So I Go Now Vol. II ~ A New Kind of Church

So I Go Now ~ Volume III

2006-10-05T08:15:00.000-04:00

The Word Got Out

find it here

Chapter 49 It's Really Not Up for Debate Part 2

2006-08-24T16:38:00.000-04:00

I was trying to snap myself out of it on the way home, so I flipped on the radio (my less expensive Ipod of choice) and the Darkness on the Edge of Town was just ending. In case you didn’t know this, the end of that classic Boss tune sounds exactly like the beginning. So, if you're anything like me and you grew up on radio, there was always an anticipation with songs like these.

Maybe, just maybe, on a good day, the song was just getting started. But then, on the not so good days, it wasn’t.

It was the end.

So, getting a brief taste of this Boss song and the end of it, I knew I needed to hear it all. I searched deep within that CD changer and I found it, and I listened to it from the beginning, in all of its glorious entirety, with Chloe peering out the now closed windows at passing clouds and trees beneath them.

Well, if she wants to see me,
You can tell her that I'm easily found,
Tell her there's a spot out 'neath Abram's Bridge,
And tell her, there's a darkness on the edge of town.

Truth be told, that’s what happening with us in this story, as these chapters draw to a close. If anything has developed in us, I hope it’s that we've learned how to belt it out like the Boss with our gravelly voices: hey, if anyone wants to see us, you can tell ‘em that we’re easily found!

Where? Right here in the margins. Find us loving and serving with open arms and an easy grace in the darkness on the edge of town.

And yes, the end of this wildly meandering novel looks and sounds very much like the beginning, where, as you may recall, I climbed up and over the crest of that hill and I found their number was simply too large to count. Like before, what I had just witnessed was an amazing picture of unity and array. They had organized, seemingly with a communal destination in mind. They rode together, side by side as apparent followers by no other name.

Where were these men and women riding to on this beautiful Saturday morning and why was their destination not mine, again? I really don’t know for sure, but what matters most is where I take them in my imagination because you and I, this Church we are, well, we need a model. And unless I’m missing it, we’ve been sorely lacking in the church model department for too many years.

Of course, we’ve already imagined a modern day Rider. But here we are again, needing a steady reminder of who we are as His followers, whether two by two or in large processions. Not just any reminder, but one that will spring to life in the reality of our waking moments. I don’t know about you, but I can barely go a day without the thundering sound and imposing sight of Harley riders finding their way into my personal space.

So, let’s analyze this. We need a collective passion for one thing that will call us together on beautiful mornings -- you know, to congregate. This one thing is simple, and in reality, it’s not a thing at all. He is a person, and from what I’ve learned of this journey, it seems like, lately, He’s all we have in common anymore.

His name is Jesus.

Putting our differences to rest, we need to follow him en masse and embark at once upon a journey, together, with a destination of great consequence. Yet, at the same time, we need to acknowledge that we’re actually excited about the destination because of the journey itself. One of comradery and like-mindedness; one where I believe God indelibly leaves his very fingerprints upon us, if I can be so bold to presume such a thing.

With our hair dancing with wild gusts of wind, we’ll put our arms out like we’re flying and it will be very beautiful. The sun will shine upon us and we’ll resemble our Father, wherein fate has blessed us.

The destination? Perhaps it won’t always be the edge of town. Maybe it'll be smack dab in the middle. Regardless, wherever it is, there will likely be a darkness there, where the last and the least can easily be found.

You know your own town. Where is the edge? Yes, it is that simple and yes, the Word (who is the truth) backs it up. Trust me.

And it can be confusing, no doubt, because churches are everywhere, competing like marching bands and cheerleaders in their popularity contest, beckoning us to stake a claim in their congregation. So sometimes we'll have to ride past the car washes, with signs and marquees everywhere, each with some witty phrase, screaming out from the shoulder of the road “Come into our building! Please, pretty please!” Extroverts greeting us and begging us to choose them over the next one. But we’ll smile and wave at what we once called church as if to say we believe in your passion, but if all you want is for us to come in and get our souls washed for heaven, to raise money for this or that, well, we can’t stop right now.

We'll keep riding because in the darkness on the edge of town we know, we just know that we’ll get a taste of it, that special “it”, when we've reached the end of the tire tracks, where Jesus actually parks his ride and we'll realize we're at the beginning!

And that we want it all.

There’s a reason we've imagined the Bride throwing off her veil. It was because she wanted to be seen full in the face, and she wanted to let her hair down so she could freely celebrate the love of her Groom and reveal just how contagious that love really is.

We are that Bride, and our journey and the destination that follows is a celebration. We won’t shush and shoo away the uninvited. We won’t hide behind the bridal table during the reception -- no, we’ll get up and reveal the full length of our beauty and we'll kick off our shoes, open the doors to the hall and bring out our tables of food and our wine. We’ll beckon the outsiders to come -- the hungry, the hopeless and the homeless to eat from the bounty. We’ll dance with the tattered in the streets, the crisp white shoulders of our bridal gown smudged with grime because the tears of the lonely and the downtrodden have been shed during an embrace.

We won’t exist merely to draw others into some building. Instead, we’ll love deep and true so that everyone will be drawn to the fullness and the magnificence of our marriage to the Groom.

And yes, it's true. We’re all broken, so very broken. But we know deep inside our messiness that One has made us whole. Just like my Saturday morning with Chloe, the simple addition of a special something turns us into an altogether perfect and pure Church.

It’s Him, and He’s calling us to an adventure.

We won’t accomplish much of anything in our sitting down and in the staking of our territorial borders. We’ll finally get, once and for all, that this Church we are is a living breathing thing, one of motion and kinesis. We'll actually find our beauty in our forward momentum, our movement together, like a clumsy flock of birds that floats through the air with grace, but only after we’ve truly taken flight.

And so, while this is indeed the end of this volume, let's search deep inside and begin again and live this open air concept of church in all of its glorious entirety. Will you join the procession of the passionate, and if so, how far away will the collective rumble of your resolve be felt? Will you find other like-minded congregants who join you, those who are given wide berth and those who find power inherent in the mere mass of their number?

Come and join the sanctuary of the ones who have been saved from the depths of the too far gone, where founding members congregate not as conquering heroes on white horses of privilege but as unassuming brothers and sisters who ride low to the ground. Come and know enough of the true Rider to be forever at odds with the ones who are more prepared than they are willing. Leave behind pews of indifference and altars of apathy. Bid farewell to men and women with agendas who revel with clean hands and distant hearts behind closed doors.

In my way of thinking, it’s really not up for debate.

Come and lean with humility into dusty street corners and join in worship as the alleys echo with rapping evangelists of song. Come watch as all cultures, color and creed rise up and multiply while their pulpits are filled by merely the rescued and the redeemed!

That, my friends, is a new kind of church.

The End

Stay tuned for So I Go Now ~ Volume III!

***

If you've stopped by for the first time, or if you've been along for the ride quite a while, please drop me a note -- I'd love to hear from you! If you're shy about leaving comments, that's fine too! You can e-mail me at soigonow@gmail.com

A HUGE thanks to all of you for your ever steady encouragement throughout these chapters.

Peace and blessings ~ Jeff

Chapter 48 It’s Really Not Up for Debate: Part 1

2006-08-15T16:09:00.000-04:00

It was a nearly perfect Saturday, one with cooler temperatures and a crystal, blue diamond sky. I was with Chloe, my four year old brown-eyed girl, and we were off to Krispy Kreme in the trusty Jacobson minivan. She was in the back, singing along quite confidently with Chris Tomlin, who was, unbeknownst to him, leading us in worship that day.

It's pretty early in my story, but for the record, I find myself quite drawn to Chris Tomlin’s music. If I have six CDs in the minivan's six-CD-changer, with five slots reserved for the legendary Boss, who is, of course, Bruce Springsteen, then it is no small accomplishment to be occupying the sixth slot. Mr. Tomlin should be proud to be among such company; you know, rubbing discs and all with the Boss. Anyhow, Chris Tomlin writes and sings with a childlike simplicity and passion that I think God likes, and through his music, and our subsequent worship, I believe God indelibly leaves his very fingerprints upon us, if I can be so bold to presume such a thing.

So, as I was saying, we were off to get breakfast. While waiting at our first traffic light, we noticed the local high school marching band was set up for their big car wash, to raise funds for this or that, a usual late summer tradition. The extroverts of the bunch were out on the shoulder of the road with big signs trying desperately to draw us in. Across the street and down a little were the cheerleaders, all of whom are extroverts, and they were up to the same thing. It was a popularity contest, one not lost on me (some 25 years later), because unfortunately, some things never change. I wondered fleetingly where I'd get a better car wash, but really, right about then, I wandered deep into thought about what group Chloe would belong to when she was older, and I secretly hoped she’d find a way to be welcome and welcoming wherever she was, and that maybe there wouldn't be any groups at all by then. Or, if there were still groups, that maybe she could navigate easily between perceived lines, like crossing from Indiana to Ohio on a country road. No fanfare, no suspicion, no border patrol.

We pressed on and decided to pass by both of our fund raising options, not because the minivan wasn’t in need of a wash, but rather because I didn’t have any cash. I never have any cash, it seems, and this particular morning was no exception.

Be that as it may, we merged onto the highway, due North, and it was open and clear, with big wide lanes, the kind of lanes that would have made Kramer proud. I pushed the outside boundaries of the suggested speed limit, and Chloe shouted over Tomlin that she wanted all of the windows down, and that the sunroof should be opened to boot. I acquiesced and watched as her fine strands of hair danced in and out with wild gusts of wind. She closed her eyes and put her arms out like she was flying, and it was very beautiful. The sun was shining through the open roof onto her little face and she looked like her mother, wherein fate has blessed her. I was a little disappointed when she eventually said she was done with all of the wind, and that I should close at least two of the windows. Maybe the sun roof too.

We slowed for our exit, and while leaning into the off ramp, we came upon our town's huge Harley dealership, and the parking lot was already bustling with activity. This particular location hosts numerous gatherings of the Harley faithful throughout the year, and this morning, again, was no exception. I watched with curiosity as we drove by because there was an insanely long line of riders–hundreds arranged two by two–apparently waiting in queue to embark upon some journey of great consequence.

We kept on going, though, toward our prized destination of sinfully baked confections and we pulled through the convenient donut drive-through. (They take credit cards, just in case you're wondering.) We chose the usual suspects: ones with multicolored sprinkles, thick sugar glazes, creme filled centers, and the like. And dietary complications notwithstanding, it should be stated here and now that nearly perfect Saturdays are converted into altogether perfect Saturdays with the simple addition of Krispy Kremes to the morning. It’s really not up for debate.

A dozen donuts-to-go later, we were driving back the very same way we had come. Pretty soon we noticed that a good number of police cars were blocking one of the intersections, each with their lights flashing, and it was all very official looking and a bit threatening, like the officers were shielding us from some horrific accident. All the same, we strained our necks to see what was beyond them–and within seconds of our stopping, it began. We heard them first, and then, a seemingly endless flow of Harley riders started moving in front of us, in slow motion, two by two, right on through the intersection, their bikes adorned with riveted saddlebags, tasseled handlebars, mufflers and metal parts shining in the sun. Helmets were optional for these riders as they embarked on a journey, like some large, clumsy flock of birds that floats through the air with grace, but only after they've truly taken flight.

It seemed like forever until it was our turn to go. I followed them, and just up ahead they were given the same luxury at yet another intersection by a whole new gaggle of policemen. This group of riders would not be separated under the watch of these officers; no, they were given wide berth and found their power in the mere mass of their number.

The noise of their procession was nearly overwhelming and I wondered how far away the rumble could be felt. Something about their unity was palpable, this simple gathering with a destination in mind.

And so I kept in their wake for a mile or two, the first non-Harley at the end of the line. It took me a moment to come to my senses and I eventually veered off toward home, feeling a little silly.

And it was right about then that I realized their destination wasn't mine at all.

In fact, where they were going, I think, wasn't even as important as the journey itself.

to be continued..

Chapter 47 Where Possibilities are Endless

2006-08-03T10:49:00.000-04:00

The sky is healing from the heat of the day as curled scoops of raspberry sherbet clouds dominate the horizon. While I wait to exhale, an expectation fills the air and it belies the coming night.

Deep within this dusk is a vivid space to discover, where hope lasts until morning and defenses are down; where possibilities are endless and colorful. It is a place where dreams dance and gravity exists merely as an option.

The remaining blush of the sun will soon be setting with it, so I must be vigilant. My time is limited, for the darkness will usher in doubt and fear and before long I'll reduce this faith to some architect’s design -- a destination of brick and mortar, of stained glass and empty promises. It is regrettably there where I'll mandate a shrinking of humanity into some manageable, fleeting charity.

Somewhere amidst this bated breath and vivid changing of the horizon He waits, for this beauty finds no other source. There must be a doorway, some portal, and I will enter in -- eagerly, quickly, before I miss it altogether.

Arriving there, I suspect I'll have no religion. I won't cocoon myself with tidy rules nor silence the voices of the neglected and the modern day lepers, the very ones who cry from the alleyways in my town and yours, in need of a simple touch. There, I’ll check no bylaws before I act, nor will I seek some territorial, denominational advantage.

My only affiliation will be with the one true Christ.

It is deep within that sunset where earthly prospect will be sustained by the supernatural and the Divine, where the die of anticipation and limitless opportunity will be cast -- yes, for He will turn and lower His ear to hear the cries of the beloved, the rhythm of the weak and the weary, audible even from this soil upon which we tramp.

A rhythm that is the Church, I think.

Chapter 46 An Unwavering Beam of Intention

2006-07-18T08:59:00.000-04:00

The air is hovering thick and wet here today and I’m feeling dense and heavy, like moss or ground cover; I'm deep in a forest that knows the sun as some distant cousin.

I’m looking up at you from the shadow of a mountainous ancestral tree and I’m getting philosophical about what it means to have you in my life. Oddly enough, the sunlight is still trying to break through -- an unwavering beam of intention bouncing off of random limbs. It’s dancing just above your hair and every so often it looks like you might be the source of it.

As I stare at you, I know that you’re my Savior, but I sense that you're asking if I would, in fact, choose you as a friend. If I'd hang out with you.

It's funny, but I feel as if the choice has already been made for me, from as early as I can remember -- like you’ve always been around. You're a member of the family. My brother, so to speak.

I didn't choose a lot of things growing up, like, for example, the way I look or the color of my eyes; my smile or how tall I am. I’ve always wanted to be taller, just so you know. And to tan better, too, because I always burn first. I do have good and very straight teeth, without the help of braces, thank you very much. Those were the luck of the hereditary draw, I suppose.

And speaking of family, I didn't get much of a choice there either. Although I’d probably still pick them if it was up to me. Well, maybe not all of them.

Like my Uncle Ed, for example.

Yet, despite the shadow of this family tree, my upbringing and my genetics, I can choose you. Or not. You’ve always told me I can take you or leave you, in so many words. I’ve never stopped to think about it, though, because you just keep showing up on your own.

