Jamey Gremillion, Departed Friend

I stand among God's choicest people,
a man who as a child was with great men
who were becoming what they were.
The great I Am within brings forth.

Jamey was one, a man among men,

and known by all as such.

He has left us, needing not to think of 
work undone or loves unloved, 
yet dreaming of the more he longed
to do, to give, to love.

We'll not continue in his way, 

for none of us feel that we can, not being him.

But we will remember and love and give and be,

hoping to be as good.

My friend, Jamey Gremillion, passed away
Feb. 28, leaving wife Cara, four children and a daughter-in-law.
Deeply loved, deeply missed.

$.019 on the Kavanaugh Hearings and Dr. Blasey Ford

Christine Blasey Ford recently published a memoir. You may remember she is the one who testified in the Kavanaugh hearings, saying the nominated justice had assaulted her when they were both teenagers. At the time I mused on it for my own thinking, and reconsidered it a bit for today.

The prevailing rule in too many Supreme Court nominations certainly applies here:

There is nothing really right or wrong, but thinking makes it so.
Political power is everything.
If you interfere with my political power, you are bad, really bad.
There is no way out of this mess.

I wondered if the age-old rule, love god and neighbor, could get any air-time.

Love God – You better have something/someone larger than you that holds you to final account.

Love your neighbor, especially when they suffer.
If Dr. Ford is truthful, her pain is great.
If Kavanaugh is guilty, his pain is great.
If Dr. Ford is lying, her pain is great.
If Kavanaugh is innocent, his pain is great.

Do you know how to grade the pain or gauge the brokenness or know the truth? I don't. Lord, have mercy. How many broken people have you known who learn to masquerade, to cover, to cope? As many as have ever lived. Privilege and power on all scales mask the human reality of the soul and heart. This is true no less of Kavanaugh or Dr. Ford.

All should grieve for Dr. Ford if she were abused. All should be free to wonder about such things, because there is reason to do so.

All should grieve for the presumed innocence of the man in the chair. What culture is strong enough to guarantee "innocent until proven guilty?" It is a precious inheritance and we abandon it to our peril. One should also allow he may be guilty, and let due process run its course.

The prophet said: “Do justly, love mercy, walk humbly.”

Justly: Burn the guy. He is a lecherous offender. Or, try calmly to determine truth.

Mercy: Accept all statements at face value (except that is lunacy.) Better: be compassionate of the accuser. The alleged act may be true and have grave effects. And be compassionate of the man in the chair. He may be innocent of a grave charge, or there may be mitigating factors.

Humbly: Speak with certainty to correct injustice. Perhaps, but first pray to live quietly in this world, and weep for those who must judge such things. Look in the mirror and remember who does not.

I don't know anything else. 

Lord, have mercy.

Yearning for the Real

Thinking long and hard has mixed reviews. At least there’s no utopia in the offing. Maybe this failure suggests utopia is not possible, or our notion of utopia is faulty. I’m in the latter camp, except I don’t believe in utopia, but rather in a new heaven and earth as the biblical corpus puts it.

It likely exceeds our conceptions. Paul the Apostle was no mean intellect. Historian Tom Holland says his writings were “depth charges” throughout the entire Greco/Roman world. And Paul said the afterlife will be good beyond our imagination.

I believe in the afterlife because I am a Christian. It is clearly taught in the Scripture, and Jesus Himself assured his followers: “I go to prepare a place for you.” But there’s enough ambiguity to let us know a lot with low resolution – and very little with high.

I am taken, though, with this idea of a “new heaven and new earth.” It makes sense when we remember Creation is good. Yet we all know in our bones it isn’t all it ought to be now. We creatures seem to make sure of that every day.

Something’s just plain wrong with the notion that we who compulsively create hell in families, communities, and nations will, from that same human milieu create a heaven on earth. Yes, there are Churchills and Britains to beat back Hitler and Nazi Germany, but if WWII Germany was close to hell, Britain, for all its goodness, did not become heaven.

Perhaps no one would imagine we will create heaven, except John Lennon’s anthem by that title, which gave hopefuls everywhere a faux heavenly vision. The scandalous unreality of that same anthem is that it scrapes the broken chalkboard within every home and heart.

Try as we might, thinking will not solve our problems. As Pascal put it, “Reason’s last step is the recognition that there are an infinite number of things which are beyond it.”

So where does that leave us? In part with the fixed things that transcend reason. Mother, father, child; earth, wind, fire; starry sky of bewildering wonder, pain of sudden death and continual suffering, ecstatic pleasures that bewilder with delight.

One might say my Christian dogma informs all for me, and one would be right, though working it out fully is beyond all of us. But if there are no fixed things to which all can attest, meaning and mind are done. The fixed things give us a place to begin, to believe, to hope . . .

To Trust.

