt laws. Because as I see it, if a woman has the right to potentiall harm her body through an abortion, as well as stop the growth of living organism, regardless of how insignificant you personally believe that embryo is, then damn it, I have the right to potentially die in MY automobile, that I pay for, because I know what is best for me, not some left-wing doctor or some left-wing politician telling me otherwise. It is my body. Don't tell me what to do with it.

Separation of Church and State

2005-02-28T13:50:00.000-08:00

I run the risk of being labled by admitting to the following thoughts. I am clearly aware of the undertones that are becoming more overt by the year. These overt undertones could be a reaction to Christianity's often holier than thou mentality, but never-the-less, I find the rejection of all things related in anyway to Christianity a bit pig-headed and just as judgemental as the holier than thous. As I am navigating through my first year as an English teacher, recognizing the lack of texts to choose from, I began looking into new British novels to teach to the seniors. One such book, a somewhat steamy and mysterious novel concerning an Anglican priest came to mind. But I was immediately choked by that question of appropriateness, not so much because of the sex, but because the religious theme is quite prevalent.I then thought of C.S. Lewis, by far one of the most renowned British authors of the modern era. He was clearly a Christian apologetic, interspersing some less relgious writings throughout his career. But his best work is by far christian. So, I am hesitating at introducing my students to a wonderful author simply because he is christian. Ironic isn't it? That those who discredit Christianity as exclusive and narrow-minded, do just that whenever it comes to Christian thought. It reminds me of that whole elementary school birthday invitation thing. You forgot to invite me, so I'll forget to invite you--and make sure you and everyone else knows I forgot to invite you.

Talking

2005-02-28T12:26:00.000-08:00

Is it so bad that I don't like to "talk" to my wife? I mean, the type of talk where we know our every fault will be brought up, the honesty asked for will be received with tears and "You're such a jerk," the questions asked will be loaded, and the end result of our conversation will be painful.
The way I see it, this whole communication thing, is highly overrated. At least in the Dr. Phil and Christian Couples best selling book type of way. I have opinions and beliefs-- feelings and passions. I can be whimsical or grounded. I love to share them. I am who I am. For the most part, I don't want to change. Yes, there are things about me I wish I could change; I've tried to change; I will continue to try and change. But that doesn't mean I want to "talk" about them. And really, when spouses want to talk, they too often mean talk at.
I'm not poohpoohing the notion of communication, only the idea that everything going on in my head has to be verbalized.

When we don't want to hear

2005-02-24T10:19:00.000-08:00

"Listen to your life," says Buechner, and ever since my introduction to Mr. Buechner, I have tried to do just that. In some way, I think our lives are in constant communication with us; the events, the conversations, the tears, the laughter all are telling us something, anything, if only we will open the ears of our soul to hear whatever it is. But listening to your life often is the last damn thing you want to do. Not because you are busy, but because you don't want to hear what it is telling you.
My brother, a minister, unburdens that an old acquaintance of mine and friend of his has fallen into deep depression. Suicide is a concern. It made us both wonder about little Ellington where we grew up. The number of suicides both during and after our high school years involving Ellington's kids is in my mind staggering.
I call my father to discuss the future. His will. What will happen when he dies. He is already concerned about it--at 60 years old. He says his health has good days and bad days--he's concerned.
My reality is that I don't want to deal with it. I'd rather run from the reality of death. It scares me. Sure, I believe in an afterlife--I'm a christian. Not a good one, but one never-the-less. I don't like the status quo of life broken into and robbed. This acquaintance is young. But sometimes when life has a grip on you, leaving it seems the best option. Who can blame them? People get old and people die, but no one I was ever very close to. My dad's dad died when I was 6 months old. My two great-grandfather's that I remember died by the end of my high school years, and I don't know that I had a bond enough to really miss them.
What I want to know is why all this talk of death? What is the meaning behind it? And ultimately, do I really want to hear it?