So, back to the woods and the floor of it, and you’re standing here and I feel like you’re forcing me to make a decision. You’re hovering over me, a silhouette with that unwavering light behind you, reminding me that I have a free will.

I could carry a piece of you, I suppose. A cross around my neck or a fish on my bumper. Perhaps I could whip out a card from my wallet that says I can keep my promises. Or that I’m wild at heart. I’m sure if I looked hard enough I could find that bracelet with the acronym on it. Something, anything to signify our friendship. Our bond.

That’s not enough, you whisper. You seem jealous. You simply need to know if I’d want you around. In the flesh. Just you. And you won’t leave until you’ve heard my answer.

Well, OK, let me think about this. You know that I like to laugh with my friends, but it's often at the expense of others. So, I guess right off the bat you won’t like that. Could I give up my biting, sarcastic humor for you? I’d have to, because you always see the good in people. No, you see the great. You prefer that I laugh and poke fun at myself instead. It’s a practice in humility and I know how much you love that.

I can be judgmental, too, though I hide it well. Could you handle that? I know you have nothing to hide because there’s not a judgmental bone in your body. You just move with an easy pace and your grace is wide. Everyone is mysteriously equal in your eyes, and I still don't get that.

You’re more than alright with the concept of shocking people to get your point across, and you’re comfortable going in and out of places they’d least expect. I like that about you. I’m the same way, though probably not for the same reasons. I'd need to get a better grasp on your reasons before we do that together.

I also think it’s pretty cool the way you dance around useless banter and meaningless arguments to get right at the heart of the issue. You’re not avoiding the tough questions; no, you just don’t waste your words. You keep coming back to the truth like you’re fighting off some invisible lie. Maybe you really are.

Maybe the lie isn’t so invisible to you.

Not sure I need to bring this up, but I’m a friend of margaritas, which I suppose you already know. It's not a prerequisite for our friendship, obviously, but would you join me in that indulgence? I think you’d ask me first if I need one or if I want one. And the difference would be of utmost importance to you.

I’m in a rush too, most of the time, so I need quick sound bytes of information. If we’re going to do lunch and stuff like other friends do, please remember that I’ve only got a short window of time. Would you try to slow me down? I think you would.

I’m pretty selfish. Painfully so at times. You’d probably tell me to get my eyes off of myself. That could get pretty annoying.

I guess that’s it for now, though I’m sure I could go on.

Would I choose you?

I don’t mean to answer one of your questions with another question, but that’s something you taught me.

So here goes:

Why in the world would you choose me?

Chapter 45 The Kingdom is Coming

2006-06-06T08:26:00.000-04:00

The sweat on his brow reminds me, all at once, of his humanity. We’re sitting together on the edge of a curb, and he actually looks tired, this Savior of mine. I’m freshly aware that he doesn’t have a place to lay his head. I guess I’ve always thought he was somehow above or beyond sleep.

And the need for a home.

But really, he is very much a man, and I suppose fully capable of exhaustion, my imagination notwithstanding. And on top of that, he’s earthy, poor, perhaps even unrefined by our savvy standards; this very whimsy of a modern day Rider, inspired to put flesh to my historical and geographical detachment. He’s right here in my town, and most certainly my day.

And he is, indeed, homeless, just like he was the first time, so he’s quite at ease with the weary and the jaded. Yet another sign that his Kingdom is all backassward and upside down in every way possible.

Who is he, some King of the broken rabble?

He tells me his pace has been frenzied in recent weeks and months. This doesn’t come as a surprise to me, because I’ve felt a certain tension in the air -- maybe you have too. He confirms this to be true, for much is afoot, quite a lot is changing. A veil is being lifted, he says, in the spaces and shadows beyond our perception.

And he also reveals that it will intensify -- we'll sense his presence more frequently, as he makes his way down our collective Courts, our wandering Ways, our aspiring Avenues and our lavish Lanes. Much like a contemporary Paul Revere, shouting:

"The Kingdom is coming! The Kingdom is coming!"

But not with a shout you'd expect, with audible tones; no, it will only be for those with willing ears to hear -- over the din of that Harley rumble, its engine humming in a low idle.

Yet, who will be willing? Who will want a Kingdom like his? Certainly it'll make more sense to ignore it.

It will be nearly impossible, though. Upon hearing it, inviting it, and letting it get under our skin, we'll move slowly to the front door of our homes, peering first through the perceived safety of a latched chain lock, then tentatively, inches more through a fastened screen door -- and then, laying down our fishing nets, our nest eggs, our diplomas and doctrines and security blankets of all sorts, we'll move our way out onto the front porch.

The wind will pick up and the chimes will clang an eerie chord. Out on the driveway or the sidewalk to the street, the pull will simply be too strong; his promise too magnetic. He'll tell us again and again that we'll die a little more today than we did yesterday, but certainly not as much as we will tomorrow. There’s a danger in this Kingdom he’s inaugurating and it won't be like anything we were led to believe in Sunday school.

And this is somehow a good thing?

Maybe it’ll be best to ride this storm out, I think -- on the inside, in a low lying room. Underneath the stairs, yes, it will be much safer. We'll hear but cover our ears to the shrill sound of the alarms and well meaning air horns carrying their piercing warnings through the wind.

But this storm won't pass, he reminds me.

There he'll be, waiting, beckoning.

“The Kingdom is coming!”

What? Does he want us to become homeless too? To really, actually follow him and become earthy, poor, perhaps even unrefined by our savvy standards?

What kind of Kingdom is this?

Chapter 44 Dress Me as a Pauper

2006-05-09T11:36:00.000-04:00

There was a haunting once that began as a subtle and benign breeze, one with feathery fingers stroking.

It swirled around my ankles, up and under my exquisite yet concealing fabric. Ever so cautiously, it started to massage the tenacious texture of my skin, this very resolve of my own making, lingering in search of some pressure point. It was coaxing me to yield, kneading against my muscles and tendons; privileged and pampered as they were.

But I ignored it, and so a chill set upon me, upsetting the warmth I enjoyed and the comfort I craved.

Surely, I thought, there would be some place to hide from this, some excuse or anxious shadow to shelter me. But the search was pointless, for it would not relent; it slithered under the door frames and sought me over the window sills, through the very crevices of my refusal.

It found me wherever I was.

For want of my surrender, it evoked a disturbance of mind, body and soul; it knew that I was merely dancing around the borders and the fringes, where instead, should I enter fully in, awaiting me was the finishing design of His new attire. It wasn’t fancy, He warned me, this wardrobe of the margins, but He promised it was just.

And it would always be enough.

Yet, I still argued, justifying to Him that at least I was dancing there on the outskirts, which is more than most, as if that should be enough. But I knew, deep down where longings go, that I was merely flirting with the notion of real surrender.

And so this haunting continued for a lifetime.

Then, the breeze which previously teased and enticed to live and suffer and die among the least of these, transformed suddenly into a forceful gust of wind, and soon a gale was upon me, churning and shouting with a thundering voice all its own.

So, naked I stood, exposed; I couldn't ignore that I was among those who were first, but all the same I begged to be last and I pleaded some small camel to my side, to fulfill some perceived prerequisite, to shove and squeeze through the piercing eye of any needle, though none could be found.

It was folly, and much too late, for I had been rich.

~ ~ ~

So, waking now from this ever present nightmare, I implore You to relentlessly taunt me and torment me. Dress me as a pauper. Bring forth the strength of Your prevailing wind and teach me how to give these trappings away. More and more of them!

And then, even more still.

Until I have nothing left but You.

Chapter 43 To Form the Perfect Union, Part III

2006-05-03T12:23:00.000-04:00

So, here I am, following this living Word into a gas station turned super center. He starts to walk up and down the aisles, one by one, showing me all of the variety and the choices -- for this taste or another.

And this is just the candy section.

He’s not speaking now, as if to say, this is a time to simply follow him and if I will, quite literally in this case, he’ll reveal a few things, and I’ll find some answers to my questions.

So, while this whole thing may have started with angst and a certain fogginess over a bad margarita in a seedy bar, I'm hoping the fog will lift. As I've said before, I love a good metaphor.

We make our way to the salty snacks, then to the bread and the books and the magazines, even some tee-shirts, and then we move over to the drinks: all types of milk, soda, teas, lemonade; energy and caffeine in a bottle to go.

And beer. Lots of it. Light, dark, amber; cheap or expensive, you choose.

No tequila though, just in case you're wondering.

Convenience goods are everywhere. Impulse items, whatever you want to call ‘em. To refresh us, to fill us, to clothe us and to help us wake up. And yes, to entertain us.

Oh, and we can get gas here too. Forgot all about that.

So as I was saying, this is going to be more of a show than a tell. Must be some kind of mind trick, but it works. I get the sense he doesn't want me to compare and associate and scrutinize every aspect of our pit stop to the current state of the church, but just enough for me to raise an eyebrow and some healthy questions. I think that's how his stories were always meant to work. As if to say, that maybe, just maybe, more truth and clarification comes in the following after, in close proximity to him, rather than in some closed door, stagnant dissection of this or that.

So, the most obvious one, I think, is that like some churches, especially the big ones, there’s so much available that I suppose it’s natural to wander and forget why I came here in the first place. I guess the masses, by way of supply and demand have decided what’s best for me and for you, so we can have the finest possible selection at our disposal. Actually, there are so many choices that I get lost in it all, and confused; and then I’m not even sure what I want. Or need. Am I hungry or thirsty or both? Or neither?

I might just choose to pass on the whole thing.

Churches and modern gas stations alike stock their goods and their programs to sell, to keep their profits high -- to keep us happy, so we’ll not only get fueled up, but we’ll stop shopping around for a better place. Maybe we'll even get so caught up in the shopping that we'll forget our ride is outside, tanked up and ready to go.

We stop in the salty snack aisle and he’s holding a package of corn nuts now, reading the ingredients. He’s smiling and somehow I have a feeling this will show up again in his little word picture.

We walk around some more, and the epiphanies keep coming.

I suppose, if you go to enough gas stations, or churches for that matter, you’ll find that they actually have more in common than not. Sure, they might offer something a little different here; perhaps something unique there, but we're deceived into thinking that one is better than the other. Maybe this one has a Subway attached, or maybe the price of gas is a little lower; but then again, the neighborhood isn’t so good, or it’s simply too far away, so we pay a little more and we rationalize because of the quality of the fuel. And so it is with the excellence of worship. The superb teaching. The likeness to our living standard and the likelihood we'll be near our like minded and like colored neighbors. So our kids can play together and go to school together, and of course, church together.

He hasn’t said anything at all yet, but he smiles from time to time and so I wonder if he’s listening to my inner voice, my attempts to understand him and his latest story. But then he begins:

Do I still want you to come here, Jeff?

Yes. Well, at least that’s what he said outside.

Absolutely. I want you here. As I said, I’ve designed you in such a way that you need to stop often and regularly, to feast upon my truth and to worship me.

Wouldn't have it any other way, I say, somewhat confidently, even though I haven't wanted to stop at all lately.

But these “stations” were originally intended for you to keep going; there wasn't much of a reason for you to stay inside. At least not for long.

But, now there is, I think. Plenty.

You’ve all become great consumers. Yet in the consuming, you’re just hanging around. You study the Bible, yes, but you assume that I have nothing left to say. And so you bicker about what I have said to fit your situation, never realizing that I might clarify it for you out here, where this church of the open road meets. You have a full tank of gas, but you're unwilling to use it, and even when you do, you won't venture out very far.

Hmmm.

You just have to follow me, wherever I lead, which is what I’ve asked you to do from the beginning.

He's talking to me, pretty loudly now over the top of a display. Somehow he kept going and I stopped, distracted as usual, the irony of it all not lost on me for a moment.

He holds up that bag of corn nuts again.

And if you stay and just hang around, pretty soon you'll start arguing over things that don't matter, like whether corn nuts actually have nuts in them, and if not, why are they called corn nuts? You can't even decide what it is you're eating! And all the while, people are going hungry.

Ouch.

This is not rocket science, Jeff. But you've done your best to make it so.

He’s right, you know, this Jesus of my imagination. The point he’s making is that church is not supposed to be about buildings and budgets and butts in seats. It's not about us walking up and down the aisles as consumers, trying to decide what's best for us from what’s available, as chosen by the masses, through supply and demand.

I think we have a better way to find out what church is. And what it’s not.

And as far as the bigger and the better and the luring of the collective us to this one or that, well, gas stations might find success that way, but this Body we’ve become just isn’t very good or efficient when we’re divided. We’re not designed for competition, but that’s really what has happened. We've become separated over aisles of preference, taste, flavor and tolerance. So we amp it up to stay ahead; we become more savvy and more convenient and we sometimes even compromise to keep people coming, when, in fact, we simply need mission in unity and unity in mission.

We need to discover what's common among us instead of what denominationally divides us.

We join up again, near the end of the aisles, Jesus and me. He must have caught those voices in my head again because he says:

You shouldn’t try to distinguish yourselves from other churches for your own sake, but look to serve with other churches for my sake. And Jeff, don't get me wrong -- as you ride out into ever expanding circles, you will always need churches to rise up, for those you find in the shadows and the hidden spaces on my behalf will need to be fed and refreshed and comforted. They'll crave community, just like you do. But don’t stop there. Keep riding. Keep pushing borders deep into the margins, for this is how my Kingdom will be inaugurated.

And then he said something, which I've heard my buddy Joe say before. It’s pretty cool coming from Jesus, though, who I suppose is the ultimate source of all relevant statements:

Are you building a bigger church or churching a bigger area?

That time it hit home.

And so, we're done inside. This Savior pays for his gas to ensure he can keep riding. I follow him outside, get on the back and off we go, outward as this church of the open road. I'll have more questions, and I'm sure you will too. But perhaps if we'll just agree to follow him, he’ll reveal a few more things about this Bride we're supposed to be.

And we'll be well on our way toward forming the perfect union.

13 "Quit your worship charades. I can't stand your trivial religious games: Monthly conferences, weekly Sabbaths, special meetings - meetings, meetings, meetings - I can't stand one more! 14 Meetings for this, meetings for that. I hate them! You've worn me out! I'm sick of your religion, religion, religion, while you go right on sinning. 15 When you put on your next prayer-performance, I'll be looking the other way. No matter how long or loud or often you pray, I'll not be listening. And do you know why? Because you've been tearing people to pieces, and your hands are bloody.

16 Go home and wash up. Clean up your act. Sweep your lives clean of your evildoings so I don't have to look at them any longer. Say no to wrong. 17 Learn to do good. Work for justice. Help the down-and-out. Stand up for the homeless. Go to bat for the defenseless. Let's Argue This Out (Isaiah 1:13-17, The Message)

Chapter 42 To Form the Perfect Union, Part II

2006-04-25T08:56:00.000-04:00

And so, off we go, the effects of my bad, partially consumed margarita beginning to fade, just like the sun in front of us. We’re heading westward, toward what I’m not quite sure.

I do have to smile a little when I think about this Savior, on his own, with me; there’s no intermediary here, no middle man that I can see. I’m touching him, talking to him, and simply overwhelmed with the ease of it all. He’s straight up, no garnish to decorate him or mask his purpose.