In the new heaven and new earth fixed things will remain – will indeed be real in all their true realness. We are told there will be no tears, which surely means no sorrow. But hardship, challenge, growth, striving, working, enjoying – I’m inclined to think all of that and more will be there, along with pleasure. Theologians can correct me if they wish – I’m just wondering.

All creation groans, Paul says, to bring all things into newness. I don’t want to die anytime soon but I know I will someday. I too groan for that newness, for the realness of which my life is a hint and shadow. On that great day the groaning will give way to knowing and loving and cheering.

Indeed, we will know and be known in ways that reason has no clue.

I can’t wait, but I will.

Soul Salve [100wordwednesday]

Dot Lake lives on the Alaskan Highway, a village here before the road. The cemetery shows this was home for generations. Thus so in countless towns, countless people, for millenia. An old home beckons us. We come, and stay, and we know why. We have been here before. We linger, and feel something right, unadulterated, clean. We come encumbered and leave whole. The spirit of a place gives soul to buildings and geography. Dot Lake renews, for reasons. Reasons the heart knows, and holds close: a secret ruined if told. In silence it heals, and we are thankful.

How Does One Best Write? [10'Tuesday]

Today I write casually, painfully even, because not watching the keys. C. S. Lewis fixed that problem by writing always with pen or pencil. Wendell Berry, same. Lewis' rationale was practical: typing distracted him. Berry questions the value-added: “I already write too much with a pen. Why should I use a typewriter?” For both, of course, a typist prepared the work for publisher. Lewis' typist was his brother, Warny; Berry's is his wife, Tanya.

It is an argument to say writers always did it this way until very recently in the history of writing. But this is partly false because another method is speaking to a transcriber, either in real time or via the organ of oral history.

Adding to this is the question of timing and rhythm. I type very slowly right now because I am typing without seeing the keys. If I always typed – or hand-wrote – how might it affect my output in quality or quantity?

Seems to me the answer is found differently for all. My gut still says I'd write better if always long- hand, not least because it is closer to the soul, the visceral, the true embodied-ness of life without machines.

Fiddler on the Roof

I recently re-watched Fiddler on the Roof, the 1971 film rendering of the musical by the same name. It had been at least 20 years since I had seen it. A friend termed it very “philosophical.” How right he was. Countless people have watched it through the years, vindicating universal accolades.

The central character, Reb Tevye, battles with himself, his wife, his daughters, and God. In the end he all-but disowns one of his daughters. He is the human mix of ideal with reality, suffering with blessing, injustice with resolution, hard work draped with poverty. But I saw his frailty above all. He insists on being “the man” and then embarrasses his family. He ignores one daughter, shouts at another, then lambastes his wife.

This is a father straining to find footing in the midst of soul trauma. He watched his oldest daughters leave the home, each violating tradition more than the previous. The world he knows and loves is crumbling. Can we blame him if he cracks?

As to the youngest, Chava, who married outside the faith, how should Reb Tevye respond? Should she be hurt at her father's response? What is her responsibility? What is mine? If I deny tradition I should bear the consequences graciously. I may disagree with the tradition and those who hold it. They may even be wrong to hold me at bay for straying. But the rules were known. If one defies the rules one should bear the opprobrium with maturity and dignity rather than scorn or faux shock.

What of Reb Tevye: should he reject his own daughter? I think not. God does not do this to us, so we can not do it to others. When a child lives wrong, rejection is out of line. As to the child, he or she bears the consequences. Unjust consequences compound grief. But crying foul for results known to be in the offing – that is a burden the 'violator' must bear. If you know the movie, you know Reb Tevye and his wife squared this circle with simple, familial love.

What are some other takeaways?

• Celebrate in the midst of suffering, affirming the joy of life itself no matter what falls our lot. “To life!”

• Accept change as inevitable but not inexorable or intrinsically right. Resistance may well be necessary, but has its cost. “Tradition!”

• Affirm family as at the heart of reality, and rules about it, therefore, as fundamental. Matching must be done and we need a lot of help to do it right. “And affection!”

• Confirm married love as a willful vow to stay together until death for the good of one another, children, and the world around. Affection matters as do many other things, but sheer commitment is primary. “Do I love him?”

• Suffer with the idealistic ambitions that go with youth. History shows what came of the Bolshevik dreams. Life is grounded when we work quietly with our own hands, know this world will pass away, live at peace with our loved ones and all else we can help. “Why not stay here and be a teacher?”

In sum, the title tells the story: a man balancing on the roof while playing the violin. Life calls us to attempt, to be, to do; and calamity will come. In the midst of it all we play a violin -- more than any can master and we all fall short. What lets us make sense and keep our balance? Reb Tevye has the answer: Tradition!

A Poem for Saturday

A poem for Saturday I'm told
Is good for healing.
The soul needs kneeling, waking, re-making
what life is taking.