100 Random Things about ME

2005-02-11T15:48:00.000-08:00

1. I teach literature at a local high school
2. I'm a better lit. teacher than writing teacher
3. Stupidity annoys me
4. I dress professionally
5. I don't think all teachers are grossly underpaid
6. In fact many are grossly overpaid because of salary schedules and unions
7. I tend to vote Republican
8. I don't believe this makes me conservative
9. ...or close minded.
10. I listen to rap music
11. I watch Oprah when I can
12. And Dr. Phil too
13. I belive in the Bible
14. ...but am open to a non-literal translation for all of it.
15. I believe in Jesus
16. I agree with much of what the Buhhda taught
17. I grew up on a lake in Connecticut
18. ...but we barely scraped by
19. I'm a UConn Husky fan
20. I graduated from Northwest University in Kirkland, WA
21. I often regret going so far away from home for school
22. ...but if I hadn't, I'd be a much different person.
23. I have an addictive personality
24. ...an affinity to gamble
25. If I'm not supposed to, I will probably try
26. When I'm angry, I run my mouth
27. Nothing beats a New England Autumn
28. I own a Jeep Wrangler
29. ...and only been "off road" once.
30. I hate getting older
31. I'm gaining weight
32. ...and I lack the internal motivation to change that.
33. I thrive on competetion
34. I procrastinate
35. My desk is always cluttered
36. I lose my keys or wallet at least once a week
37. I forget things that I am told
38. I always remember important dates
39. ...but I don't always get gifts on time.
40. Cal Ripken Jr. is my hero
41. I played baseball as a kid
42. I couldn't hit well
43. I was a pretty dang good fielder though
44. I hate wearing contact lenses
45. My smile has always been a source of insecurity
46. At 5'9', I fell well short of my 6' goal
47. I'm embarrassed about that too.
48. Golf relaxes me
49. Golf irritates me
50. The beach is my ideal getaway
51. I respect my father for all his hard work to provide for us
52. I honor my mother for all of her hard work to provide for us
53. I respect my older brother
54. I love my sister
55. My younger brother hurt me, but he's family and nothing can come between that
56. I have few close friends
57. ...but many good friends
58. I am not very trusting
59. I disappoint myself regularly
60. I pick my nose, and am okay with it.
61. I have ADD
62. Reading a good book invigorates me.
63. I am not technologically savvy
64. I adore my wife
65. ...but am not the best husband
66. I don't pick up after myself
67. I'm not a sensitive man
68. Sam Adam's makes a great beer
69. I still count bartending as my favorite job
70. ...but teaching is my calling
71. If it is by Frederick Buechner, I will read it
72. I'm not always the best Christian
73. ...no, I don't think that makes me a hypocrite--only human
74. Death scares me
75. The dark makes me uncomfortable
76. ...unless I am in bed
77. Bedtime is my favorite time of day
78. The morning is my least favorite
79. I love to swim
80. I hate to jog
81. Pretentious students irritate me
82. Laziness boggles my mind
83. Gay marriage is in no way a detriment to my marriage
84. I have a harder time justifying abortion, except in special circumstances
85. I speed
86. I don't wear a seat-belt regularly
87. ...but think it's hypocritical that the government gives women the right to choose what they do with their body, but I can't have that same freedom.
88. A good argument enthralls me
89. ...even if I don't agree with what I am arguing
90. Someday I want to move back to New England
91. I can't take naps
92. I drink White Chocalate Mochas, Extra Hot--from Starbucks
93. I am loyal to people and companies
94. I'd rather the government spend my taxes on making my life better instead of the owls or whales
95. I am a picky eater
96. I don't like cooked vegetables
97. I still carry the pain of hurting a high school friend
98. Singing skills passed me by
99. I have more shoes than my wife
100. I will always be a part of Red Sox Nation

The Jesus Word

2005-02-11T09:45:00.000-08:00

It is difficult for me to think of any other name in all of history that attracts as much attention as the mere mention of it. Throughout history, Jesus, has become a name oft abused, disrespected, honored, glorified, and a bevy of other monikers that fall along the continuum.

From an early age, I was taught not to take the name of Jesus in vain--for fear of some type of lightening strike or committment of the abomination. And it was in the seventh grade that I learned what would happen at home if I did. A couple of students were messing around in the hall, and in my frustration to get by, slipped out "Jesus Christ!" I had never used that name in vain at that point, and I feared for my life after doing it. A teacher heard me and assigned me a detention. How far we've come.

And over the past few months, as I've spent hours coaching basketball, I've let fly a few God damn it's, and have paused at how odd it sounds from my mouth. For me, the name of my god is still revered, despite some of my obvious shortcomings. And when, in a High School assembly, a speaker let fly the phrase, "Jesus Christ! You guys are slow," following a joke, my sense of self felt violated. Not because I am self-righteous, but because that name is important to me. It frustrates me that in our culture, where religion is looked down on by the self-righteous progressives as if they alone lay claim to truth (and yes, I understand that Christians are often guilty of this as well), and secular tolerance is preached in public schools so we don't offend anybody, a highly offensive (at least to Christians) remark would go unnoticed.

I wonder, if in his motivational speech, the speaker had proclaimed, "And I worked hard and made it out of a tough situation with the help of Jesus Christ," how many phone calls would innundate the office, and how many of my progressive colleagues would have been irate.