That bartender would like him.

We pull into a gas station with one of those convenience marts attached, one that might as well just convert into a super market because they're selling everything in there except for cuts of beef and fresh fish.

I get off the back and lean against the pump and I watch him as he smiles warmly at people filling their tanks all around him; he the very one who knows their story, from start to finish, more intimately than any other. But yet, he keeps his distance. At least for now, sensing some otherworldly resistance, I suppose.

As he starts to remove the gas cap and select his fuel of choice, he looks at me. His eyes are dark, but not black or brown; in fact I can't even really describe the color. The closest I can come to it is the shade of a pre-dawn sky, of night being overcome.

Jeff, let’s get back to the basics.

I was right about this conversation not being over.

I am the embodiment of God’s Word, right?

Yes. I was still thinking about what I should call the color of his eyes. Gotcha.

Disembodied words are not my way.

No, they're not. That I am certain of.

So, what do you notice, then, when you find references to me, the Word, capital W, in the Bible?

He knows I don't know. I don’t read it very often. I'm not proud of it, for obvious reasons. He keeps going anyway.

Look around and you’ll see a lot of action verbs that always show up in the same sentence, like teaching, proclaiming, planting, landscaping, serving, doing, becoming, going, speaking, preaching, prospering, hearing, receiving, revealing.

Wow, I think. Those are all in there?

Yes.

Check. I knew that.

But they’re not all good action verbs. Look a little further and you'll find twisting and watering down.

I definitely know about that.

So, here we go again, and I don't mean to get real simple on you Jeff, but I'm going to anyway. You agreed back when we were riding around the church that you believe it all. How about that verse that says:

For everything we know about God's Word is summed up in a single sentence: Love others as you love yourself. That's an act of true freedom. (Gal 5:14 The Message)

Yes, I do love it when he gets simple. I still need clarification, though.

So, if I get this straight, you want me to teach, proclaim, plant, landscape, serve, do, become, go, speak, preach, prosper, hear, receive and reveal you, the Word, to others, and you're love?

Correct. And I don’t want you to twist or water me down.

This is all great and wonderful, I think, but I'm still struggling with the whole church thing, you know, lower case c, and the amount of time we put into our disgareements about it.

Jeff, the tug you've felt over the past few months and over your margarita to break out of denomination and religion is always going to occur when you decide that you really want to follow me; when you really want to get this love. There’s just too much freedom in it; whereas, religion, and often the churches which symbolize and contain religion, well, sometimes they look for ways to complicate that.

Yeah, OK, but..

He cut me off, this Creator of the universe. He could tell I was going to complicate it.

Why are we here, Jeff?

I don’t know. We need gas. Here we go, another word picture. But he knows I need them.

Yes, we do. What else?

Uh, I suppose we should check the oil and the tire pressure. Maybe throw out some trash, if we had any trash. I always have a lot of trash in my minivan. Four kids, enough said.

Good. What else?

I guess we could go inside and get pretty much anything we wanted to eat. And we could use the bathroom.

He topped off the tank and looked at me with a knowing look. Here comes the hook.

It’s good to stop isn’t it?

Yes, I guess.

We actually need to stop, don’t we?

Yes.

It’s not an option is it, if we want to keep riding?

No. It’s definitely not an option. Though with gas prices, I might be riding my bicycle soon.

We’ll always need fuel and food for this ride, or we won't get very far. But what happens if we decide to stop riding altogether, and think instead that this station was just a good place for us to stay?

I'm starting to track with him now. Well, we’d have plenty to eat and drink for a while. Lots of gas.

Eventually though, the reason you stopped, would become irrelevant, wouldn’t it? If you’re not going to ride, well then, you don’t need gas for your cycle, do you?

That didn't seem so simple. But I didn't let on.

No. I guess not.

So then what happens?

I just look at him, not really sure what to say. There's an awkward pause because everything I feel about church is still so sacred, so untouchable, so rooted in a formula of a solemn something or another that I dare not untangle it. Without the help of a margarita. And my imagination.

He knows this. He always knows.

Let me just tell you a little about what happens, Jeff.

We start to walk in to the stuff mart in front of us, to pay for our gas and I suppose walk the aisles deciding what we want to eat.

This could get interesting, I think.

Chapter 41 To Form the Perfect Union, Part I

2006-04-14T10:40:00.000-04:00

I'll admit I like a good margarita. I'm not a snob about it, but the right tequila is key, and a proper citrus companion is a necessity; a fitting dance partner, so to speak -- one to form the perfect union, with just the right amount of ice to bless it all, of course.

And don't get me started on the salt.

Suffice it to say, if done right, the whole thing, from top to bottom, is like a mariachi for your senses.

OK, so maybe I am a snob about it.

But, alas, today -- right now, in fact -- the rough hewn bartender in front of me doesn't care. He's snubbing the whole thing with a look in his eye, as if to say, tequila was meant to be on its own, straight up, maybe a little ice, and certainly for someone tougher than me. I don't care what he thinks, though; that's what I want, so I'm standing my ground. In a way, it's poetic justice for me to watch him emasculate himself as he digs around for the ingredients to mix one. I half expect him to search out a tiny cocktail umbrella from the back room and brand me a sissy.

I move myself to the far end of the bar, away from sneering regulars, and when he's done, he slides my margarita out to me like I'm in some gun-slinging western. I've already accepted the fact that I'll be suffering through his version of it, but maybe I need to suffer a little bit anyhow, I think to myself as I hold on tightly, with two hands. I hunch over it and breathe it in, celebrating not much of anything at this little pity party for myself. For some reason, I'm looking for answers in this seedy dive, over the salted rim of a dirty glass, staring deep into a liquid that used to sway peacefully as a blue agave plant in the wind of somewhere south of here.

Who would ever choose this setting to wrestle concepts of a church gone bad? I would, I suppose. Maybe you'd like to join me. You see, I'm medicating myself through some crisis of faith, or maybe just religion, because I’ve grown tired, so very tired of the formulas and the rituals and the figureheads. Strange to be pondering this in a place where people come to think less and drink more, but it seems more likely I'll find him here anyway, right here in this down-and-out watering hole, which is insane, I know.

But insane or not, that's my problem. This Jesus I know and love had an insane and unexplainable love and an inclination to touch people, all of them -- drunks, prostitutes, gamblers and lepers. He longed to be about healing, and so he just did it. A lot. He spent most of his time outside, always on the move, looking for them; but he also cherished it when they came looking for him. That always made him smile, and so he rewarded their faith.

Of course, there were some who came looking for a fight, bent and determined to prove him wrong. Not that he didn’t welcome the inquisitive; no, not at all. It was just the way they asked. You know the ones -- full of judgment and pride and self righteousness. He knew hearts.

Correct that. He knows hearts.

Anyhow, reading and hearing about what happened back then, it just seems really simple to me. So much so, that today, I doubt he cares about the spaces in between us -- you know, our denominational territories. Maybe I've felt it more this Easter season, but what caused this divide, these rites and routines? What formed our Christian labels? Are you a Methodist or Lutheran? Perhaps Catholic? What instigated our disagreements, the very ones which now cause us to point fingers at each other? Maybe I just need to spend more time researching and learning about church history, but if I can be brutally honest, I don't care much about it if only draws attention away from the man we've all agreed is the One.

Does any of it matter anymore if what we really mean is to simply follow after him?

And that very question leads me to right about now, sitting in a bar, sipping on my bad excuse for a fine Mexican drink.

I’m never quite sure how or even why he seeks me out, but the rumble is obvious outside the door of this corner bar. All Harley engines, to me anyway, shun the convention of a smoother resonance. It’s an unsettling racket: an explosion of pistons and fuel that shake the ground. On purpose, I assume.

He comes in, and yes, he's looking for me, this Jesus of my imagination. It's too late for me to hide. He bellies right up to the bar and sits next to me. The bartender asks him what he’d like. I'm hoping he'll snub him on my behalf, but he just smiles, puts his hand across the bar and touches his arm, appropriately, and replies that he isn't staying. Plus, he says, he's doing a lot of riding today, so it won't be a good mixture. Speaking of a not-so-good mixture, it's funny, but I'm strangely un-embarrassed to be found hugging a cocktail. By him, anyway.

He studies the room and he locks in on the faces, yes, even the bartender, each one is so important to him. I keep forgetting that.

But, apparently, the moment is all about Jeff, and so he looks at me with those eyes, you know, as in: get up now, we’re going. So up and out we go.

The timing seems right, so I say, I bet they'll have good margaritas in heaven.

He laughs deep and hard as we climb on his ride. I can still feel his ribs shaking as he responds, yes, perhaps -- but without the bad choices and hangovers.

He intuitively knows what I’ve been struggling with, and so our journey isn’t far. We ride a couple of miles and then start to circle a corner block that surrounds an old church. It's opulent, perhaps the most beautiful in my town, of stone and granite and stained glass; a temple to cradle His people with a steeple rising to the sky in worship of His Father, who is worthy of it all, no doubt.

After circling a few times, he breaks the silence.

A lot of time is spent in there studying God’s Word, he speaks firmly and loudly over the engine’s din.

Yes, I agree.

Is the Word a book, to just be studied, or am I the Word?

Both, I guess. That seems like a trick question. I'm not sure what this has to do with anything.

Safe answer, he responds.

For the record, I think we both look a little silly, two men just riding around and around a church. People are starting to stare.

Do you believe everything in the Bible, Jeff?

My response is quick. Yes, of course (although, between you and me, I’ve always thought the story about Noah and the Ark sounded a bit like a fairy tale).

He can read my thoughts, damn it. So he reminds me that a lot of people died in that story. It wasn’t a fairy tale.

OK, so now I believe the whole thing.

If you believe it all, he continues, then, getting back to the question at hand, I’m sure you remember the part about me being the Word, right?

Yes. We just covered that.

OK, good. What do you notice about me right now?

Uh.. I don’t know. A lot of things.

You've got your arms around me.

OK, yes, I do. He's setting me up for something.

Are the lungs in my chest moving in and out?

Yes.

So, I’m breathing?

Yes.

Do you feel my heart beating?

Yes.
Great. Is it safe to assume, then, that I’m alive?

Well, duh, I think. Yes, of course.

So, if I'm alive, then one could conclude that I'm the living Word?

Yes.

Excellent. He pauses for a moment, maybe for effect. Jeff, are we moving, or sitting still?

I let that one hang while I think about it.

Well, technically, we're moving, but it sort of feels like we're sitting still. You know, 'cause we keep riding around in a circle.

He turns around, this Jesus of the open road, his face close to mine. He's smiling, perhaps from the irony of my response. He dips into one last turn, and I lean in with him as he accelerates away from that old stone church, out into the city.

I have a feeling this conversation is far from over.

Chapter 40 Two White Guys, Who Happen to Follow Jesus

2006-04-10T12:04:00.000-04:00

This past Saturday, my friend Joe and I met with Mustafa, a Sudanese man who will soon be setting up his tables of merchandise in front of the Rialto. Mustafa sells shoes and various other pieces of urban clothing, and he moves from street corner to street corner, trying to earn enough money to send home to his wife and his seven children, and his mother, all of whom have recently fled the Darfurian region of Sudan to the capital city of Khartoum, in hopes of a better life. Or simply life itself.

So, we showed him the area he could use -- a little alcove under the marquee where a ticket booth once stood for the movies inside. It is a good space, wide open, yet under protection for shade, or if it should rain. Then we went inside and gave him a tour, revealing for him the promise of a new cultural center in this beloved, ancient theater of ours, 11,000 square feet of space, currently of twisted metal and concrete, under renovation for Mustafa and the many others who now call our town their own. We talked about the dream of Sudanese gatherings, and of classrooms filled with children and adults alike in the area where the balcony still stands. We envisioned some day, that Sudanese celebrations and weddings could take place in the main auditorium. He at first seemed overwhelmed by the task in front of us (and I can't blame him for that), but then he seemed excited, and smiled. He looked around at the mess, and then above it, and perhaps he grabbed some of the vision as he said, “Yes, some day.”

You see, it just so happens that Fort Wayne is now home to one of the largest Darfurian populations in the United States. Mustafa and his countrymen might not realize it, but every bit of effort we undertake inside that theater -- every stone moved, every sledge hammer swung, every bruised muscle and stretched tendon and inhaled breath of dust and grime -- all of it -- is for them. And not just them, really, but displaced people from strange borders all over the world; people that somehow survive and persevere long enough to make their way here.

After the tour, Mustafa wanted to talk about bringing his family to the United States to be with him. And so we dusted off some chairs and sat down, and in his broken English, he was able to describe the costs associated with the various visa applications (that he has already begun), and if those should be received and approved by the proper authorities, the expense of plane tickets to ultimately bring them here. All told, he’s looking at around $10,000. He’s already paid about $3000 of it, but it’s hard for him to save much because nearly everything he earns is immediately sent back home to provide for his loved ones, his mother included.

The Sudanese are a proud people, and so it is difficult for him to talk about this with others in the Sudanese community, those who live in Fort Wayne, right here in his midst. Joe actually asked him directly if he had discussed any of this with them, and he quickly dismissed it as an option, which I heard clear as a bell above and beyond the other sentiments that were harder to understand. And so, Mustafa, a Muslim, sat in a room with two white guys, who happen to follow Jesus, asking for our help. I’m sure that wasn’t easy, either, but for the record, I don’t think I can express in words how much of an honor it was.

So, we spent the next half hour or so talking about how The Reclamation Project might be able to help, maybe by co-signing on a loan for him, or some such thing, and all the while he listened politely as we explained it -- but, because of his Muslim faith, the taking out of a loan does not sit well with him. We discussed other options to find the money and expedite the process. Joe is actually leaving in a couple weeks for a return trip to Sudan, and he offered to bring greetings to Mustafa’s family on his behalf, or money – to seek out other solutions, whatever he could. We gave him hope, as best we knew how – hope to bear against what seems to be a hopeless situation.

And then, what I love about Joe is that he always has the courage and presence of mind to ask whomever we may be meeting with, Muslim or otherwise, if we can pray together. Not after we leave, or some day as some vague promise, but right now. Mustafa nodded a little hesitantly, but it was a nod of agreement all the same, and so Joe began to pray. He prayed for blessing, and for provision. He prayed for Mustafa’s family and he prayed that we’ll find the right foundations and grant givers to provide for their reunion, very soon, and that everyone would be protected until then. And then, he asked that all of it be done in Jesus’ name, which is obviously a daunting seal of approval for a Muslim, but Joe didn’t shy away from it.

As we were leaving, we told Mustafa that some people might stop him in front of the Rialto when he is setting up his shop. They’ll ask him if he’s allowed to be there and if he has permission from the owners. We told him to call us if that happens, because we'll say "he’s with us" and that he’s more than allowed to be there. We talked a bit about the steady flow of traffic in front of the Rialto, up and down Calhoun, a main artery in and out of the city, which should be good for business. I wanted to tell him to pay extra close attention to the sound of an old Harley without much a muffler, but maybe, that will be for another day.