A verse for Saturday I'm told

The heart revealing

The person seeing, shaking, displaying

what life has taken.

It's curious that life would take

for by its nature life exudes.

We receive bewildering, boundless life

and spend it in childish delight.

It is an idiom I suggest,

for what we mean it wears us down.

We receive bewildering, boundless life

But our body can't bear it all.

A poem on any day I'm told

engenders singing

gives life its earning, yearning, enjoying --
the soul restoring.

Sing Unto the Lord (Psalm 96:1)

O sing unto the Lord a new song: sing unto the Lord, all the earth.

Psalm 96 is my reading for today and verse one is enough, I suppose, to give pause. 

Singing is such a peculiar thing and yet common to all of life. Some birds do it endlessly. Some people do it poorly or not at all, mercifully. Yet here the Psalmist exults and admonishes: SING!

A minimalist response reads the text and moves on. Is that enough? What are we supposed to do with this, what should it elicit? Further, what is the place of the preacher and expositor? Why more is needed than reading and heeding and doing?

Good question.

The answer comes in trying to discern what the writer intended. This verse is "hortatory" language, a term taken from "exhort." The Psalmist is trying to stir action in the right direction.

What should the action look like? I am increasingly bemused at the deeply ingrained approach which causes me to think the action here is to be immediate, full-on, and full-orbed. What should the action look like? Burst out in boisterous singing, right now, obviously!

But David would surely be curious if, upon hearing the Psalm, the listener immediately began singing. So what does he intend?

Some ideas:

• Change of outlook from complaining to singing, from grumbling to gladness. The change is one of perspective.
• Change from inwardness to outwardness. Of course God deals with the inner life if He deals at all, for from the heart the mouth speaks, or sings. But we never sing if we are always focused inwardly. Singing is an outward thing, not always public -- again, mercifully -- but always out-from-ourselves.
• In this sense, singing is ec-static. Static has to do with stasis, being still, stuck, unmoving. Ecstatic is the idea of getting out of that stuck-ness. When someone is ecstatic they are outward, moving, energized. We don't live there all the time or early death would be the norm. But we need ecstacy to sweeten the drudgery that is normal and necessary to life. Singing helps us do that.
• There is another. This singing is for everyone, or so I surmise. Even the least musically inclined can and should participate in the congregation. This is perhaps a core reason why congregational singing should happen and we should engender it with our modes of worship. Many of us are not like me, singing too loudly and eagerly. Some of us cannot carry a tune, but we still need to sing. And we can if we are in congregation, carried along and covered over by the body of song. I hear this often in congregations where there are reluctant singers. I hear them intoning the words with common bass notes, but still singing! It is right and good.

There is more, always more. This singing is to the Lord -- He is our focus and that should carry us along.

So, to my somewhat surprise, there is more in a verse than meets the eye. David had something in mind and we are wise to heed it, adjust our attitude and live accordingly.

Thank you, Friend David. Someday I hope to meet you in person, hear you sing, and learn better all you meant with this wonderful Psalm. Until that day....

My Dad: Blessings from a Surrendered Life

A picture often comes to mind of a man standing at the far corner of a large room. The room is actually what we call a tabernacle, a place where people gather to hear about God, and strive to align their lives with Him. In this picture I see my beloved father, gone now for over 30 years. He bears resemblance to me and my three beloved brothers for we, of course, are his heirs.

The picture always reminds me of the wonderful heritage I have and how it came to be. I was not there, of course, but I visited that place in Iowa a few years ago because I wanted to see where so many blessings began. Turns out the building and grounds – it was a church campground – was destroyed by a tornado in 1968. But some local folks pointed me in the approximate direction and I saw a field where the tabernacle had once been.

Why does it matter? My Dad's elder brother, Uncle Wayne, told me. He said my Dad, Larry, was talking in earnest to one of the preachers after the service up near the altar. Perhaps he had been praying. This preacher, as I remember the story, served at the Christian Academy in Miltonvale, Kansas where my Uncle Wayne attended. My Dad was considering joining him for his last year of High School. This would be life-changing, for our friends shape our future. This preacher knew this and he urged Larry Huff, about 18 at the time (illness as a child had delayed his schooling), to come to Miltonvale and be shaped by a Christian education.

As Wayne tells it my Dad was weeping as he weighed the decision, for it was a life-sized thing and was wrapped up in surrender to Christ. I can imagine the weight and I can imagine the relief when he resolved to serve God, to give His life to all that is good and right, to learn to love God with all his heart and others as himself. I imagine he returned to his home in Emily, Minnesota to get his things and drove the 1,000 miles to Miltonvale with some fear, but also a firm resolve to be all God would have him to be.