Clutter

2005-02-09T10:28:00.000-08:00

I am looking at my desk as I write, and the reality is I am a cluttery kind of guy. Perhaps it is both a result of nature and a bit of nurture, or simply it is the best I can do right now. But the mess that sits on my desk reminds me of the mess that our lives can be. We are a busy society--running from one place to another--chairing this committee and staffing that committee--meeting these friends for dinner and catching up with those friends for drinks. I think that for the most part we tiptoe between our calendar fillers with grace and poise, but when those calendar dates intersect, we often find ourselves in great unrest.

The silly thing about it is that we tend to, in our need to regain the balance of our world, neglect that which will truly benefit us. We compensate our personal life to achieve that balance. We are short with our spouses. We neglect our children. We forget to eat. We sleep little. We tire.

In truth, much of what we do carries importance to our life. The question then is, how do we cope? "Come unto me," Jesus says, "and I will give you rest." Whether you are a great mystic or a great commoner, there is a need for solitude. A need for rejuvination, both of spirit and of mind. God does not command us to pray for rest or strength; he says "Come unto me."

WE Rule!

2005-02-07T09:46:00.000-08:00

As a native New Englander, I just want to brag for a moment. We are often forgotten by the rest of the world, tucked away in the Northeast. Some citizens often wondering if New England is even in America; a question I have been asked many times. But right now, New England is the center of the American Sports World. Just look:

World Series: Boston Red Sox
Superbowl: New England Patriots
NCAA Men's Basketball Title: Connecticut
NCAA Women's Basketball Title: Connecticut
WNBA Runner Up: Connecticut

Impressive huh? You see, this is why I don't care to hear about an East Coast Bias; the reality is, we are just better!

Snobbery

2005-02-01T10:26:00.000-08:00

I'll have to admit that I am a snob. I live in the Seattle area, Everett to be exact. We are known around the world as a haven for coffee drinkers, grunge music, riots, and of course the Eastside. As a product of small town America, I never really thought of myself as snobby. I was from the other side of our white collar community. But I stood in line waiting for my Grande White Chocalate Mocha, a recent habit I've developed, while a woman in front of me ordered her drink. She asked the barista not for a Grahn-day, but for a Gran-de. My face did one of those contortions that happen when we're not quite sure we heard right. My lips slipped into a hidden grin and I even chuckled inside as I repeated to myself her pronunciation. It made me aware that I am snobby. And now I am crushed to think that I may potentially be a snob in many other ways.

Silence of the Lamb

2005-01-26T08:57:00.000-08:00

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

2005-01-24T09:13:00.000-08:00

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

2005-01-21T09:02:00.000-08:00

"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

2005-01-20T13:28:00.000-08:00

"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

2005-01-14T13:03:00.000-08:00

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"

2005-01-11T13:56:00.000-08:00

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

2005-01-10T13:55:00.000-08:00

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.

Wanting to Believe

2004-12-26T09:52:00.000-08:00

On Christmas Eve I went to see the movie version of the wonderful children's book The Polar Express. The movie, as a sidenote, is magical and entertaining. The tale is about a young boy and other young children who have lost faith in Santa Clause and subsequently the joy that Christmas brings. It occured to me that like the belief in Santa Clause, people's belief in God has dwindled with age and experience, and that the world is truly looking for an honest answer to the void that belief has left.
At one point in the movie, the young boy is talking with a hobo as the train speeds over the track, snow driving across the their faces. The hobo asks the boy what his persuasion is when it comes to the big guy, Santa. And with an emptiness that strains his voice, the boy replies, "I want to believe." Maybe in the midst of a Christmas movie, no one else was struck by that remark, but I was.
Want comes in many different forms. There is the form that causes our hearts to blacken with greed. Other times, want comes to those who truly lack, in which case want is more alike to need. And then there is the want which causes one's heart to pain because that want springs from something we once had but are now missing. And that is what I think the boy meant. He wants to believe because somewhere in the depth of his being he knows what it feels like to believe; he knows what that belief can make him do--the caring for others, the unselfishness that ultimately is born out of believing.
When that young boy spoke those words, I understood him on a much different level and yet, perhaps in the same way. On my best days, I believe in God. I believe that in his love for this world, he chooses to stay the hell out of what we choose to do. When I am at my best as a human, I believe that he is using me of all people to somehow show himself to the world around me. And as a dear Professor has so eloquently put it, God is subtle and elusive. But that is on my best day.
The other days, when the news headlines scream atrocities, when I can't find it in myself to give a damn about the students in front of me, when the story of the Bible seems to absurd in the middle of my reality, believing is the hardest thing to do in the world. Because my reality is that the whole thing is preposterous. A God that cares. This Jesus who was selfless and human. Jacob the Deceiver becoming the Chosen One. King David the Cheat and Half-Naked Lunatic Dancer the descendant of a Saviour. It is just silliness most of the time.
But when I have that feeling when believing is just too difficult, and I find myself saying, "I want to believe," it is great to know that I am not the only one in the world who has that sentiment. And whether it is a Sleigh Bell, like the one in The Polar Express, that reminds me of the other reality, or it is an unexpected smile from a stranger, seeing is believing and sometimes its not.