Yes, some day.

And so, with this view of Mustafa's world, I suppose our very idea of missions around the world is changing. We’ve always sent out well meaning people from this church congregation and that, to places hither and yon, where over time they learn the language, adapt to the customs, and hope beyond hope that they’ll be accepted in a new and strange land, and if so, that some day they’ll be permitted to share the good news of Jesus. Of course, God has seen fit to accomplish much through this, but curiously, now, perhaps through a new kind of church, He has also seen fit to bring people like Mustafa (and others who will be described in the pages that follow) to our very own backyard. Each with their own story of untold struggle, persecution, and pain. Stories that, in fact, need to be told; and, well, this seems like a good place to start telling them.

We pray and hope that people like Mustafa find Jesus here, not because we force Jesus upon him, but because he lives in our town now and he's come to us for help and we happen to be in a position to do just that, thanks to a creative God who knows all about timing and what a vast redistribution of resources looks like.

And it just so happens that Mustafa, and others, well, they trust us, and we hope beyond hope that some day they’ll ask why we would do such a thing, why we would do any of it -- and when we explain why, that they’ll trust the very Jesus who causes our hearts to well up with love for them. And, yes, we pray that some day they’ll be permitted to return home to their own native land, newly equipped and ready to re-emerge into their very own culture; to not only bring justice, but to share the good news of a Savior who made it all possible.

Yes, some day.

Chapter 39 A Crusade of a Different Sort

2006-04-03T16:37:00.000-04:00

This open air concept of a church without walls is strange, no doubt, for it challenges historical paradigms and boxes and linear thinking. It has a hoof beat all its own that resonates and even explodes forward, wrenching us from the shadows, the ordinary and the static; it can, at times, quite literally lift us up and out of pews and stone temples and thrust us toward something new and near and palpable.

And so, this peaceful army of ours, perceived or otherwise, departs en masse (with good intentions), on a Crusade of a different sort. We embark, come what may, for the redemption of those He calls us to: the downtrodden, the weak, the victims. We are indeed a contagious, pulsating power -- a force to be reckoned with; and so, in the name of this very peace, we advance, above and beyond fixed fortresses, bearing anxious souls and passionate, bleeding hearts. With our postures leaning outward and onward, we carry our cross of conviction before us, proclaiming that justice and love must prevail over tyranny and oppression.

As inspiring a scene as this is, however, could it be that, intentions notwithstanding, peace speaks too softly? Is peace itself, at times, drowned out by the battle cries of the fervent? Are there some among us who must always fight against something, because some opposing militia should certainly await us, clanging loudly with brandished sword and raised shield? What armed foe are they, that we can and should devour on our conquest?

"Someone must pay for this!" they scream over the throng. "Surely some are assembled, hiding and hunching just beyond that pass, their strategy bent upon our ruin!"

Well, of course, for we know that mankind has always seen fit to raise up, among its ranks, some enemy; some group or cluster who are un-chosen, unworthy, unforgiven -- some likeness to lesser humanity that walk this same earth but somehow deserve less than what we’ve been offered. We must, accordingly, initiate and execute their destruction by matching and raising their hatred, with our very own form of malice and our righteous anger, justified by some ancient indignation.

In the name of our God we march, lifted crosses carried before us!

We must indeed, for they are the blasphemers and the sinners; they believe, sure, but not as we do. Their practices and customs are strange and unconventional -- some other sect or order, some tenet or faith, forcing them to cling to false hopes and phony gods. Their truth is not as it seems for they are blinded by ritual, generational passion, some age old fury.

But, wait.

Does not each creation, in and out of borders and colors and culture, unto all corners of the earth, bear one genetic resemblance, communally, to God? Are we not six billion strong, with hearts once good, traded much too soon for trinkets and transgressions? Did we not, together, endorse some past fall when these common lungs first breathed in and out, rendering us instantly doomed? Were we not all resigned to cower in shadowed corners in fear of Him who made us?

Yes, we were.

But another One came before us who healed all as they came to him, for he knew the prospect of the Kingdom in each. He packed lightly and walked this sod with very little, despite what he could have rightfully carried and crusaded and maneuvered to force his way, to exact his revenge, in front of him and beside him, all sides of him, really, to announce his glory and power; to depict his regalia and magnificence. Yet, he chose another way.

And was not the truth of which he spoke simple and unfettered, beckoning this one and that, some lesser humanity, blasphemers, sinners -- those unworthy others -- to him through promises of freedom, grace and forgiveness?

1 By this time a lot of men and women of doubtful reputation were hanging around Jesus, listening intently. 2 The Pharisees and religion scholars were not pleased, not at all pleased. They growled, "He takes in sinners and eats meals with them, treating them like old friends." Luke 15: 1-2 ~ The Message

Will we beg off from such a feast? What perceived sinner, different from us, from here or there, of doubtful reputation, will take our place at the table while we wring our scholarly hands together, clinging to our rules and regulations and assumed rightful seats? Who will sneak in ahead of us while we shout and hold our cross high?

Who among us will wrestle control from the Almighty?

And so, let the dust settle among this frenzied gathering. Let us, for now, lower our swords, remove our helmets and bring the horses to water. Inhale deeply the truth of a gentle, unassuming Christ, the One who knew of those stone temples and the laws within, yet also knew of something new and near and palpable; the One who smiled as he told stories and bucked custom and convention; yes, he, the very One who lifted his hand to caress faces, to muss up mops of hair, to carry burdens.

As we embrace and adopt his practices, let's advance this congregation with nary a mention nor posture of vengeance, lest it be directed solely at the dethroning of a dark prince, of evil incarnate -- not those whom he may inhabit with his lies, his deceit and his cruelty. (Therein lies a Crusade most worthy of our zeal).

We are a burgeoning assembly indeed, a collective influence fueled by Another, but we must realize that the cross we carry in front of us may be better served in our back pockets, to gently emerge when the time is right, when the questions are asked, as relationships and community grow tender; as we seek out the margins, the individual, the very creation and prized possession of God. We must inherently know this sin we carried, once forgiven, is cheapened if that very grace is not offered freely to the ones we seek on His behalf.

So, yes, absolutely, challenge paradigms, break out of boxes, color outside the lines; embrace a new beat and bust out of the ordinary and the static. But please, as you lift yourself up out of your pew, carry not that raised cross if it represents judgment or revenge, and nothing of Him.

A Good Spring Thaw

2006-03-29T09:05:00.000-05:00

As I've mentioned before, my favorite season is actually the beginning of each one. So, here I am, again, ready and more than willing to accept a good spring thaw.

Winter is, all too often, stubborn, of course, with its departure, especially in the Midwest; it has a tenacious manner about it, overlapping its gray much too far into the spaces of spring.

And so, it's true for me, and, perhaps you, that because of this, we need to invite spring, shout out to it, desperately, and demand that it take its rightful place outside our window, throughout our days, even amongst these weary and subversive souls of ours.

There's also a need for honest anguish here, at least on my part, to describe and yes, even confess arctic hopelessness carried over from weeks of hibernation. Yet in its wake, I must not go lightly nor surrender in silence to these seasonal, stagnant sentiments.

Everything in me must scream for re-birth, renewal, awakening!

So, while there's nothing new or original in what follows, indulge me, please, because this conglomeration of personal pleadings from posts gone by is just one way I go about my own thawing out.

It's time for winter to be over and done with, don't you think?

~*~*~*

With the gray of the morning, I’m ashen too, and forever at odds, it seems, with who you are, as if the breathing in of One who just is holds no bearing, no advantage, no explanation.

Yet I write, for this art must paint you. My design is known by you, as is my longing to contain you and bring form to the formless, to rip light and its shadows from voids, to color the dull.

Fall down upon me now and create the weight of something -- anything -- for me to bear a piece of you. Draw near in some fashion, beyond these whimsies and conjecture, for this appetite will not be satiated with trinkets or toys. Put skin upon your flock and multiply their numbers; time their rhythm with mine, for I crave some companionship this day, of the supernatural sort.

Bring tension to this story, I beg; release some rising action that will at once invite resolution and a looming epilogue to cap this enduring, timeless struggle.

I am crushed into the realization that my humanity, more often than not, bears no resemblance to that which you intended. I should daily die but, instead, every other day perhaps, I grasp and claw and fight my way into my will of living, the very resolve that is manmade, centric focused, self-fulfilling.

Reveal yourself to me once more, for I’m thrashing about beneath these wanderings and taunted endlessly by one who hides you from me. Offer peace to these members and calm to this spirit; cocoon me away in your infinite reality for musings of the human sort render no such comfort.

I am tired. I am beaten. My eyes grow weary and blurred; my breathing becomes labored at times. My legs are heavy as I climb the stairs toward something, anything above and beyond this moment.

I watch as the chapters of this story reach their glorious heights only when I realize quite shockingly that I am not the Author. Yes, surprisingly, you do a much better job than someone such as me, with my feeble existence, my limited tolerance, my pathetic shell. Even as I write this, I plead for something, anything to help me describe you.

Help me depict you, because as it is, my mind bounces this way and that as I cower at the thought of you. My writing is sporadic, stunted, all over the place, yet nowhere as I try to capture you, as I search to contain you.

As I get out my bucket and shovel and begin to work on my sand castle, you form a mountain with your bare hands. While I retrieve my crayons and my construction paper, you sweep your fingers across the sky and make a prism of color unlike any other. While I blow my hot air, you breathe into the wind and engulf me into your embrace. While I puff on my horn and beat my drums, you summon nature to cascade and ripple and resound with the harmony of the ages.

You shock me, beckon me, and pull me by the ear. You embrace me, tap me on the shoulder, smack me on the bottom to get in the game. You place your hand on the small of my back, or turn me to face you. You stand in front of me, beside me, shield me, and nurture me. You even get out of my way.

You give me a free will to sin and so I do. But as one sin falls on top of another and they multiply and grow arms and legs and tentacles you never stop taking me back. I am wounded, limping for a lifetime, in fact, but there you are, down the road, on one knee, weeping as I run toward you. You’re so happy that I’m back. I run so fast to you that I knock you over when I get there, and we laugh.

Your lap is imminently ready to be crawled into, your chest large and comfortable to lay my head. You sit at my table, occupy my grief, and circumvent my catastrophes.

But I can’t mistake you for any other. No, I dare not try because you will deafen with thunder and you will rebuild kingdoms and you will not trifle with sin. Yours is a mighty fist attached to a muscular arm that keeps this planet in motion. I shudder at the reality that you are.

I try to capture the beauty of you, but no frame can contain you.

Your love is overwhelming, nearly as vast as you are. You prepare and execute a cosmic change in plans and summon your own beautiful Son to walk this earth and to ride through my imagination. To fix a horrible mess that is mankind; a horrific mess that is me.

Then you turn your back on him. You reject him, your first and only born; your beloved Son, yes, just for me.

So, as I write this, I am tired and I am beaten, but oh, how thankful, how awestruck I should be!

I was not meant to prop myself up, to cling to artificiality, to pigeonhole my way. I was not designed to muscle out of this box. I am fearfully and wonderfully made and I must -- yes, today I must -- find my weakness made strong in all that you are.

So throw back the curtains, let the light pierce the corners! Smack the space rugs and let me watch the dust cascade and tumble into the cleansing wind. Unshackle the back porch and invite in the subtle and benign breezes. Take off the storm door of this heart and soul and hang the wind chimes once again to perform their dance, to find their part in this great orchestra.

Unfold and unravel me! Search me deep within. Turn me upside down. Find me unholy, unworthy, unabashed and take every square inch and reconfigure me.

Reshape and retool me. Sweep away the cobwebs of bitterness, indecision, judgment and pride. Forgive in me the dusty shadows of winter, the cold and frost covered center of my being.

Transform me to your design so that I can join in the rapture of the season.

Chapter 38 When He Took Out His Palette

2006-03-23T08:42:00.000-05:00

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon and the mere silhouette and rhythm of the day suggested that a nap was in order. But, apparently, none would be coming, because Gabe (that mop haired eleven year old of mine), decided it was time to pack up some stuff and drive downtown to the Rialto, for something of a new experience -- a ritual in the making; one that I actually hope endures.

But, before I get to said ritual, my only request was that, on the way, we listen to some Springsteen, because, as you may imagine, it’s of utmost importance that I pass this Boss appreciation onto another generation.

So, he agreed and off we went. But of all the songs available from this particular artist, Gabe decided he wanted to listen to 41 shots (American Skin). And so we did. Over and over and over again. And meaning no disrespect to the subject of the song, I swear he asked me 41 questions about it, one right after another.

If you didn’t know, 41 shots is a haunting allusion to a 1999 tragedy involving four NY City police officers who shot an African immigrant outside of his apartment in the Bronx. They fired 41 shots, killing him of course (although only 19 shots actually hit him). He was reaching for his wallet, but the police thought it was a gun, and he fit the profile of someone they were after, and, well, enough said. It was a painful time for the police department, the City itself and race relations in general.

It was an even more painful time for Kadiatou Diallo, who lost her son. His name was Amadou, and he was only 23.

After hearing the facts of the case, Gabe was righteously mad at the cops, mad at the world and mad about the number of times they shot Amadou. So he ranted and raved, just like he does with other perceived injustices in his life. I wanted him to have a measured perspective, though, and so we talked about how each person involved must have felt; and I couldn't have scripted it any better because this led to a deep discussion about race and skin color and prejudice, not just in New York but all over the world. And I wondered to myself right then and there if his world view was being shaped before my very eyes. Sometimes that happens, even when you’re eleven.

Maybe he’ll make music someday about discrimination and the downtrodden and the underdog, just like Bruce. And that would be more than alright with me.

But, I digress.

The conversation lasted nearly all the way to the Rialto, and while Gabe fumed, I took in the subtle changes evolving with each passing mile, as expansive courts and boulevards slowly shrunk into city streets and alleyways; where despite narrow passageways, a colorful berth opened big and wide with the acceptance of varying pigments of skin. South Calhoun Street, in particular, is so diverse at times that you could easily imagine a certain Someone has placed you in some type of incubator for a crash course in cross cultural awareness.

You see, Fort Wayne just so happens to be a resettlement city for international refugees, and so, each year, hundreds of people from distant places and continents find their way here to make a home. They come from Burma, Vietnam, Laos, Columbia, Peru and various African and European nations. They receive $400 per person from the U.S. Government, and some initial assistance for their first six months here, and after that, they’re on their own. Many don’t speak English and are even pre-literate in their native tongue. Some, from tribal cultures, well, they’ve quite literally been dropped off into a city like mine that might as well be located on another planet. They’re confused by city streets, and neon signs, and traffic and thermostats and technology; not to mention the fact that they’re still stinging from the loss of family members and suffering from the cause of their refugee status, whether it was war or famine or ethnic cleansing.