That move of God in his life made all the difference. It didn't solve all the problems, but settled the course for how he would approach every step. A few years later he and my Mom were married and one year after that they lost their first daughter, Ronda, at the tender age of 3 months. Their next daughter, my beloved elder sister, was born with “a hole in her heart” as we understood it to be. After care and surgery at age 2 she came through and became an excellent athlete, among other gifts and talents. Next was me, their first son who loved his Dad with all his heart.

Other beloved children came, a younger sister and brother who rounded out the family at four. Then we had a poem at breakfast one morning when the youngest of us was 10. Dad's rhyming verse told us another would be coming along, and then there was another after that – six children in all, with the first (actually making 7 total) in heaven and held deeply in the heart of our parents.

This is perhaps the greatest blessing. For as my Dad would say in later years, “My children are my investment.” But it was his choice in God's grace on that warm summer night in 1958 where it all was made possible. He entered in, dared to believe, and God was good to His word.

The lines are fallen unto me in pleasant places all because my dear father surrendered his life to Christ and let Him lead. I am forever grateful.

My Dad, 3rd from left with his brothers in 1969, Emily, Minnesota. From left David, Wayne,
Larry, and Gordon. He was eleven years into the journey of faith and I was about 4.

Words and Life: Ephemeral [100WWed]

One hundred words to say what matters. Or not. 

I had the joy of reading a great deal of the English journalist, G. K. Chesterton. He wrote countless words, and so many of them he termed “ephemeral” -- light and passing. He wrote for newspapers, most of which by day's end were used for all kinds of sordid duties, burned, or tossed. Ephemeral. Words can matter even if forgotten, for humans forget and thus they need reminding. So the paper prints again, GKC says something else soon to be forgotten, and we live another day. 

Words. Like life itself, ephemeral.

On Words and Thoughts and Action [TenMinuteTuesday]

It seems I always write about writing when it is time for this forced free-writing that comprises 10 minute Tuesday. That may well be an ill bent toward self-awareness. How long have human beings been writing? Certainly widespread print did not happen until the invention of the press. But I'm told a version of “post-it” notes are found in stone tablets among ruins of Ancient Near East settlements. So we've been doing it for awhile.

Is it better than speaking? What is the most primal form of communication, and is it necessarily better for being oldest? I don't know and I don't think so.

It would seem the most primal communication is non-verbal: the wave, the nod, the grimace, the wink, the kiss. And yet, the first infant communication is a scream. Except it's not. A baby “talks” to its mother in non-verbal ways before it is born.

Our body knows what it thinks, or perhaps better, our thinker is one with the body. The mouth is just one way we communicate our thoughts. All thoughts come out in various ways, just not all verbal. I would argue, as a non-scientist to be sure, that even thoughts of which we are unaware exist and influence our life in non-verbalized fashion.
 

“Why does he do what he does?” 

“I have no earthly idea,” comes the reply. 
“I do not think he knows either.”

I suppose this is a bit of Freud's id, though I am not trying to go there. I'm just thinking about communication, actions, life and how our thoughts have expression in all that we do, not least because actions – all of them – are multi-faceted in cause, rationale, genesis. We do not know ourselves near like we wish or imagine we do.

And then we talk about it.

Hinterlands, Divided Electorate, and Love

Most Americans make up an “exhausted majority” whose views aren’t represented either by the orthodox left or the far right.

So surmised Ben Kawaller in a succinct piece in the Free Press. He was launching a national road trip to find out -- boots-on-the-ground -- whether we are really polarized and if so, how badly. I dare to believe he is right: that we are not as deeply polarized as we fear.

It brought to mind one of the finest people I know. I grew up in the hinterlands, "flyover country" as it is often called, a term that is surely not intended to be derisive or dismissive, but is in fact those very things. My beloved Kansas comprises all that makes a nation survive: farms, and all the folk, communities and values adjacent. These are people in the very throes of life, very little provided artificially, a way of life known as "rural." And too many outsiders have little idea what that entails. They just fly over it.

This is why the electoral college exists -- to tie the vote to more than persons. The land needs a vote. The seaboard electorate, try as they might, does not get it. If we nullify the electoral college we will cut off our nose to spite our face, despising the land which provides our life and wondering why there is a divide between flyover country and the rest of the nation.

But I was talking about Vernon, that person this polarization brought to mind. Vernon was born and raised in Kansas, and he embodies all that can make the world right if we will let it, though if he read these words he would tell me to be quiet. What makes Vernon salt-of-the-earth, the kind of person that can keep us whole in the threatening polarization?

Vernon says what he thinks and doesn't care if you don't like it. He cares about you, mind you, and will listen at length to your perspective. But in the end he has that remarkable gift John McWhorter has. He'll say, "No, I just don't see it that way." No derision, even a handshake when you're done, but plain honesty.