Traditions

2004-12-22T13:49:00.000-08:00

"Tradition, Tradition, Tradition!" belts the song from Fiddler on the Roof, and at no other time in the year than Christmas does Tradition take such a central role in our lives. I've always thought that traditions haunt our lives like the Ghost of Christmas Past. Traditions don't allow us the freedom to move about our lives in the many directions they must go. Traditions get in the way of impromptu events and spontaneous new traditions.
Last night my wife visited with her parents at their house. In the tradition of the Boyd family, they sat around and watched A White Christmas--a wonderful old classic that takes place in my native New England. But I've seen it a couple of times now and had no desire to join in the tradition. I told my wife that I just don't get it, the whole tradition thing. And if you are one who holds to tradition, I don't want to downplay what is meaningful to you, but until this morning, I didn't understand.
As I live three thousand miles away from my immediate family, Christmas time is difficult to deal with. I miss the great possibility of snow on Christmas Eve, the chillingly clear nights that make the moon glisten. In preparation for my annual Christmas call, I called my mother to find out when they would be at my Grammy Mac's on Christmas Eve and when they would arrive at Aunt Barbara's for Christmas dinner. But this Christmas, I will be calling my older brother's house on Christmas day--and Grammy Mac's on Christmas Eve if I want to talk with everyone else.
For the first time that I can remember, my parents and siblings will be breaking our tradition--even though I had never thought of it as that. I was a bit stunned. Even though I rarely get the chance to be home for Christmas, I know where I would be if I was. Grammy Mac's provided me with so many great Christmas Eve moments--intoxicated Santa's, Kevy's meatballs, and the 24 hour marathon of A Christmas Story starring my older brother when he was a kid. (I'm sorry Keith, but you did look like him) If I had to be so far away on Christmas Eve as an adult, at least my parents and siblings would be there for me. If they were there, than in a way, so was I.
So there it is. I do have traditions. But like rules, traditions were meant to be broken. So enjoy your traditions and maybe start a new one.

Oxymoron

2004-12-16T08:42:00.000-08:00

When we put words together that are conflicting in defintion and meaning, we have created an image that conveys the blending of worlds. Bittersweet memories, for example, bring together the aspect of a memory that is wonderful to remember, but something inside of the wonderful memory balances the scale a bit. The reality of life is that we cannot break down our world into a divided state where opposite ideas don't intermix. When Paul writes that all things work together for the good, there is inherent in that statement, an oxymoron. All things must include the sorrow of death, the anxiety of unpaid bills, and any other sordid detail of our lives.

I woke up at my usual 6:00 a.m. this morning, doubting whether or not I really wanted to go face five classes of rambunctious students who are as ready as I am for the two weeks off. Inside of my head played a hymn I have not heard in ages. The funny thing is that I had tired of church hymns from the songbook by about 12 years of age. Now, I miss them in relation to the sappy love songs with insignificant verses and repetitious choruses. As a reader, now I understand the depth of meaning behind those stories put to lyrics.
And as I stepped into the shower, I began singing, and I use that term loosely, At the cross, at the cross, where I first saw the light--and the burdens of my heart rolled away. I'd never realized the oxymoron in that one line. Of all the moments in the history of the church, and despite understanding the symbol that the cross has come to represent, the cross is the darkest moment in the life of Jesus, his mother, and his disciples. Sometimes I think we forget the pain and suffering that took place on yet another oxymoron, Good Friday. If you asked Peter and John about that day, I believe we get a vastly different word than good.
The song says that at the cross we see the light. And that is quite a spin. Symbolically, yes, we find the light, the way back to God, after the grossness of the cross. It has over time become a relic of sorts to all who seek a symbol of hope. And I don't downplay the importance that the cross plays in that process. Without the cross, if Jesus had just done what he really wanted to do--have God take that burden from him,--we would not be able to sing at the cross with tears of thankfulness.
In the midst of the darkest and most humiliating moment in the life of Jesus, a light of significance somehow penetrated the darkness. And only after the crucifixion and resurrection, can we look back and and sing:
Alas! and did my Savior bleedAnd did my Sovereign die?Would He devote that sacred head For such a worm as I?
Refrain
At the cross, at the cross where I first saw the light,And the burden of my heart rolled away,It was there by faith I received my sight,And now I am happy all the day!
Thy body slain, sweet Jesus, Thine—And bathed in its own blood—While the firm mark of wrath divine,His Soul in anguish stood.
Was it for crimes that I had done He groaned upon the tree? Amazing pity! grace unknown!And love beyond degree!
Well might the sun in darkness hide And shut his glories in, When Christ, the mighty Maker died, For man the creature’s sin.
Thus might I hide my blushing face While His dear cross appears, Dissolve my heart in thankfulness, And melt my eyes to tears.
But drops of grief can ne’er repay The debt of love I owe: Here, Lord, I give my self away ’Tis all that I can do.