And so, if I’ve never told you before, well, here’s the sidebar scoop: The Reclamation Project, the story of which is told throughout the pages and chapters that precede this, simply exists to offer friendship, life skills training, employment, and ultimately home ownership for our new international neighbors. Many of these dear people have started to rebuild their life right around the Rialto, and so we keep working on that crazy old porn theater, different colors and creeds side by side; to not only elevate attention to their needs today, but to hopefully house all of these efforts within its walls tomorrow.

By the way, please don’t think me noble for starting this organization because, quite frankly I stumbled backassward into it while attempting to find Jesus, or more appropriately, while I was I perfecting and promoting the ritual that was my faith.

But, getting back to the ritual at hand, the very one in the making, you should know that the timing of our discussion regarding 41 shots and race relations and such seemed a bit odd, or maybe serendipitous, when held up against the reason for our trip to the Rialto. It’s just that, well, Gabe got a pellet gun for Christmas, a double action semi-automatic Crossman Repeat Air CO2 rifled steel pistol, to be exact; a rite of passage for boys his age. And living in Suburbia with its associations and its rules has essentially kept him from actually shooting it anywhere.

So, three months later, we were off to the broken down movie house to shoot his new gun, inside, amidst the debris and the rubble and the scaffolding and such. We set up cans and milk cartons everywhere and put on our goggles and turned on the construction lights and had a big old time of target practice, right in the same spot where fifty years ago, I suppose kids of all ages watched John Wayne shoot his trusty gun.

But despite this scene, there are just some songs, especially when you hear them a gazillion times, that you can’t get out of your head. With the repetitious and lingering words of 41 shots still pounding, I watched as Gabe unloaded a few dozen pellets into helpless targets, the irony and the gravity of it all not lost on me for a moment. And yes, I wondered what or who he was shooting at in his imagination, which maybe wasn’t so healthy on the heels of our conversation. I don't know, maybe it was.

Afterwards, we went up on the roof. It was unseasonably warm on that day and so we kneeled for a long time without speaking, behind the old brick parapet walls, and we looked down together at the streets below. Walking south on Pontiac were two African refugees, from Chad, both of whom have helped regularly with work days at the Rialto. We waved at them, Gabe and I, and they waved back with beautiful smiles of hope and recognition that lit up the corner.

Just across the street, an Asian family was unloading supplies to take into their market.

Just south, down Calhoun one block, an ambulance was taking an Hispanic man away from a Mexican restaurant, his loved ones looking on with concern.

The city was alive and vibrant, its rhythm rich and its beat resounding with culture and diversity, right here on the corner of Calhoun and Pontiac in Fort Wayne, Indiana. Gabe and I were fortunate enough to be looking down upon a microcosm -- a bird's eye view of maybe what God intended when He took out His palette and His brush and His paints, with each color offering unique tints and shades and bold splashes of radiancy -- on their own, perhaps, or mixing, complimenting one another. From what I know of the color of my skin, and the God who created me, this whitish, peachy, ruddy exterior of my body was always meant to accent another hue; not to dominate it, but instead to bleed and saturate into it, to overlap and bring texture and tone and, yes, beauty in the very mosaic harmony that the Artist intended.