And Vernon lives the land, caring for a small farm and caring for his immediate and extended family. He doesn't mind also living in a very small town, participating in church life, knowing all the folk of his growing up, sharing life with them across 60 years and more. Since I know that town (Miltonvale) I know it has a rich heritage and people rich in soul. His dear mother lives there still. And Vernon will someday join his departed loved ones in the hillside cemetery across the railroad on the southeast edge of town where my loved ones for several generation are also buried.

I recently had a very long conversation with Vernon. Vernon has little or no formal education beyond High School, though he could do a Ph.D. if he wanted. But he is wise and articulate. He knows what matters and he will tell you. And he tells you not in order to show off or score points, but because he loves you. If he were to read this he'd have a choice word for me, but I think I am right. Vernon loves. He has that affection for the land and for people -- (I sometimes wonder if that isn't the right sequence) -- of which Wendell Berry speaks. And this love means he cannot be silent even when he wishes he could.

Vernon is the answer to this polarization problem. Living, being, breathing, loving, landed. Knowing what seems right to you, holding it loosely, holding it close, and holding others close as well, if they will let you.

When I started writing I didn't know I would think of Vernon, but I'm glad I did. There is further analysis to be made, and I love the project that Ben from Free Press launched. I confess I worry if there is not a bit of un-moored pluralism going on. That is, I wonder if our great nation can survive without a singular idea to anchor our founding vision: "one out of many," e pluribus unum. For this vision goes to the core of reality and we are losing our way. We need reality.

The hinterlands have it. Vernon has it. And if we will listen to one another, as Ben says, we may just find we can get along far better than we imagined. And that very goal of getting along, that very love, will be the unum that makes a strong nation possible. 

I want a strong nation, a nation that can hold together because its soul is united. Yes, we have different ideas. The right needs the left and the left the right, or both will end up in the ditch, an uncomfortable proposition. Which brings me to an end of these meandering thoughts with an observation of the great Wendell Berry. 

Mr. Berry is an American treasure, a man who is "landed." Mr. Berry knows what matters, and he isn't afraid to take views which misalign with either side in turn. And he tells us we need to learn forgiveness for our neighbors, suggesting:

“If two neighbors know that they may seriously disagree, but that either of them, given even a small change of circumstances, may desperately need the other, should they not keep between them a sort of pre-paid forgiveness? They ought to keep it ready to hand, like a fire extinguisher.”

Berry is right and I am learning. Vernon helps me see it. At the end of the day we have to live together and doing so will require, sometimes, laying aside our disagreements so real love can win the day.

More

Life is short, they say
and all along the way
I see reminders and wonder why
this life so grand is tinged by death.

Russian prophet said
that since we'll all be dead
someday it can't be our life's meaning
is found in all-sought happiness.

All who breath, I'm told,
(to proffer, I'll be bold
to say) they share the longing to live
forever and to find there's More.

Man Maker v. 2

 This weekend our church sponsored the second retreat for young men called Man Maker. As our promo says,

“This event will be a mix of youth camp, boot camp, and life skills training with the focused goal of helping young men understand better what it means to be a man, and helping them aspire to that as a core life purpose.”

Our classes include subjects like personal finance and job skills training as well as "What it means to be a Christian," avoiding addiction to the screen, living a life of sexual purity, and choosing the right friends. We will build snow caves, enjoy sledding, and hear good music and preaching in the evening "chapel" services.

This event is something I've dreamed of for a long time and it means so much to see these 12-14 young men come together. They have a great attitude, enjoy some great food, and play hard when we go to the gym.

Our goal is to encourage them to embrace manhood and be all they should be as men. We use the following guide which we repeat often:

A Good and Godly Man:

• Fears God and keeps His commandments.

• Honors parents and elders.

• Is faithful in church.

• Values and protects women and children.

• Builds healthy home and community.

• Becomes a skilled and diligent workman.

• Remains pure, saving himself for marriage.

• Builds friendships with other good men.

• If married, honors vows and gives life for family.

• Develops gifts and abilities for maximum blessing.

We believe the world is better if young men imbibe these values and live them out. May God be pleased to make it so.

Pilgrim at Tinker Creek Turns Fifty (and it's still worth the read!)

I am sure there are those who have read most of the best books, looking past the merely good and knowing from elders and ancients which are worth reading: the soul-feeding, the making-wise tomes we all know we should read but seldom do. I'm definitely in the camp of “seldom do” though I remedy it a bit each year. And while I wandered among the non-classics and more modern, I ran across Annie Dillard.

I remember my first encounter while reading Eugene Peterson. He excerpted her discussion of explorers' quest for the North Pole. Annie compared this to the quest for God: worship is “a kind of northing...a single minded trek to a place.” I was reading while walking on a treadmill and when I finished the section I laid the book aside and exclaimed repeatedly: “Wow!” I had never read anything like it.