Advent

2004-12-15T06:41:00.000-08:00

Each year we celebrate the coming of the Christ into our muddled world. It is a worthy celebration indeed. Some would simply call this time the Christmas Season, though many would prefer to not offend anyone and call it the Holiday Season. I prefer the term given by the Catholic Church and is used by many others of various denominations--Advent. Just the word, which implies the coming of something, has a sweet and melodic air about it. And this time of year, despite the long lines, cold, and shorter days, we need the hope of something coming.

Churches hold special services to bring people into the warmth of the building, to honor the Christ through singing and dramatic representations. Our pastors work diligently on preparing a most poetic and imaginative sermon to bring our hearts to an appreciation of this time of year. And the truth is, the advent of Christ is worth celebrating and announcing each year, just as the star and angels announced his coming that first of so many Christmas mornings. It is worth celebrating because each year in countless ways and to unknown people, Christ is born again in their lives. Christmas morning happens to someone every day of the year and it is fitting that we honor that most holy of experiences at the very least, once a year.
The greatest and most profound of those new births into our world, however, do not happen inside the church building, and often times without much help from the church itself. That is the absurd joke of it all, that despite ourselves, Christ can be born afresh without our help.
Here at Cascade High School, for forty some odd years, students have been bringing Christ into the heart of their community, and most don't recognize it as more than a good deed, a charity that is worthwhile and makes them feel good. Students spend workweek hours outside of grocery stores asking for donations. Students spend the equivalent of a second and third school day after school shopping our cafeteria in order to create baskest that will provide weeks worth of food to the poor. And every time a student does that, whether they count themselves as a believer, or are simply earning hours for the National Honor Society, Christ is born again into our world.
What gives us pause during this season is not the gift count, nor is it the sweets. What we, the world included, hold our breath in awe of, is the advent of compassion that fills the air with more beauty than the falling snowflakes and frozen ponds of our world. There is nothing more beautiful or more befitting the advent season than the giving of the truest and best of humanity to a world in need.

Mi familia

2004-12-14T09:48:00.000-08:00

As Christmas approaches with the slow roar of frantic shoppers and stressed relationships, I feel the need to share my thoughts about family. I've never been much of a believer in evolution on a macro scale; there has to be something or someone who set this all in motion. But when it comes to family, evolution is the word to use for its survival. People can talk about family values and the nuclear family, but what they miss, I think, is that to be a part of a family is to simply survive at times. And as we grow older, marry into other families, and begin our own new families, we must adapt in order to fit into that one family that matters--the Human Family.

It is a difficult thing, this ability to evolve as a family. I can use no better example than my own experience. My experience is only important to you because somewhere in my story is your story; we share a common humanity that binds us together and allows us to grow with each other. I come from a nuclear family, and yes that is intentional. I have a mother and a father that were around to raise me. I have an older brother Keith, who is a pastor, a younger sister Brie, who is a paralegal, and a younger brother David, who is trying to figure life out at the mature age of 18. We even had a dog. As a family we went to church three times a week, just to be safe; we ate dinners together almost regularly; we went on vacations. All things that the nuclear family does.
But for the longest time my sister and I hated each other in the most nuclear ways. By the age of 17, I wanted to be on my own and so I skipped across country the fall after graduation. By that point, my older brother was meeting his lovely wife and marrying--I didn't quite connect with her as a sister-in-law which disconnected me from my brother. My younger brother, the baby of the family, was far too bright for someone his age and without his siblings around, found other ways to entertain himself, much to my parents chagrin. And for a while it seemed the McNamar clan had been destroyed. We had all gone separate and distinct routes as children, leaving my parents, hands in the air--perhaps in prayer, perhaps in confusion--trying to figure out what went wrong.
So here it is Christmas, nearly 10 years since I skipped town, my older brother is a pastor with two children and living an hour from my parent, my sister, a paralegal living on her own fifteen minutes from my parents, my younger brother living at home and still not sure what life is about, and me, married and living 3000 miles away. The nuclear family had to evolve.

By the grace of God alone we have evolved. I can say confidently that we have lived our own nuclear wasteland and evolved because of it. We've adapted to become stronger, to survive with the fittest. We've stewarded our pain well and the result is survival.
As a teacher, I see first hand the agony that Christmas creates in individuals who are now living their own version of the nuclear family. People are in pain all around us for so many reasons. Divorce. Death. War. A wandering child. But in the end, it is not how many Christmas Days you've spent together, or the traditions you've held to dearly. For most it is have you survived and have you evolved to keep that family, whatever it might look like.