That’s quite simply why the call of this corner never fails to reach me way out on the corner where I live, as it beckons me from the uniformity of my safe and soft lair; it’s nearly palpable at times -- haunting even -- like the mythological Siren’s voices. But, by comparison, what invites me and what awaits me here is always good and promising and true.

~~~

So, in this wandering chapter, much like the bleeding and the saturating of colors, Springsteen songs have overlapped into righteous anger; and rites of passage have evolved into warm smiles from African immigrants. I'm not sure that I'm left with any solid answers because really, the racial injustice of this globe we walk on is almost too much to absorb, to take in, to grasp. The wounds seem too gaping to ever heal, and if one gash should miraculously mend, it seems another is ripped wide open. Different colors and different customs have rendered us broken, seemingly until the end.

The only thing I know to do is to keep at it, little by little. To somehow make this town a more accepting place; to bust out of silhouettes and rhythms and begin enduring rituals that give birth to healthy discussions, new experiences, side by side immersion in different cultures and maybe, just maybe, appreciations which can hopefully be passed on to another generation.

41 shots

41 shots....and we'll take that ride

'cross this bloody river to the other side

41 shots...

cut through the night

You're kneeling over his body in the vestibule

Praying for his life

Is it a gun, is it a knife

Is it a wallet, this is your life

It ain't no secret It ain't no secret

No secret my friend

You can get killed just for living

In your American skin

41 shots

Lena gets her son ready for school

She says "on these streets, Charles

You've got to understand the rules

If an officer stops you

Promise you'll always be polite,

that you'll never ever run away

Promise Mama you'll keep your hands in sight"

Is it a gun, is it a knife

Is it a wallet, this is your life

It ain't no secret It ain't no secret

No secret my friend

You can get killed just for living

In your American skin

Is it a gun, is it a knife

Is it in your heart, is it in your eyes

It ain't no secret

41 shots...

and we'll take that ride

'Cross this bloody river

To the other side

41 shots... got my boots caked in this mud

We're baptized in these waters

and in each other's blood

Is it a gun, is it a knife

Is it a wallet, this is your life

It ain't no secret It ain't no secret

No secret my friend

You can get killed just for living

In your American skin

~~ Bruce Springsteen

Chapter 37 Surrendered to Live Again

2006-03-13T11:27:00.000-05:00

The smell of leather is earthy and real, and the consistency of its aroma spans time and fashion and, I suppose, even these socioeconomic gaps of our own making. Most everyone has held or owned something of leather; perhaps to wear, to sit on or walk upon. Maybe to find warmth or just hold between fingers.

And so, I think it's safe to say that its scent, its essence and the very feel of it permeates our collective senses; the skin of a beast conquered once to surrender flesh and grain, to live again -- tanned, conditioned and softened for our comfort and enjoyment. Whether new, slightly used, or tempered with age, it just is what it was, in a simple sort of way.

Maybe because of this, in no small part, the smell of leather always makes me think of something, or more appropriately, a certain Someone -- the very One who came to see me today on my 39th birthday, an unseasonably warm Saturday, to offer me a view from the back of his ride. It seems a birthday should be the best day for this, though, frankly, I need it every day.

His weathered leather jacket was on, of course, and it’s black, as you might expect, with a sweet aroma, like pine and smoke from distant fires. It's soft to the touch, perhaps from time and wind, road and grime, or maybe from hands and the embracing arms they’re attached to, reaching from the back of that seat, hanging on, gripping to him tightly, at times. It's also quite cracked in places, a reminder of its origins, revealing strength and covering all the same. The shoulders of it seem the most tender, as if the cheeks of one such as I and even my uncertain, masculine tears have broken them in -- the very tears that well up out of shame and then release; gratitude and rejoicing. Or maybe it's the oils from my skin, and perhaps yours, mixing and congealing to form our mere humanity, massaging and kneading the hide of another.

And so, that very leather scent wafted itself lightly above him as I climbed on the back of his Harley. We were off to no special place today, he said; perhaps just a jaunt down a side country road, or two, to feel the wind and to breathe in horizons as we passed by hopeful soybean fields, all with anxious soil, one after another.

We didn’t speak for some time. I almost thought we wouldn’t, which would have been alright, I suppose.

But then he said, out of a certain blue, “Happy Birthday, Jeff.”

It seemed odd coming from him, I must admit.

“Thanks.”

And then, I had to ask again, knowing the answer, but still needing to relax.

“Where are we going?”

“Nowhere in particular,” he answered. “I just wanted to take you for a ride on a great day and tell you that I love you. And that’s all, really.”

I didn’t know how to respond, but I blurted out the usual: “I love you too,” because I do, in case you’re wondering. I just have to imagine it and slow down enough to feel it; you know, to make it real for me. I'm not particularly proud of that.

He accelerated and I held on tight, trying to enjoy the ride, but I knew before long that I would need more than these exchanges of affection with the One I trust and follow after.

A few miles of silence passed by and we came to a four way stop, a county road crossing, perhaps designed with the anticipation of more traffic than this. The only sound was the low idle of that Harley engine, and we were the only souls around with ears to hear it. It seems he was riding aimlessly but full of purpose to calm me down, to breathe him and his leather in, to witness the creation of his Father.

But I couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“Speak to me.” It came out more desperate than I thought it would. “Please -- I just can’t seem to get it right these days.”

Sometimes a birthday accentuates that, if you know what I mean.

The coast was clear, of course, and so he accelerated and I'm pretty sure he said something in response but I couldn’t quite catch it, with my ears, you know, over the rumble (even though deep inside, I felt it).

“What?” I asked, playing dumb.

He turned a little, his right cheek over his shoulder, down by my face and he said it once more:

“You’re right by me.”

I leaned or maybe I reeled back a little. I’m right by him? Well, of course I am. I couldn’t get any closer on the back of this motorcycle if I tried. Or, did he mean I’m right by him?

He leaned into turns, and so did I, just like you’re supposed to, and together we passed by more fields, some with muddy cows, lonely barns and farm houses, over hills and into low lying clouds. I shifted my weight, thinking about what he said, pressing my cheek once more against his shoulder as he protected me from the wind, temperate as it was.

Then it struck me as we turned back toward home that it really didn’t matter which one he meant; whether it was proximity or my perceptions of performance, I was right by him and on this birthday of mine I believe that was the greatest gift, really; one of mostly silence and surrender, a ride to remember and to know that I'm redeemed, purchased at a cost and quite precious to him. And that he’s close too, because he is, closer than anyone ever will be, and he's as beautiful as I imagine him to be, for this essence of him is much like that sweet smell of leather which permeates my senses and I hope yours, as collectively we're reminded of him often -- earthy and consistent and real, his very humanity spanning time and fashion and I suppose other gaps of our own making.

It's true, I was embracing a man who was conquered once, scarred in places to remind me of his origins, surrendered to live again -- not only two thousand years ago -- but right now, for me to cling to and embrace, because he is who he was, in a simple sort of way. And he came to take me for a ride so I could be reminded of that.

And who he is, well, let me just say, it made this birthday the best day.

Chapter 36 A Certain Type of Lifeguard

2006-03-10T11:24:00.000-05:00

A while ago, I wrote about a certain type of lifeguard. Pardon me for doing this, but I need to mess around with the metaphor a little -- because, well, I just do.

I was a lifeguard once and let me just say for the record that it was a pretty cushy job; you know, sitting in the sun with lots of authority. For three whole summers I possessed certain mysterious powers -- not only did I know how to blow my whistle at just the right time, but I had an uncanny ability to get a perfect tan while I protected the weak from the dangers of the open water. Everyone knew that if it should all go down, I was the man with the red shorts on.

In my case, thankfully, I never had to save a soul. By the end of the third summer, I wasn’t even sure if I remembered how to save a soul.

Still, the one thing I’ll take with me for a lifetime is the feeling, the hunch, the sensation that when I'm by the water, I just know that someone is about to drown. And since I'm expecting the worse possible scenario, well then, no one should be having any fun under my watch; because, come on, if they’re having too much fun they might go under. Accordingly, I keep the frivolity in check and I suppose I blow my pretend whistle. Repeatedly.

I actually observed this in myself and it scared me enough to write it down. As if somehow identifying it might break the pattern. For instance, as a father of four, if my kids are getting a little out of control with their frolic and fun in the sun, I’ve noticed that I'm often more prone to watch and warn instead of participate. I may not have a whistle around my neck but I might as well get one. I’m barking orders like crazy:

“Stop that, you’ll break your neck!”

“You two -- separate!”

Stop hitting, stop kicking, stop splashing, stop doing whatever it is that’s about to cause great harm to your body.

Unfortunately, this can play out well beyond parenting. It applies to the church too. We can very easily become the wrong kind of lifeguard church. Why? Well, here’s the thing. When I was a lifeguard, I sat up high where no one else could come. I knew the rules or at least I pretended that I did and I enforced them from my perch. I stopped all running, rough play, diving, chicken fights and basically everything that made being a kid (or even an adult) fun. I didn’t get involved with the melee because someone had to be responsible. I didn’t get into water to cool off because I might have missed someone drowning. I was the heavy and everyone knew it.

And so, with that mentality, all too often lifeguards and I suppose churches made up of people like me just speak when they choose, and much prefer to be the one controlling the dialogue. If interrupted, we speak in short sentences because we don’t want to make eye contact and take our other eye off the shoreline of "spirituality" for too long. We don’t have time for the common man below us and the non-lifeguard-ish messy issues they bring us, so we stay detached, hiding behind our mirrored lenses and our stained glass windows. We do our thing best when we're on the outskirts and watch with our eagle eye because we’re in control and we’re special. And everyone becomes more used to the barking of our voice and the shrill pitch of our whistle than the touch of our skin. Maybe they’ll try drowning a little so that at least we’ll come and be with them, even under false pretenses.

Or maybe they'll just swim far enough away that the whistle and the shouting and the rules and the orders are just a faint memory.

So, I guess these are just some questions we need to ask of ourselves, because we know that we’re the church.

As the church, are we just basking in the sun with lots of authority?

Do we consider ourselves better than others, blowing our judgmental whistle at just the right time, while pretending to protect the weak from the dangers of the great big open water?

Do we perceive others that aren't like us as having too much fun out there, so it's time for us to step in and warn them of the great harm they're about to do to their body instead of just listening and joining in to see if the fun, is actually, well, fun, and maybe not so bad afterall?

Do we only jump in when we perceive that people are drowning? Do we care about the ones that swam away, or do we only blame them for not trusting our ability to save them?

Are we guilty of allowing the bark of our voice to replace the touch of our hand?

I guess what I’m trying to say is that if you and I spend enough time like this, we run the risk of becoming that lifeguard of a church who has lost touch from too much time spent sitting in the sun. Maybe by the end we won’t even know if we can still help someone. Maybe everyone will eventually realize that we’re just a bunch of people sitting in a tower with red shorts on and a whistle around our neck and we just blow it a lot and shout orders and we never get in the water. And then the whistle will grow more distant because it loses its meaning when it’s blown too much.

A funny thing happens when we do church from the lifeguard tower. We spend so much time guarding that we miss life.

Chapter 35 To Really Feel and Know This Grace

2006-03-03T15:09:00.000-05:00

This life is messy, no doubt, because of the likes of me and my selfishness; my sin, my attention to these personal wants and needs, this flesh, and perhaps my judgment or loathing of this or that.

Each day of this life blends into a repetitious pattern of weeks and months, on into a year, and in my attempts to curtail this behavior, I imagine my existence as a small loaf of hard crusted bread. I leave crumbs behind as I bite into it, or as I break off a piece; I try to be neat about it, but it’s just impossible, really. As I self consciously work my way to the soft, warm middle, right there on the table with its starched white tablecloth, there are hundreds of tiny reminders of something that was once whole, stark evidence that reveals the mess that I am; my proper table manners once again failing to conceal a beast who cannot be tamed.

And I look at others and the spaces around their plates to see if they’re doing a better job with it; if they have respectable habits at the table, more couth and a certain sophistication.

It’s shameful, really, to leave such a mess on this white tablecloth of my own design, so I want give it over to him, all of it: my crumbs, my messiness, my incapacity to keep tidy and clean about it. I want to bring it to him, my crusty bread, in two hands, reaching out to him, asking once again if he’ll take it and do something with it. You know, use it or put it back together or explain to me why I can never cut or break off a piece cleanly.

And, of course, I know he will. But I’m slow to believe it.

So, I need to actually see him receiving it, taking it from me, and maybe you do too; to really feel and know this grace from the One who gives it, the very One who rides in so nonchalantly and yet full of purpose. If it helps you, then imagine it with me. Close your eyes and shut out the outside noise of it all. Listen instead to something else, for just beyond us is a distant thunder that is approaching; not in divided claps, but deep and steady within the confines of a low rumble.

And when you hear it and you begin to feel it, well, that just makes it all the more actual, because sound and vibration have a way of heralding arrival to these senses; and the flutter on our skin and the uneasy tension in the air halts our breath before he is revealed.

Maybe you sense the crumbs are falling through the spaces of your fingers, just like mine, because I’m holding on tightly, trying to keep it all together, what’s left of it, so that I have something for him to hold of me, to explain, to understand of this inability to fix myself. I squeeze a little too hard in anticipation and more crumbs fall. I feel them hitting my feet and crashing to the ground, loudly, clanging, even these feathered pieces of crust. This necktie, so colorful, masking and tidying me with its rules and regulations, well, it’s just too tight. I can hardly breathe.

We're at a wedding reception.

The wind whips up a gentle, warm presence to insinuate what is unseen is ever true, and warming soil and distant flowerings fill and expand this want of smell. The doors of the reception hall have flown open, billowing curtains and sunlight falling into each other, beckoning the spring to take its rightful place on the fleeing shadow of this long winter’s night.

I open my eyes as he walks in and he sees me holding my brokenness right there in my very own grip, and so he takes the bread with one hand and with the other he guides my own hand to his side, and then this Rider lifts his left shoulder a little to expose his skin and well, there it is again, right where he was broken and pierced, and he tells me not to be shy, that I can touch it and run my fingers through it again and again, without feeling like I’m invading his space. And so I do, like I did that time on the back of his Harley, but this time my crumb filled fingers are on his flesh. And then he takes my small loaf of bread and he breaks it with a smile, because it is done. It is finished, once and for all.

I take my hand off, a little confused, as he says, “Let’s have a party.” He holds up my bread like an offering and maybe it is, and he does a little dance, a jig really; he wants to celebrate because I didn’t hide away this leavened scrap of dough.

Right about then I start looking around me and people are emerging from their tables, the shadows, the corners, the backyards and hidden places; there you are too, and we’re the church and we're all holding bread in both hands, the very crusty kind, walking toward him as pieces fall; white tablecloths begin to reveal crumbs everywhere and they’re on the floor too but it doesn’t matter because the One who should be most concerned about our mess is dancing, right there in the middle of it all, laughing, swinging this one and another around in His arms, and it’s really quite a beautiful scene. He beat this thing quite some time ago, for me and for you, so he's more inclined to get right to the party when we surrender it to him. He's always on the verge of celebrating and I keep forgetting that. So, I stomp on a glass just because I can, just because it fits the mood, and I’ve always wanted to. It shatters and he smiles at me.

The orchestra starts in full swing now, but underneath it all, I hear a cello and it’s low and gentle, muffled like the engine of his ride as it idles.

And I suppose that's just how I really feel and know this grace from the One who gives it.

My Friend Jim

2006-02-22T15:49:00.000-05:00

It occurs to me that I grieve in small, acceptable amounts, such that are befitting a man, or at least a certain type of man. Far be it from me to mourn big and deep like one who’s lost and helpless and, perhaps, desperate. No, not me. Instead, I bury my sadness away and take it out to acknowledge it from time to time; I examine it and appreciate it at arm's length, like I would an old family watch, or a photo in a dusty scrap book.

I'm not proud of my way, trust me, but it's all quite suitable for these masculine, ever-so-reserved emotions that I bear.

And I say this, because, shortly after the planes flew into the World Trade Center, my friend Jim lost all of his life; and while I didn't quite realize it at the time, I lost part of mine. I’ve been accepting this truth in tiny, tolerable doses ever since.

It just so happens that Jim was my best friend growing up, and so, just like childhood, memories of him will always be unveiled in vivid color and stunning detail. We were the Huck and the Finn of Cranbury, New Jersey. The Millstone River ran through my backyard, and if you didn't know this already, rivers and boys are just about as perfect a combination as you could ever want. And so, adventures on the river nurtured a deep friendship that flowed through grade school, meandered into junior high and rushed straight on into the rapids of high school.

Jim and I shared everything, like best friends do, and by everything I mean birthday parties and schemes and backyard forts and trouble. We ventured together into a certain coming of age, and challenged head-on that ever awkward teenage angst; we enjoyed a love of the outdoors, sports, girls and Springsteen concerts. He was with me for that first dance, that first beer, and, well, maybe not too far away from that first anything.

When college came for both of us, we went our separate ways and time and distance eventually caused the inevitable breaking away of a childhood bond. I was married early and became a father, but Jim believed in marrying a bit later, and so he was still dating and enjoying bachelorhood to the fullest while I was changing diapers.

Despite the difference of trajectory, we would still call each other on our birthdays and get caught up, usually at our respective jobs; his from some office up in the hundreds of the World Trade Center; me, from some not so high office in Indiana.

Jim was an analyst with Cantor Fitzgerald and so our conversations were often interrupted mid sentence for him to scream something unintelligible at people around him. He worked in some sort of a bond trading floor, and I later learned that these orders involved the buying or selling of millions of dollars with just one shout. He probably had another phone on his other ear, but he would return to the conversation casually, never missing a beat, multi-tasking his way through the latest on life with his friend living half way across the country. And so, the last time I spoke to Jim was on July 22nd, 2001. He turned 34 that day.

Jim was the oldest of five children and with his job at Cantor, he probably made more money in one year than I would ever make in twenty. He was one of the youngest limited partners in that company’s history, and yet, he drove a modest car and lived in a small apartment in New Jersey. He apparently devised other ways to spend his money, and so he helped with the graduate school tuition of his siblings because he believed strongly in their education. He often loaned his friends money and he doted on his nieces and nephews with abandon. Jim's generosity and loyalty to his family and friends became the prevailing theme of what was remembered of him at his memorial.

I wrote a letter to Jim’s parents after the terrorist’s attack, and I was honored when his father read part of it at Jim’s service:

“As most boys did, we often found ourselves in trouble. We were the masters of many schemes and Jimmy was the natural leader of them all. He was the brave one, often defending me against whatever bully I had provoked. I remember vividly a time when Jimmy confronted a growling dog that was sprinting toward us. He stood face to face with this dog -- unflinching -- while I cowered behind him. The dog met his match and walked away without harm to either of us. Jimmy had a strength that cannot be described. He possessed a natural courage that created a steady, unwavering way about him. I remember, even as a child knowing that he would always be a leader but at the same time a loyal and true friend."