Annie Dillard would never put herself in the camp of the greats, nor am I, but I reckon she is as good as most of us will read. And if you give her half a chance she'll make you think about things you never imagined, and make you wonder if you'd done much thinking at all.

I later discovered her Pulitzer Prize winner, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, published 50 years ago this week. She won the Pulitzer in 1975 at the mere age of 29. “Wow” I thought again. I learned she attended Hollins College (now University), and then discovered that very Tinker Creek bordered our property. Further, I had often mowed yards with my son in the area she discusses, dipping a foot in that creek now and then and visiting homes she witnessed in her treks.

When I learned this was the 50th anniversary, I decided it was time to read Pilgrim for the first time. A friend told me it was a top-five lifetime book. The editor at her publishing house said one can only hope to read such a book. And of course it is well-known she is considered an heir to Thoreau. I am deciding she combines Wendell Berry and Neil Postman, among others of course. I am also deciding I will not try to read the book fast.

I once took up the Bonhoeffer [modern] classic, Life Together, thinking I would read it in an afternoon and crank out a lesson in which others could feed mind and soul. Not! I quit after ten minutes! It was not a book for analysis but for soaking, for plodding, for praying and waiting and wishing to learn.

Pilgrim is in a different class to be sure, but I made the same error. Impossible.

Hang analysis. Pilgrim is for pondering, praying, wondering, learning, laughing. The book uncovers nature and in the process uncovers the reader. No doubt that's half the battle, giving in to the uncovering that cannot be had without letting go. We determine to listen, to see, to stop, to just be. And we begin to live again, if we ever really did.

I laugh now to imagine I might read the book in a long afternoon and then convey all I learned to others. I was on a timeline that in itself denied all the book would teach me. What can I know – at all – if I do not stop, if I do not listen, if I do not learn from the creek?

So I decided to do something outside my gift-mix: let go. Maybe there would be something to say after I was quiet for a long time, if I took notes, if I just listened before saying anything. So that's what I'm going to do. I am going to read Tinker Creek at a slow pace throughout the year. Yes, I will write before I know much – that's what writers do. But I look forward to the journey and hope some others will join me on it.

Dillard is rightly a celebrated American author. I think I will find the journals which unveiled Tinker Creek 50 years ago – much like the Scripture she repeatedly invokes – uncover the reader in turn. That's what art is supposed to do, and great art all the more. I bet Pilgrim does a good job of this unveiling, and I look forward to finding out if I am right.

A Perilous Idea [100WWed]

A perilous idea: "All can be processed. As in a combine, the wheat will go to the hopper, the straw into the field, the chaff away to choke my unbelieving friends." (did I just say that?!) The wheat field is the world as we know it, the combine our processing, always susceptible to the mess of chaff and straw and stubble. I'd rather a scythe and cottage, enough to feed my soul and family, disturbing little enough to know what's chaff and know it blows away. Wheat -- I need it; a scythe, I suppose. Life, trying to live it.

Dot Lake [10'Tu]

Ten minute Tuesday finds me writing about Alaska. In particular Dot Lake, Alaska. Specifically, what is know as the “Children's Home” property in said village. This so-called 'children's home' was actually a home for troubled youth. It served that purpose in two iterations, I believe, the one I am closest to being that which ended about 1994.

Since then this home and property have been a destination for youth camp and occasional other events for a church fellowship based in North Pole. We refer to the property simply as “Dot Lake” and 10 pages would not be enough to tell you why we love it so. You would have to visit.

There is just something special about the place. Yes it is in the middle of nowhere, though by Alaska interior standards it is almost downtown. One can find a small city within an hour either direction. Most hardware, groceries, equipment rental, restaurants and etc. are no more than 62 miles away on good roads. Yes, good roads.

What makes it special? I do not know. I believe in God and goodness and grace. And so I imagine the care good people have given across the years somehow shapes a place. And I believe God has a “presence” that is more evident in some places and around some people than not.

That seems true of the Dot Lake property of which I speak – God is there. Of course such a claim is true if it is (true) and not so much if it is not (true). The only way to know such a thing is to pray for awareness, dare to believe, and come and see.

I may write about Dot Lake more, we'll see. Today I visited Dot Lake with a friend, in the Alaskan “bleak mid-winter.” And I knew again that just like ancient Bethlehem, when God sees fit to bless a place all who are there can be blessed.

Alleluia!

Hints of Heaven's Memory

Excerpt from "Letters of a Youthful Poet" by Charles Glenn:

So if there is summing in counting or thought,
I know it is knowing that things can't be bought;
Like love and rem'iscence, like lovers' embrace,
Like heaven's sweet memory, writ deep in the race.

Forever

 Forever

I see the passing time and I'm no fan.

People who were here are gone,

and soon I will be, too.

Life means so much and I'm a fan.

People I'm with I know and love,

and I like it that way.