Dreams

2004-12-13T09:44:00.000-08:00

The Creed song proclaims that when dreaming we are guided to another world. And the truth of this is that whether we mean dreams that come to us like mist in the darkness of our sleep or the dreams we imagine into existence and call goals, dreams are other worldly.
There are few sleeping dreams that I can recall, they come and go so quickly that typically I am left only with the feeling that they impart. Some dreams seem so real, as if they burst from deep with my heart. Other dreams have caused trepidation and fear. And still others have been so odd that I am curious to know which part of me those dreams came from.

There is nothing in life quite like dreaming because we are not in control of the scenes that play out. While we may be capable of dictating the dramatic events of our day to day life, the interactions with our peers, the confrontations with our loved ones, dreams are of another world telling us something. There are countless books to help you understand your dreams. Some I suppose are genuine and real, others a sham to make a profit. But regardless of whether we believe the opinions of others, it still remains that dreams are meaningful.

But even more meaningful than the wispy dreams of our sleep are the dreams that make up the foolishness of life. Martin Luther King Jr. proclaimed his dream that one day his four children would be able to live in a world where character counted for more than skin color. He dreamed of world where all men, all religions, all ages would be able to stand together under the protection of freedom. And in 1960's America what a foolish dream it was. We are such stuff as dreams are made on... claims Prospero, and if that be the case than dreams are truly foolish in the most holy way possible. Foolish as his dream was, King belted it out from the valleys of Tennessee to the hilltops of Georgia and people responded.
In a world that is desperate for dreams, the pastors and priests and pew members must once again find in themselves a dream to share. We need a dream to bring us hope in a tempestuous world, but most of all we need a dream that is foolish enough to believe in and holy enough to care about. A dream so daring that it will stir in us the best of intentions and perhaps, maybe, the greatest of action. "Love your neighbor as yourself," dreamed Jesus. And I can't help but believe that he didn't command it so much as he dreamed it aloud. "Love your neigbhor," is a dream worth fighting off the dawn for.

Defending the Faith

2004-12-10T13:43:00.000-08:00

In recent years as George W. Bush has made his faith clear, Christianity has fallen under attack. What bothers me most about the generalizations made about my faith is that too many of the arguments made make sense to me. Having grown up in and out of New England Evangelicism, I agree with many detractors in the notion that Christians are narrow-minded, spiteful, and arrogant. We have the answer to life. Jesus is the Answer. God is my co-pilot. God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve. And when these charges are leveled, the Christian Apoligists jump to their pulpits and preach about the laws of Christ.
What, of course, they fail to mention is that they do not speak for all of Christendom. But there they stand, telling Christians that we must vote for this person or that person. That a true Christian will rise against the immorality of homosexual marriage and fight to protect the sanctity of marriage. I believe that if two people love each other and want to be married and that affects your marriage, you have issues of your own. So I find myself, as a person who has some measure of faith that falls into the category of Christianity, having to regularly defend my faith to not only myself but to others.
I won't dare speak for all of Christianity, or for God, but I think that we as individuals need to be able to better defend our faith instead of relying on pastors, evangelists, and presidents of Christian organizations. I have a hard time buying that what many pastors preach as absolute truth is really just that. Jesus is truth, we are told, and even that statement alone is rather vague, much like like the stories he told were vague. But if Jesus is truth, then how can we be absolutely positive that what we preach, outside of Christ crucified, is truth?
I don't mean to imply that there aren't any truths in life, though many of the truths we proclaim are nothing more than human interpretation, only that we ought to be far more careful in how we defend our faith. But more precisely, I think we ought to focus on our faith instead of defending Christianity. If we would step outside of our bubbles, we might find that much of modern Christianity is not worth defending.
If the apologists and pastors would focus on teaching their students and leading their sheep, and looking inward at themselves, maybe we can get to the task of defending our individual faith. The faith that we posses within ourselves and has not been given to us on a platter from well-intentioned pastors. Because the faith that will change the world will be the honest faith, the truth of who we are inside of that faith, and the honesty of our actions as a result of our faith. We need to turn inward as individuals before we can lead the world.