Jim ran with the bulls in Spain and in the New York City Marathon, and he skied all over the world. He lived a large life and he challenged himself on a regular basis. He literally exploded outward, not wanting to miss anything with the time he had.

With my knowledge of Jim, and from what I’ve gathered after the fact, there may have been some time after the planes hit for people in his office to devise some type of escape plan. If one existed, Jim would have found it. But there would be no escape. All exits and paths downward were blocked, and moving upward was found early on to be for naught.

Jim was dating a girl from the office, and I remember seeing pictures later of a young professional couple jumping together from the smoke filled building. It made me wonder, because it wasn’t a stretch for me to imagine him saying: I’m not going out like this. I will not cower and fade away in the smoke. I will not wait for a rescue that’s never going to come.

And so, quite possibly, he grabbed the hand of the one he loved and he died the same way that he lived, exploding outward and experiencing what was left of his life to the fullest.

Literally hundreds of Cantor Fitzgerald employees perished that day. The only physical remainder given to Jim's parents after the debris was cleared was his charred driver’s license, which gets me every time, because how could that be all that's left of such a life?

I write this four and a half years later, because, well, I guess this is just the way I grieve. Moments have tumbled by, many with his memory caught up in the mix. And those memories are starting to catch up with me, and I suppose, overtake me at times. I need to start sorting them out because they're probably all bungled up and tangled now.

So, this piece, as you've noticed, has nothing to do with a new kind of church -- at least I don't think so anyway. I just wanted you to know something of my friend Jim.

It's a tribute that's been a long time coming.

Chapter 34 A Concerto for Dull Senses

2006-02-14T07:50:00.000-05:00

"And the poets down here don't write nothing at all, they just stand back and let it all be."

Bruce Springsteen, Jungleland

The Boss’s Jungleland devises a sweeping tribute to young but tragic love, embraced stylistically in a wandering, epic setting that’s not for the faint of heart. It’s a modern West Side Story adaptation of sorts with a dance of death that takes place in the alleys, beneath the city, deep within the forgotten shadows on the outskirts of the New Jersey Turnpike.

And there on the fringes, just beyond the action, I envision one bearing witness to it all, with a rapid, beating heart and a mournful but imaginative mind, spreading his arms outward, breathing in the eternal inspiration found there, looking toward the heavens with anguished questions that have no answers. Not that he doesn't have the revelation to begin writing; on the contrary, there's simply too much to take in. He doesn't even know where to start.

And so, this poet's soul of mine must certainly die a little by comparison here in the protective, uninspiring enclave of the suburbs, where streets are cleaned of certain grime, corners are lit brightly and drywall conceals unforgiving brick and studded frames; where pretty paint fashions a familiar compromise in the cul-de-sacs and the boulevards while fortunes are made and accompanying institutions are born out of privilege.

I suppose even churches yielded here manifest proper status and fitting repute.

Captive hearts like mine, and perhaps yours beat a little more softly each day in this sanitary world -- to a whisper, perhaps; its walls offer no relief. Somewhere in the midst of this suitable prison, pens are ultimately laid down by dreamers, when, instead, they were surely destined to spring alive, to paint, to fashion a stark description of life with passion, a concerto for dull senses that are desperate to feel something, anything really.

But we should know, you and I, that down in the jungle and the margins, a feast awaits for the hungry, for another Poet has previously formed these muses, once and again, on dusty roads with sandaled feet, choosing not to walk lightly upon pampered, favored floors, but to press flesh to earth with its grit and grunge, to conquer pre-conceived philosophy, refusals and notions of pristine survival.

And in this time we occupy, it’s no different -- we could breathe in the eternal inspiration found there. Why? Because in the underpasses and the miles fading into misfortune, right about there, he waits; his sandals, now worn out boots -- his journey, now oh so Harley-ish.

We’ll undoubtedly look toward the heavens with anguished questions that will often have no answers. Perhaps we’ll simply bear witness and let it all be, with pen in hand, soaking in the revelation found there. Maybe we won’t write nothing at all, but realize in the forgotten shadows and the outskirts is a place that we could call church, with blank pages to engrave deep within -- embraced in an epic setting that’s not for the faint of heart.

* * *

I’m taking my life into my hands as we ride deeper into the bowels of the city. It’s getting dark and this is gang territory, and I’m scared; but then I remember who I’m riding with. Before long he finds them and he’s mingling, talking, listening. He’s not looking for the healthy, but I keep forgetting that.

And it might just be my eyes playing tricks on me, but each time he stops and mingles and talks and listens and puts a hand on a shoulder, he looks like he fits in. He laughs deep and hard and I’d swear he’s known them forever. And I suppose he has.

Chapter 33 You Really Don’t Have to Buy It

2006-01-30T16:16:00.000-05:00

It just so happens that way back when Reagan was putting Carter out of work, I had a paper route. It wasn’t that great of a job, really, if I can be honest, because the pay was terrible and I was out the door before the rest of mankind was even awake, not to mention the fact that if I wasn’t being chased by one of several deranged dogs in the neighborhood, I was negotiating my Puch moped and my basket full of papers through some pretty nasty weather.

On the bright side, I suppose it taught me at an early age something of a gritty, stick-with-it job ethic, because, you see, I actually did stick with it for a full three years during which time the paper had to be delivered with amazing regularity, including weekends and all major holidays.

All of that to say, I really did take pride in my work, and truth be told, I remember being a pretty good paper boy. Not because I took paper boy lessons or anything like that. I think it was just because I didn't know any better.

The paper itself was always dumped in big bundles at the end of my driveway by 4:30 am and I had to trudge down and bring them up to the garage where I separated them and rolled them nicely into rubber bands and then I bagged them individually or double bagged them on rainy days. I would then head out and make sure each paper was delivered by 5:30 in the morning, and by “delivered” I mean that I carried the paper right up to my customer’s welcome mat. I just didn’t think it was right to make them walk to the end of the driveway in their skivvies.

Anyhow, at the time, I honestly believed that these people loved their paper, and I was delivering something special to them, or why else would they be getting it? I was a proud Trentonian representative for cryin’ out loud, so the last thing I wanted was for them to start taking the competing Trenton Times because their paper boy failed them.

By far, though, the worst part of the job was when I had to go around and collect my weekly dues. I always felt like I was interrupting some domestic dispute or intruding into lives and that I was the last person they wanted to see as they scrounged around for some loose change. A lot of times, people simply didn't have the money, so if they were short on that particular day, I would just tell them to catch up the following week. I guess my dad must have fronted what they owed to the paper. It wasn’t coming out of my pocket and maybe that’s why I was so forgiving, come to think of it.

As much as I believed in good customer service, though, it was clear that I was no salesman. That became painfully obvious when a nice lady from the Trentonian was assigned to take me out on a sales drive to add some new homes to my route.

She prepped me for a few minutes, you know, on what to say, as sort of crash course in door to door sales, and then she drove me around while I pointed out the window and identified the houses that weren’t getting our paper. She would park the car and leave it running while I’d walk up the driveway, and she’d wait for me a few steps back, a little like a mom who was out with her toddler on Halloween.

And so, I would give my speech, which usually went pretty well, but I couldn’t help myself at the end. If I sensed any hesitation, which I actually sensed with everyone, I would close with:

“But you don’t have to buy it if you don’t want to.”

So, they wouldn’t.

After a few disastrous attempts like this, the now not so nice Trentonian lady pulled me aside and said that I needed to quit that, or she’d be leaving. I’d never sell anything if I ended with such a ridiculous closer line, as if every thirteen year old should already know that.

I gathered up my courage and went to the next house. I remember it like it was yesterday. I went to the door and I proceeded through my spiel and the compassionate woman inside called her husband over and it looked like they were on the fence about the whole thing. This was my chance to really drive it home and close the deal.

But I couldn’t help it.

“You don’t have to buy it if you don’t want to.”

I heard the paper lady audibly sigh behind me and I was afraid to turn around and see her disappointment. It seemed like an eternity, but ultimately, the friendly but hesitant people inside, like everyone else before them, decided that they didn’t have to buy it if they didn’t want to. So they didn’t.

By the time I turned around, the frustrated Trentonian lady was in her car, and she drove off, leaving me to walk home in shame with the same exact paper route I had before she came. She didn’t even say goodbye.

Not too long afterward, despite my various sales deficiencies, I was actually awarded the coveted and distinguished title of Trentonian Paper Boy of the Week. Now, you should know that the only way I could receive this honor was if someone on my route recommended me. My ability to deliver the paper on time through thick and thin, the little extra niceties and my lax collection practices had apparently paid off. This was a pretty big deal, of course, with my name and picture in the paper and little tidbits about me like my favorite foods and such. I’m not sure if I ever got any new customers from the article, but I bet word got around.

I tell you all of this not necessarily to give you a window into my childhood (though I hope you enjoyed it), but to draw a particular word picture about evangelism and where it fits in with this new kind of church. I know I’m probably preaching to the choir on this, and you really don’t have to buy it if you don’t want to, but we’ve got to stop pitching this salvation thing like we’re a bunch of ineffective sales people.

Let’s take some pressure off ourselves and realize that our job is to get up and get out and regularly deliver something special, with fewer words, to the best of our ability. We always try to slice and dice this faith of ours, to communicate it this way and that, but I’m learning that the best way to go about it is almost as if we don’t know any better; to serve up some consideration and some kindness as we take pride in who we are and Who it is we represent, and to do it in such a fashion that they don’t look elsewhere. Yes, we’ve got an amazing product to offer, don’t get me wrong, but maybe, just maybe, we could go about selling it relationally, so that collective others in our lives take notice of the regularity of our presence and of our commitment to stick with them.

And then maybe we’ll find them seeking us out, despite our inability to render a sales pitch at their door.

I don’t mean to stretch this metaphor until it’s limp and lifeless, but there will always be portions of this job that we like the least. It’s not easy out there. It doesn’t matter where we live, whether we’re rich or poor, old or young, because the truth is that we’ll never be far from neighborhoods and communities with situations that are messy, with nasty conditions to negotiate and domestic disputes to witness; where when we’re present, we qualify as the last people they’d want to see.

But that shouldn’t change who we are.

We represent a Father who allows us to be merciful and compassionate while we’re out there because He’s backing us up, so we can front a little something on His behalf called grace -- free of charge -- to people who are a little down on their luck.

And then, I bet some word will get around.

Chapter 32 The Cold, Uneasy Comfort of Privilege

2006-01-24T11:49:00.000-05:00

Of course I need to be masculine about this, but it just so happens that I have a fabulous pair of shoes, or at least you’d think so as a casual observer. But unbeknownst to anyone but me, and now you, they actually have cracks -- right there in their soles, under each shoe, in the same exact spot.

These shoes aren't that old, so I suppose it's a manufacturer’s defect of some kind, or maybe I just got ripped off by Shoe Carnival. But whatever the reason, I'm always jolted to my senses about the cracks when it's too late, or more specifically, when I feel the wet and grimy cold for the first time on my skin, through my socks, which subsequently become the soggy reminders that will walk with me throughout the day.

Nevertheless, as it should happen, I forgot about this whole crack thing again and wore my fabulous shoes today, and trudged out for yet another cold Tuesday morning on the grittier side of town, to hear and perhaps even feel a different beat; to pray and shiver and imagine in the darkness of an old porn theater.

On my way, I turned south down Calhoun, as I do every Tuesday, and slightly off the subject, I observed, for the umpteenth time, the marquee in front of Poor John’s, which displays quite simply: Exotic Dancers. Now, you should know that other strip clubs in town go to great lengths to dress their facades and mix up their marquee messages; they announce their latest act, draw the men in, keep 'em guessing and whet their appetites with electric images and scrolling enticements. At least that's what I hear, anyway. But not Poor John’s. I think it's safe to say that he misplaced the rest of the letters from his marquee collection some time back in the 70’s. Or, maybe, he's just given up.

I’ve been inside Poor John’s, you know, back when I had to if I wanted to purchase the Rialto, and let me say, for the record, that while I didn’t observe their exotic dancers, I have a feeling there’s some false advertising going on there.

Anyhow, I drove a bit further south, about a mile, and parked in front of the Rialto and right away I noticed some big, imposing icicles hanging from our marquee, which I obviously needed to knock down before we impaled a passerby. I made a mental note to take care of those.

Pretty soon after walking in, as you can imagine, I started to feel something creeping in through the bottom of my shoes, and so I was reminded all at once of my altogether improper choice of footwear for the day. The incredible build up of filth and muck and wet, moldy plaster gunk from the Rialto’s floor slowly attached itself to my clean, warm socks. I knew instantly that I would walk with my very own sludge souvenir throughout the day.

I should really throw these shoes away.

Despite it all, inside, we prayed in the cold, and laughed, and looked at all of the work that college students recently completed in the upstairs. I’m always left amazed by these kids because when I was a college student, the last thing I was thinking about was giving up my Saturday to volunteer at a rotted old theater.

After praying, and after the others had left, I went outside and started swinging and hacking away like an idiot at the marquee icicles with a metal pole that I had found. I got a little angry with myself because I also hit an old light bulb, maybe even an historic one, and it shattered on the ground below. As a side note, I guess it doesn’t matter how old light bulbs are, because they still pop really loud when they break, so that was pretty cool. I cleaned up all of the glass and the ice from the icicles and I couldn't tell which was which after a while. God only knows what I’ve imbedded in my shoe cracks.

Across the street, the man I wave to every Tuesday morning was waiting for his bus and observing my icicle antics. He doesn’t just wave back to me in a casual gesture, this guy; actually, he lifts his whole arm and he leans into it. It’s really more like he’s hailing me as if I drive an imaginary cab. I’ve been over to talk to him before, a couple months ago, when I gave him one of those big golf umbrellas from the trunk of my car, because, well, he was just standing there in a downpour and he was soaking wet.

I decided to go over and talk to him because it was so damn cold and it looked like he was wearing next to nothing.

“I wave to you every Tuesday, but I’ve never introduced myself.” I took my gloves off and shook his hand. “I'm Jeff.”

“I’m Teddy.” There was a bit of an awkward pause. He was shivering, as he held onto his lunch box, or at least I thought it was a lunch box.

“It's cold, isn’t it Jeff?”

“Yes, it certainly is.” I replied. “I'm grateful that we’re almost half way through the winter.”

I didn't quite understand what he said next. So, I asked, “what time does your bus come, Teddy?”

He told me again that it was cold, and then he repeated my name, quite a few times actually. By this point, I wasn't sure what I'd gotten myself into, but I've always been drawn to him, so it didn’t matter. I asked him what he packed for his lunch, which, I know was stupid, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

The question just hung there, like maybe that wasn't a lunch box after all. I never did get an answer, but he repeated my name a few more times and I realized pretty quickly that our conversation probably wouldn't reach normal rhythms, with curiosity and crescendos and such, so I agreed with him again about the cold, and I that I could feel it in my feet, for obvious reasons, but I didn't tell him why.

We stood for a few moments in the early morning darkness, Teddy and I, and then I shook his hand again, this time with my gloves on, and I told him it was nice to meet him.

He looked down at my gloves, because he didn't have any, and this time, even with his teeth chattering, I understood as he said:

“It’s really nice to meet you too, Jeff.”

A man rode by on a Harley right then, I kid you not, but I didn't catch his face. And so, I wondered about a certain Rider who is never too far from the suffering.

I made a mental note to come better prepared next time, with new gloves, maybe, because simply stated, Teddy is a man I see every Tuesday and he’s kind, and he hails me, and well, he’s cold -- not just Tuesday, but probably every day in this Midwestern winter while he waits for a bus in front of the Rialto.

I ran across the street to my car and got in, turned around and headed to work. I passed Teddy again, and as usual, he waved big and wide, maybe even more so than before. My feet were frozen solid, but, as you can imagine, I have nothing to complain about.

I drove north on Calhoun, past some others who were huddled in frozen groups, either waiting a bus or for the health clinic to open; I continued onward, past Poor John's Exotic Dancers marquee and then turned in a westerly direction toward my pleasant side of town, the sun rising behind me. My feet were starting to warm up a bit, a reminder to me that I’m never too far from a reversal of my discomfort.

But the imbedded grit from the Rialto’s floor would obviously last, and my time with Teddy, as simple as it was, would endure in more ways than one; because, you see, I wondered, in a Tuesday morning whirlwind that spanned from an improper choice of footwear to strip club marquees; from icicles to hailing waves -- if perhaps, while we’re attempting to beautify and prim and perfect ourselves as this stunning Bride we're meant to be, that maybe it would be helpful for all of us to get fabulous shoes with cracks in the soles?

We can wear them, unbeknownst to anyone, under this stunning gown of ours.

It’s just that I think as a church we always forget about these transgressions of ours. We need reminders to creep in and jolt us. We need to feel the cold, uneasy comfort of privilege and pride and position coagulating with the gunk of our sin. We need to suffer, if only to recognize the grace which reverses our fortune, time and time again; if only to see how that very grace reveals the true measure of the less fortunate in our midst.

Maybe we need to wear them often to experience the stark reality of this earth we trod; to realize that the true Rider we choose to worship and follow after is never far from those who suffer the most; to remember that while we may go to great lengths as a church to mix up our marquee messages, announce our latest act, draw in casual observers and collective others while we keep 'em guessing and whet their appetites -- truth be told, perhaps more often than we’d like to admit, there’s some false advertising going on there.

So, all of that to say -- maybe I won't throw away my fabulous shoes.

Chapter 31 Of Monkey Men and Winter Doldrums

2006-01-16T17:22:00.000-05:00

Every so often, a gentle stream of consciousness merges headlong into a bubbling brook of random musings. Almost immediately, they've become one, and their competing, congealing waters form a strong, driven, rapids-filled river of raving, rambling reflections.

This is what happens to me when I try to define a word that seemingly began with the spoken language, but it finds its meaning well beyond me, and above me, and certainly before me.

And I say all of this because it just so happens that a few days ago, the breakfast table chat turned to dreams and nightmares and such, mostly because Levi found himself in our room in the middle of the night; at four a.m., to be precise. He was reeling from a nightmare involving a scary man at church, who, apparently while dying, and dressed like a monkey, was screaming “truth!”

I remember putting my hand on Levi's side, right there by his ribcage, and he was breathing in and out, extra deep and heavy. His pulse was racing and his heart was thumping and I wondered if nightmares put an incredible strain on children because it seemed like his heart might beat right out of his little chest. He whispered to me that he couldn’t get the image of the monkey man out of his head, and so he crawled into bed next to me and we talked instead of ice cream and sundaes and different flavors for each day, and this seemed to help him. This helped me too, because the whole monkey man thing was freaking me out.

When I asked him about it later that morning, he didn’t remember a thing. He just woke up in our bed and that was fine with him, his heartbeat apparently back to normal.

Chloe, on the other hand, while chewing on her bagel, piped in for anyone who would listen, that she had no such dream. She had just black.

I looked at her mother, sipping her coffee, and mouthed out the words. She had just black?

Kristie explained to me that this meant she had nothing. No dreams, no nightmares. Just black.