What's been will always be.

Is that what we want?

We say no, and yes. What do we know?

I do not like passing time, but

what do I propose?

Forever: I'll take that! Only forever

meets the longing of my soul.

It hurts, this passing time, these dying friends,

these passing loves and yearning for forever.

It hurts and the hurt hints

the longing will be swallowed up

in forever when all we dreamed is found in

the great I AM.

In that day we will be, and know, and love;

time forgot, joy real, everything now.

I know not what I speak, but the heart has its reasons.

I was made for the eternal and someday

I will join the forever joy that is the presence of God.

How Should We Think about God?

...in categories we all understand: merciful, faithful, righteous, just, preserver, loving and kind, trustworthy.

How should we think about God? This question is as old as time and is not really dodged by unbelief. An unbeliever doesn't believe in God but the idea of greatest good -- or ultimate value -- cannot be expunged. I admit insufficient knowledge and wisdom on the matter, but it seems self-evident. The idea of God is indistinguishable from the idea of the ultimate or the greatest possible value or the greatest good.

I say the idea of God because there are of course various ways of defining what that highest possible good is. I think the idea of God is in the category of greatest possible good. Indeed I believe in "God the Father Almighty" and I believe He is the greatest possible good. This does not mean He is some amorphous creature concocted to theoretically embody our highest ideals. Nay! And this gets to the heart of the issue.

The greatest possible good must needs surpass the idea of goodness into being very goodness itself. He -- yes we think in terms of person and even gender -- is not embodied, but is Spirit and He does not somehow exist in reality but is very reality itself.

And yet this is not true either, for God and Creation are not one and the same. God transcends. But here we reach, in C. S. Lewis' terms, "the greatest miracle." For though He transcends, He also descends and becomes one of us. This is the incarnation, the "God taking on flesh," and it is also in the category of "highest possible good." Or to put it another way, this God who is the highest possible conception of good reveals Himself to be one who comes to be with; nay, more, He comes to become one of us.

Here I attempt to say the greatest picture of the nature of God is his willingness to become one of His creatures. But there is more. Primary to, and enabling this view, is the Trinitarian reality. How should we think about God? As "three in one." Father, Son, and Holy Spirit are eternal, coequal, divine persons.

Here we are all out of our depth. Skeptics say, "Of course! It's balderdash!" To which it is reasonable to ask, "Ok. How do you understand reality? How do you square the circle of one and many, unity and diversity? How do you make sense of the relationality innate to all we know as human?" This tells me the Scripture is in some sense secondary to the Being of God, and yet Scripture gives rise to the musings above. Psalm 36 speaks of this Trinitarian, Incarnational God, thus:

Thy mercy, O Lord, is in the heavens; and thy faithfulness reaches unto the clouds. Thy righteousness is like the great mountains; thy judgments are a great deep: O Lord, you preserve man and beast. How excellent is thy lovingkindness, O God! therefore the children of men put their trust under the shadow of thy wings.

How do I think about God? As eternal Trinity, as "God with us." And as relating personally to me, an individual person, in categories we all understand: merciful, faithful, righteous, just, preserver, loving and kind, trustworthy.

This I desperately need. This I dare to believe is true. And today I ask the Holy Spirit, that too easily forgotten Person of the Trinity, to make real the very Being of God to me.

Do Words Make Real

Do Words Make Real?

Do words make real? Letters, concepts shaping,
Sounds and shapes creating on cave's stone wall?

Words give form to thought, reception, perception;
toy with what we see, determine what we say, define and shape.
Do words make real? Would saying so be real?

What of music – surely this is real. Emotive: speech of soul.
Drawing, leading, calling tears and laughter: dancing.
Other-worldy.

The Muse and those who tease insert ring in soul,
pull us where they go.
But is it real because we feel, because we yearn, because we know?​

Sartre, Camus and brothers told us yes -
and no, for answers cannot be their own undoing.
Words say words not real.

Music - wordless – leads with billion points of bearing,
candles tossed about the seas:
now raging, then calm, now lit, then gone.

What is real?
“I am. Is that enough?”
The heart feels eternal without knowing.
To question this, one speaks with empty voice:
Who, exactly, denies existence?

Irony is weak for this, hopeless to explain:
eye curses light, fish defies sea,
woman denies man and man, woman.

It's very real we see when skeptic mind alone is given shrine,
driving masses thinking, blinking, bowing.
“The only real knows there is not,” we say,
smug but dead.

We implode in word, truth, reality.

Too late. Mortality does not lie.
The end of educated ignorance, knowing what but never why.

A call of faith breaks through, the soul of grasping words,
music's secret home.
Faith, fraught with unfriendly friends,
ideas foreign to her person.

The true heart hears her voice, wisdom's call:
“There is, and knowing knows it so.
Question as you will; question the questioner.
I will be here still, rejected lover whom to lose
is to be no more.”