Patience

2004-12-09T09:46:00.000-08:00

People say patience is a virtue and that one should control one's temper. The book of Proverbs is continually reminding us the value of a controlled temper. This has always irritated me because I'm not very good at it yet. I made calmness a personal goal one year. I had finished reading The Art of Happiness by his Holiness the Dalai Lama and recognized many similarities between what Jesus taught and what the Buddha taught. But as with anything new and fresh, I took the teachings to heart. But as with any New Year's resolution--it faded.
As a sidenote, I am fascinated by the many similarties between the Buddha and the Christ. But even more fascinated by the reality that it always refreshing to hear old sayings in a new way. And the language of Christianity is an old language indeed.
I don't know if I am predisposed as a character in this world to be the quick-tempered one and that is holding me back, or if it just that I don't want to give that part up. I think it a bit of both. And despite the warnings against quick-tempered individuals, I've done reasonably well for myself, though mostly when I've protected my rising temperature.
As an assistant coach, I've been again reminded of the virtue of patience. A missed call, a bad call, a quick whistle. As I sat on the bench of our game last night, watching what I considered to be poor officiating, I wanted to let loose. I wanted to stand and pace and glare--maybe even drop in a few well placed expletives. But I couldn't. I had to sit and encourage our players to play on and focus on the game while I stewed.
I know--it's just a game. Five girls from one school playing against five girls from another school. But in that moment I was so consumed with that game, those competitors, that I felt a part of it. I felt the need to defend it at all costs. I know--I'm just an assistant. One man on the end of the bench offering what little expertise I have to players wanting to learn, even if only a little. But what they were doing felt a part of me. I had put my time, my effort, my heart into teaching them and only the head coach got to question the ref. My blood pressure is rising now and I've cocked my head to the side with a grimmace on my face and it happened last night.

God says he will never tempt us beyond what we can bear, but sometimes.... It is comical how He chooses to teach us and often more comical yet, how we learn the lesson. Inner peace, patience, calmness were all taught by Jesus and Buddha alike, but neither of them had to deal with referees.

Laughter

2004-12-08T10:17:00.000-08:00

I've always enjoyed the Reader's Digest section Laughter is the Best Medicine. But what I have always wondered is why not everyone agrees with what is funny to the point of laughter. There are often times when a student in my class will say or do something obnoxious and some students will laugh, others chuckle, and I will stand there disappointed. And there are occasions when a student says something that is funny and I will laugh, knowing that I probably shouldn't laugh but I found it funny.
Where does laughter originate? And for that matter, where do tears begin as well. I suspect that the two are closely related. I read a Sports Illustrated article about my beloved Red Sox and the impact the 2004 team had on families across New England and I cried. My wife didn't understand. I'm not much of a cryer but for each time the author mentioned a connection of family because of the Red Sox, I choked up and then laughed at the same time. So, I figure if I can cry as well as laugh, both at the same thing, then perhaps they come from the same place.

The shortest verse in the Bible is "Jesus wept." I can't recall the a line that is anything close to Jesus laughed, but I have to believe he did. What with the posturing of various disciples to sit at the right hand of Jesus. Abraham laughed. The Bible itself is comical. An all powerful and all knowing God, placing a dancing, half-naked David as King of Israel. Or Peter, never quite able to figure things out, wishy-washy, being dubbed "the Rock." The rock of what? Surely Jesus didn't mean the church. Uh, yes he did mean the church--and that alone makes me laugh and cry at the same time.
Yes, I suspect that our tears and our laughter arises from somewhere within us, in a place we have long protected from the outside world so that we might not be the subject of someone's laughter. Tears and laughter alike tell us, or hint to us at the least, something about who we are and what makes us human. We, I suppose, can shelter that part of our self and hide it from those that share our experience, or we can, like Jesus, weep, or like Abraham, laugh. Both are telling. Both should be listened to.

Reading

2004-12-07T13:44:00.000-08:00

As an English teacher, reading is an essential aspect of my day. The irony of it all, though, is that as a child I hated to read. I can easily empathize with many of my students who voice their disgust for what seems like tedious minutes or hours with nothing but letters and words forcing themselves upon the reader. Reading in school never much interested me. Now, I could spend all day reading from various books or articles.
My older brother was an avid reader during my formative years. Reading came naturally to him and I always thought that was his gift, not attainable for me. While he was reading C.S. Lewis's The Chronicles of Narnia in grade school, I was content with Clifford Goes to Hollywood until middle school. The truth is, Clifford is still an enjoyable read.
Of Mice and Men was the first novel I read completely. I didn't get it. So, for the better part of high school I fake read as Tovani puts it in I Read it, but I don't Get it. I became adept at listening to discussions or asking the right question. The reality is, I wrote my way through Enlgish classes.
The second novel I really read was The Great Gatsby. I recall that most of my peers hated Gatsby and the style Fitzerald used. I became enthralled by the story to the point of reading the entire book. I had found my turning point, my connection to the world of literature. The reality of characters became my reality if only briefly. The hurts and joys became mine. I went to the Congo with Conrad. I travelled the roads of South Africa with Paton. Reading, letters and words put together, connected my thoughts to my heart and ultimately to the world around.