A Friend is Gone [CWWed]

A friend is gone and we of faith hope to see him again. There is no certainty here, but trust that "Let not your heart be troubled" speaks more than sentiment. Jesus said "I go.” He meant the hereafter where we could join him with his Father, the One of whom we say, "I believe in God the Father Almighty." He gives life and we worship in the gift. He takes again and we worship in our grief. Risen again we will rejoice with our Lord in the Father's House. That's where my friend is. Someday I will join him.

What is the Church for? [10"TU]

Ten minute writing needs writing from the top of your head and seeing if free thought can be worth reading. I had occasion this evening to think about how a church should be ordered. It is something I have taken for granted, largely, assuming that to which I am accustomed to be somewhat just fine, if not a suitable norm. Of course there is this needed point of reference known as the Bible, without which the Church, rightly considered, would not be even conceived.

How should the church be constituted? Purpose seems the first question with which to answer such a question. What is the church for? To use the language of the academics, What is its telos, its end?

If I had to toss out the answer it would be this: the church is for worship. That is, it is to be a place where people gather to be reminded what matters most and how to best align their lives with that. The various means of order, organization, liturgy, leaders, congregants, locations – anything associated with the nomenclature “church” should serve the purpose of worship.

Again, what is worship? It is safest to say I do not know, or perhaps better to say the scholastics know, and there are simple answers, but for me it is found in a sort of triangulation. As noted above, worship recognizes that which is of ultimate value and by various means seeks to align with that. We believe the Living God is necessarily the greatest, the ultimate, the summum bonum. Further, we believe Jesus revealed the Living God and was Himself also God. This leads to Trinitarian grounding which necessarily informs our worship and great men – and women! – across the years have helped us gain understanding on that.

Triangulation? Yes, the meaning of worship is found in various ways, not least in suffering where God meets man and at the end of ourselves there is nothing left but to worship.

The church is to serve this end. That is paramount. Various means to that end are prescribed in the Scriptures and some fall to necessity and common sense. As there would scarce be enough time, and since I am out of it, that is all for now. With love and yes, worship. There is nothing else.

Tending to the Small Things

The largest small thing in our lives is, after all, home.

“Go large or go home!” The words from my gifted friend stung and made me want to hide. I knew what he meant – “Do your best, be all you can be!” But the implication was more than I could bear. Does everything have to be large? Is value found only in the spotlight where people say “Wow!”? What about the 99% who live on the sidelines, hoping our lives matter, too?

The allure of fame is a common human problem and it helps to remember the ancient prophet who warned: “Do not despise the small things.” Little things matter!? How can that be? Small things are annoying. Children are underfoot, bills have to be paid, the dog gets fed (or not), the gas gauge signals empty, the phone rings again, the lawn needs to be mowed.

We remember small things matter at graduation time when all the hard work pays off. And we know it is true when a few cucumber seeds overwhelm our garden. Old aphorisms speak the same message: “A small leak will sink a large ship.” And, “Words are small like a match; and they can set a forest on fire.” One shot from one gun can start a war (and has) and a few dollars over time can become many.
These things we do well to remember. But in all these cases we value ‘small’ because we know it has large results. We toss the mortar board in the air, the ship is sound, we hope to avoid war and fire, we accumulate savings for the rainy day, and we might even boast of our cucumber harvest!

But is it only results that matter? Graduation is soon forgotten, ships are supposed to sail, few learn to hold their tongue well, trigger happy folks are always with us, we seldom have ‘enough’ to save, and no one really wants nineteen overgrown cucumbers!

Truth is, when results are counted we are left with ourselves and the quiet daily life of small things. These are the simple disciplines that teach us what matters:

• tend to the mind and soul

• sow good seeds.

• fulfill your responsibilities

• give care to your speech

• check your anger

• don’t let money rule you.

Do ‘it’ because ‘it’ matters, whether you ever get recognized or not.

And this comes around to the surprising truth in that somewhat grating challenge, “Go large or go home.” The largest small thing in our lives is, after all, home. Nothing is larger, and nothing requires more daily small attentiveness. In fact, forget large! I want to go home! Home beats “large” any day and pays the richest long-term dividends.

Those who find the blessings of home do so because they forgo the deception of large things and apply themselves to the vital necessaries of daily small things. Tending to these everyday cares builds us into people of substance and blessing, able to make and enjoy a treasured home.

What holds your focus and attention? It is easy to love large and large is not wrong of itself. But it oversells and leaves empty as many celebrities can attest. Small things are their own reward, worth the investment and the bounty of goodness they invariably bring.

They also help you build your life so if you never get to go large, you can always go home!

[The above ran in the online paper The Roanoke Star. I've been grateful they have published some of my writing along the way.]