When a student moans, "This sucks, McNamar," I can both empathize with them and drop with sadness at their lack of vision. I know that Shakespeare is difficult and that the classics can be as dry as the paper they are written on. I know that words can be difficult and meaning missed. But in all of that, I believe ever so desperately in the power of words to heal us; to stir our hearts; to create compassion--to make us human. How wonderful would it be to give to my students just a taste, a spoonful of reading medicine, to birth new life into the act and art of reading.

Fathers

2004-12-06T13:17:00.000-08:00

My own father has his shortcomings. Many of which I can be sure I inherited. Anytime I visited my father at work, the little old ladies chimed, "Oh, Butchie, that is your son! He looks just like you." My guess is that what we actually inherit from our parents goes beyond the physcal attributes. And yet, with those shortcomings, my father, along with my dear mother, was able to pull off four of the greatest feats known to man. He raised three sons and a daughter. Yes, we are those four great feats. Not because we are great in the way that Martin Luther King Jr. was great, but because looking back, we were a handful.
I have not ever been all that inclined to have children, or at least I've never felt the urgency to be a father. It scares me. I mean that. I really am scared of what I might do to a child-- countless dollars and hours of therapy. Maybe I'm selling myself short, I don't know. But in the three years of my marriage, I have often pushed away any thoughts of having a child. Fatherhood seems like a terribly frightening endeavor that of all the possible failures in life, it would be the grandest.
So much had I put away the thought of children that even in the presence of the cooing nephew or excited baby daughter of a friend, I reamined indifferent. Yes, I did enjoy my time with them, but it never left a lingering feeling of paternal urges. No matter how cute or energetic a baby was, I just didn't have that need...until a week ago.
This basketball season I joined the coaching staff of the Cascade Bruins. I've always loved basketball, both as wannabe player and an avid fan. Connecticut is, afterall, Huskyland. Our team played its first game of the seaon in front of our home crowd. I had never experienced basketball from this perspective before and I could sense the slightest hint of anxiety eventhough my responisbilities are minimal. Midway through the second quarter, one of our players, and one who is on my list of responsibility pulls up hobbling.
The player, to the point of tears, was clearly in pain. I stood there watching, along with the rest of the coaching staff, helpless. I can't speak for the other coaches, but I was quite concerned. I wanted to make sure that all would be well. I wanted the pain to cease. She had worked hard in practice and it seemed unfair to be injured so soon.
Talking with my wife after the game, I expressed the emotion I had experienced. That helplessness. That concern. With a glimmer in her eye, an uncontrollable grin, my wife cupped my face in her hands and whispered, "You're ready!" STOP. What? She doesn't mean ready for a kid does she? I sure hope not because I'm not ready--am I?
I've mulled it over--and over. I've chewed it. I've pondered it. I've done whatever I can think of with it. And now I think I for the first time understand what made my father and perhaps your father great. Concern for someone other than oneself. I might not be ready to have a kid, but if selflessness is the start, the race has at least begun.

The Rarer Action

2004-12-02T13:56:00.000-08:00

Prospero, the magician of The Tempest fame, muses, "The rarer action is in virture than in vengence." Sounds much like what Buddha or Jesus might say to their throngs of followers. And yet, the most difficult of decisions often rest in the realm of payback or turning the other cheek.
Is it that difficult to do--to choose virtue over justice? Or maybe it isn't justice we look for, but mere retaliation for being outed for what we really are. If I'm attacked, than I must retaliate. I think that it is an important question to ask in these times. Our country was attacked. We sought vengence. A high school girl steps of the bus and is insulted and pushed. She sought vengence. My competence as a teacher was questioned by a parent. I wanted vengenence.
There is a part in me that wishes I had made the points I wanted to make. To allow my ego to defend himself against the attacker. It would have been justified--I had the backing of many colleagues whom I respect greatly.
But to the delight of both my ego and my conscience, I chose neither the rarer action nor the desired end. Instead, I was polite and courteous to the questioning parent while in conversation and then berated them while in converstation with my colleagues. To some degree I feel good about what I did and yet, I find myself wondering what it would be like to have not given in to fury in any way. I am no Buddha. Nor am I Jesus. But the question that will always linger: is that what it really takes to choose the rarer action?
The consequences of either choice are astonishing when we consider them. With vengence, the consequence is a feeling of satisfaction. I won't try to persuade anyone that vengence does not have some feeling of satisfaction lingering just behind. But in that satisfaction, I believe a void exists when we choose vengence over forgiveness.
I can't say I know how astonishing the consequences of forgiveness really are. At least not from my own experience. But I can say that in the life of Jesus, all the astonishment is on full display. In the teaching of the Buddha, there is no more clear a message than forgiveness. And it is to that end I strive.