Of course, of all the potential for nighttime visions, whether they be good dreams, run of the mill dreams, just black, or even nightmares about dying church men in monkey suits screaming “truth,” I do think there’s something of truth itself in dreams; some seemingly random but unbiased, unfiltered combination of sound bytes and rapid images and fleeting feelings delivered by frayed neurons at a time when we’re basically helpless. We just get what we get, paralyzed victims in a way, lying there in the dark, forced to watch, usually in living color. It is as if God has our utmost attention, and he’ll use that time as He pleases, to remind us of deep impressions from the day as He dances over us; and from it we’ll awaken with our very own riddle to unfold and interpret -- to figure out, or I suppose, forget.

Sometimes, as nightmares have their way, I wonder if He even reveals His truth by granting some leeway to another, a certain someone with evil intent, as a byproduct of sin, of some dalliance, of this broken world with its compromised nature.

Maybe it’s apropos of nothing, but right about now, to be writing about dreams, actually having just black seems to fit -- because, well, it just so happens that I’ve been in a bit of a funk. I need to wake up from it, as if, perhaps, some cosmic finger has hit the pause button and here I am, waiting to propel forward -- like I'm some flailing amoeba in a Petri dish.

I could blame it on the winter, I suppose. Maybe I just need something to rouse me from this hibernation. Something to get my heart pounding. Something to quicken my pulse. You might know the feeling.

Last night, for what it's worth, I did dream that I couldn’t find the on-ramp for the northbound lanes on the highway. Everything seemed to head south. I would stop in the town square and I would ask for directions and people everywhere were walking their dogs and they would smile at me like I was an idiot and point. Turn here, and then there, they’d say, as if the entrance had been there all along. And I’d get on, satisfied and relieved, only to find I was back on the ramp heading south again. So I’d get off at the next exit and I’d return to a crazed circle, much like the aforementioned flailing amoeba.

Dreams like that, and often the toiling we endure in these funks of ours makes me think of a verse, in the book of Jude, that perhaps we’re just wild ocean waves leaving nothing on the beach but the foam of our shame; lost stars in outer space on their way to a black hole. (Jude 1:13, The Message)

This whole thing troubles me, really, because I wonder what truth God might be trying to whisper. We all know He uses dreams quite often, and He always has, all the way back to the beginning.

But enough about me and my dream. Levi’s nightmare begged some ethereal question for me, and that is, what really is truth, aside from the fact that a dying monkey man in church was screaming it? I realize this is very deep and introspective, but I hope you'll give me an umbrella of grace, if only for a moment.

So, here's what I think: Whatever truth is, it would seem that, at the very least, we’ve watered down its meaning. The pursuit for all that’s supposed to be true has become less of a search and more of a peeling away. Little by little we uncover layers of the truth onion. What’s true is what we’re destined to find exposed beneath the surface. With each peel we get closer to the real stench of it. It burns our eyes and it makes us cry.

Because of this ongoing quest to unbury it, what we discover of truth has evolved into something pretty disappointing. We want our kids to tell us the truth, but really, if we were honest, the truth is something we’d rather not hear. Far from being limited to children, we plead with stiff upper lips to those closest to us that they give us the truth. Give it to us straight. And in the aftermath of this so called truth, we promise that we’ll love them anyway.

Prosecutors promise the public that they’ll deliver the truth to the juries of the world so that the accused of the world can receive their just punishment. The witnesses for the prosecution, and I suppose the defense, swear to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

We walk through our daily lives with the best intentions of revealing our true selves and searching for the true character of those we love. I don’t know about everyone else, but I’m not too excited about the prospect of people finding the true me. It’s messy in there and not at all what truth should be.

Truth is what everyone is trying to get at it, but I’m convinced it eludes most of the seekers. Truth has become plain ugly. Even a beer company has been telling us that their brand is, in a word, true.

But there has to be another option. There is, in fact, and this is what I’m getting at, because I believe that God is behind everything true. I think we’ve collectively lost sight of the fact that God defines the word, because He is truth.

So, could it be that Levi’s nightmare about a dying monkey man in church screaming "truth" has served no other purpose than for me, and, hopefully now, you, to dissect and analyze and examine as a new kind of church the mere fact that God is the true meaning of true?

I think so, because He is what we’re looking for, desperately searching for in fact as we circle around and around, trying to find the right on-ramp. He is behind what is good and yes, true, the very One who dances over us as we lay paralyzed, unable to propel forward. He is who we crave when we’re reeling from a nightmare. He is deep and dark at times, of course, but He fashions the pulse through our veins, causing the hearts of young and old to beat wildly and nearly out of our chests at times. Yet, He is gentle; He puts his hand there, at our side, as we stumble to Him, frightened and alone. He wants us to crawl next to Him and figure out a better way to look at things.

He is why we often get frustrated with the minute details that keep us apart from each other, from entering into real community -- the very gaps that evolve into denominational divides, because most of it draws us away from His truth. Why? Because He was, He is, and He will always be what propels us forward and beyond this blackness, this aimlessness, this funk and this wildly rambling gaggle of thoughts and visions, of dreams, of nightmares, of monkey men and winter doldrums.

In it all and through it all I must break through this melancholy and remember just this one thing, the very One who is truth.

Maybe this whole thing seems a bit surreal, and in fact, dream-like, even just black; or maybe, just maybe, it will be one of the deep impressions from our day, and from it we’ll awaken with our very own riddle to unfold and interpret -- to figure out, or God forbid, forget.

All of this to say, that, well, I just think truth finds its meaning well beyond us. And above us.

And certainly before us.

Chapter 30 Where I Least Expect Him

2006-01-09T12:02:00.000-05:00

It was Sunday morning and there was a blur of beauty and a scent of her that wafted over me, half awake, in a lingering sort of way.

You see, her voice is rather angelic, and mine is not, and so she was off to worship team practice, well before daylight, leaving me quite alone to manage four children and all of their pre-church preparations -- including, but certainly not limited to: breakfast serving, kitchen clean-up, refereeing, wardrobe selection, hair design, shoe tying, winter wear adornment and the like. I’m not complaining, nor condoning my incompetence, really; it’s just that she’s much better at these chaotic multi-task-out-the-door-in-some-semblance-of-order kinds of things. She just is.

All the same, as a consolation, a miniature four year old look-alike somehow wandered into the bed not long after her mother’s departure, and that was more than alright with me. She snuggled in tight and we drifted off periodically until the reality of the morning rush was upon us.

It's true, I go through this crazed routine about once or twice a month, and you'd think I'd eventually get the hang of it. But for the most part, it's a mad scene. Nonetheless, I somehow manage each time to corral them into the minivan, looking somewhat respectable and presentable, for the 25 minute ride to a building we call church. We usually listen to secular music on the way, which I suppose reveals the rebel in me. I do choose from the more redemptive of our rock selections, for our Sunday drive, as if that matters -- you know, if you were thinking about judging me.

Of interest, though, about half way through the trip, without fail, we'll come across a group of convicts who are assembling at an informal staging area near a local quarry -- a low security chain gang of sorts, preparing to embark on their tour of duty; to pick up trash and serve a small portion of their sentence by beautifying the highways and by-ways of this town. They wear reddish orange vests as their scarlet letter, and a guard marches behind them with a steely eye and a scary looking gun.

And so, Coldplay was waxing poetic about something or another as we passed the prisoners this particular Sunday, and wouldn't you know it, the One whom we would worship that day had parked his ride on the shoulder and he was sipping his coffee and already laughing with them, and, of course, fitting in like he usually does. He was trying on one of their vests, if you can believe it, goodheartedly identifying himself with them. I slowed the van, mostly out of surprise, because he still tends to show up where I least expect him to. And come on, can you blame me? It was Sunday morning, for crying out loud.

I caught his eye as we idled by. There was no judgment there, no pretense, just a look of longing for me to join in; to get it, to do it, or maybe, to just learn from it.

I stared in the rear-view mirror as we passed and this modern day Jesus and the prisoners he befriended started their march in the grassy ditches and the gravelly shoulder of the road. He went with them, helping them, right away in fact, by picking up debris from some thoughtless driver. I imagined his conversation among them, as he moved from one to the next; taking off his new orange vest and holding it up as a word picture, maybe; or even leading an impromptu discussion on the side of the road, during a break; with all of them, or just a few.

This blur of beauty I passed by left me feeling half awake and quite alone as I finished the trip to church. It’s not that it wasn’t right, our destination, to be among his followers, to ensure my children were taught in the Word; to worship Him, and I suppose, truth be told, to be shallow and marvel at how beautiful my wife was on stage. It’s just that he was picking up crap on the side of the road, a friend of prisoners, walking with them and talking about a different type of freedom. And laughing too, as if this should be fun; loving them, just as much as he loves me.

And me, well, I was on my way, this Sunday morning, ever so respectable and presentable, left wondering instead about church, of crazed routines, and perhaps, chain gangs in general.

Even those of our very own making.

Chapter 29 Rockier Than Once Thought

2006-01-05T12:08:00.000-05:00

What else can we do now?
Except roll down the window
And let the wind blow
Back your hair

Well, the night's busting open
These two lanes will take us anywhere
We've got one last chance to make it real
To trade in these wings on some wheels
Climb in back
Heaven's waiting down on the tracks

Oh-oh, come take my hand
We're riding out tonight to case the promised land

Oh-oh Thunder Road oh Thunder Road...

Bruce Springsteen, Thunder Road

Inspiration uncovers its source quite often in the usual places, and so, please forgive this Jersey boy as he regresses to the turbulent sounds of his youth.

Time and time again.

It's just that, well, this adventure that meanders towards a new kind of church, it too finds its way back, again and again, to one road, rockier than once thought; it's an open air concept, really, of finding faith and redemption in the trenches, off the beaten path, in the ditches, the underpasses; fused with a suspension of self, injected once and for all with a steely resolve to seek and search out the hurting, to love and serve them, often blindly and certainly unapologetically.

Quite honestly, what else can we do now, as a congregation, but acknowledge that this is it?

Indulge me, one more time if you will, the words of the Boss, because this night of ours is busting open; and whatever he originally meant by that, right about now, in my town and yours, we’ve got one last chance to make it real.

What keeps us from getting this? What wings have lifted us above this fray, to look down loftily in judgment upon the least of these, perhaps unintentionally, but certainly palpably? Of course it didn't begin with malice or ill intent, so, perhaps it was simply a passage of time, of ennui, of sloth? Or maybe, it was a subtle generational or denominational influence bearing down its sophisticated authority over us, its hapless victims?

Can we, must we, trade in these wings of lies on some wheels of truth, and embrace the veracity of the road, its asphalt, its gravel and grime, even grasp and claw if we need to toward the gut level grit of the Gospel? Can we concede that the calling out of our glory reveals little of self advancement or aggrandizement, but for the cause of justice and ultimately the fame and recognition of the Rider?

If so, roll down the window with me this new year, and let the wind blow back your hair. Better yet, climb with me on the back of a Harley that roars and rumbles and reveals at last that the heaven we can know right now is waiting down on the tracks, in the margins -- and together there, yes right about there, we’ll find those who are unlovely, unwanted, downhearted and lonely, with gazes to be lifted, shoulders and backs to be bolstered, and hope to be born out of the ashes of abandonment.

Believe it with me, that these two lanes will take us -- not just anywhere -- but to the one true place we've always known was just off the beaten path. Let's take each other's hands and case this promised land together.

Call it Thunder Road if you want. I'm sure the Boss won't mind.

Chapter 28 The End of This Traffic, Part 2

2005-12-23T10:54:00.000-05:00

So, I wipe my eyes and blame it on the wind, as if he’d even buy that, and I follow him inside the adjacent storefront on the north side of the Rialto. We sit in some old regal looking chairs that a law firm donated; they've always seemed a little out of place, but the price was right.

We have space heaters running from time to time, but it’s still so friggin' freezing in the Rialto. As if it wasn’t cold enough outside, the terrazzo stone floors inside are six inches deep and, so, as you can imagine, they forgive nothing. We might as well be sitting on a block of ice.

He tells me he brought me here because he wants to revisit the whole relocation thing that we talked about the last time we were downtown (the very topic I was hoping he’d forget), to help me further grasp this idea of a new kind of church. As a side note, from a mere environmental standpoint, I can think of at least a dozen warmer places for us to have this talk, but I assume he knows what he’s doing.

Wasting no time, he launches into the topic at hand, and how this all plays into justice -- or more appropriately -- a just distribution of resources. On that note, I just presume he’s going to explain how you and I, the collective we, pay our taxes, or tithe, and then, how he takes that money and redistributes it through the government, or churches and non-profits, like this one or that, so that people who have next to nothing can heal from brokenness, rebuild their lives and learn new skills, and essentially be comforted during a rough time.

And maybe even find the Jesus that’s sitting right smack dab in the imaginary front of me.

You're close, he says, nice try, in fact. But justice is more than giving your money. Justice is more than social activism. Justice finds its true stride when my followers make big choices to die a little each day to themselves and their self-centeredness.

And, just in case I’m having trouble seeing this picture, he’s going to tell me another story. Here we go again, I think.

There once was a tall majestic sailing vessel that navigated its way into a small town’s harbor. It would arrive each year around the same time, and its esteemed owner, the ship's captain, would arrange to have it docked some distance off. The townspeople, upon seeing the ship on the horizon, would celebrate its arrival with great enthusiasm and shoot off fireworks and send out ferries to greet them. The entire crew would be welcomed ashore to enjoy the festivities, to impart their gifts from foreign lands and to share in the town’s local flavor and customs.

But after a week or so of frolic and furlough, the captain and his crew and his majestic ship would always leave.

All the same, each year, the people in the small town would anticipate their return. It wasn’t that they didn’t live during the months in between, it was just that they didn't thrive. Through a series of unexpected events over generations, many obstacles were placed in their path, and they suffered by comparison to other wealthy and flourishing ports. Try as they might, they couldn’t do much to expand their own influence. Ultimately, the the town's success depended largely upon those who would take a chance and simply believe in them – the ones who would sacrifice the time to visit, to share their skills, and experience the hidden beauty of its shores and its people.

But, even though the ship and its crew visited once a year, and even though they told others from far and wide about this hidden treasure of a town, no one ever actually stayed.

One year, though, the captain decided he was growing tired of the sea and thought the small town would be a wonderful place to put down roots. So he brought his ship in and actually docked it this time; his shipmates and crew moored the beautiful vessel and they began to unload supplies from its berth and distribute the captain's substantial bounty; some through gifts, or simply as investments in the town's stagnant economy. They shared skills which they had learned from other shores.

One week turned to two, and two into four. Almost immediately, word spread that this well known and respected captain and his crew had begun to look for homes in and around the harbor so that they could settle in this town. Others soon came to visit and sometimes, even they began to relocate there from places far and wide.

The town began to prosper, simply because the captain and his crew came to live among them.

After a time, many months in fact, it became clear to the townspeople that these sailors were no longer visitors from the sea and foreign lands, but fellow inhabitants of their town. Without much ado, they slowly blended in and became just like everyone else, but the momentum of the town’s success was already underway; in fact it was contagious. Still more came and the generational chain of suffering was eventually broken.

The anchored ship stood tall and ultimately became a permanent monument in the town’s harbor. It was used for local events like festivals and weddings, and one creative townsperson started a café on the main deck. At Christmastime, lights were hung from the mast and they lit up the entire harbor...

I told him this was a cute story and that it warmed the cockles of my heart; I might have even cut him off, in fact, but (and I hate to beat the same drum as before), are you saying this to everyone, or just me? I felt a little like my 11 year old son when he complains that he has to clean up his room when in fact, someone else made the mess.

Why me? Why not someone who likes that sort of thing? I stammered.

Jeff, when you decide to move where I tell you and live among those who are less fortunate than you, you are grasping the concept of redistribution. You bring your skills and your resources and your connections to bear upon collective problems and issues.

Of course, I had to say it. It was running through my mind:

I feel a little pompous, you know, this ship’s captain, coming in with all of my wealth and knowledge to save the town and save the day.

And that’s when he said: You weren't listening. What makes you think you’re the Captain in this little story?

Ouch, I think.

You may think you have more because you've made wiser choices, but you have been blessed because I've entrusted it to you. You are merely managing it for me. I now want you to share it with others, plain and simple. Do not squander or waste or squirrel away what you have. Live to give it away and together we will break the chains of injustice.

Live to give it away?

There's a ridiculous amount of effort being spent on that which doesn't matter. Are you going to ride with me, Jeff, or not?

It’s too cold, I think -- you know -- to myself. How can I abandon this pseudo warmth I enjoy?

You’ll be fine.

He hears it all, doesn't he?

Trust me.

I’m not really dressed for this.

Get on. You’ll be surprised.

Chapter 27 The End of This Traffic, Part 1

2005-12-19T11:49:00.000-05:00

It's freezing outside and there’s a ridiculous line of cars waiting, and so, with this mess, I’ll be late for work, again. My car hasn’t quite warmed up yet, and just for the record, I can almost guarantee that it’s in the single digits. I know this because there was a tightness in my chest when I had to take out the garbage, which, actually, I hope is related to the cold, come to think of it.

Right about now I have my radio up louder than I should, yet, as you can imagine with me, I still hear him riding and rumbling up from behind. This is no place and no season for a motorcycle, but he sidles right up to the side of my car and motions for me to put down my window. So I do.

“Pull it to the side of the road. Let’s go for a ride.”

He may be nuts, I think, this Deity.

“Isn’t it a bit cold?”

“You’ll be fine. Trust me.”

And so I trust him, because that’s just the natural thing to do. I pull my salt peppered Stratus to the side of the road and abandon it with its pseudo warmth and its safety and I get on the back of his Harley.

As a side note, I always hope that our time together is somehow like it is in Narnia and I’ll return to the exact point in time when I decided to desert my diligence, you know, so I won’t waste any of my precious time, and be late for work. But then, that seems sacrilegious.

“I’m not really dressed for this,” I tell him, because wouldn’t you know, I’m wearing my straight from the warm house, into the garage, to my soon to be warm car, to my assigned parking space and a quick jaunt into my warm office with the window looking out over God’s creation clothes.

“Get on. You’ll be surprised.”

And I am. I sit up behind him on a seat that is slightly higher than his, and we take off, and it’s really not too bad as we weave in and out of the late, albeit warmer, commuters. We cut right through it all, to the end of this traffic and into the freedom of the open road. As we pick up speed, I think there must be some miraculous heavenly portal-type heat surrounding this bike because we pass by some outside signs that display the temperature, and I was right; it is in the single digits, so add in the wind chill from the ride and we’re arctic.

We’re on our way downtown, again, meandering and leaning through curves on Jefferson Boulevard, eastward for a moment, until we’ll turn right by the glorious and fully renovated Embassy Theater and head south onto Calhoun. We usually ride downtown, not that he doesn’t have business elsewhere, just that he has more to show me by the Rialto, I usually assume.

Recently, the Reclamation Project has been awarded some funding from the City to provide housing, and ultimately home ownership to international refugees and the displaced. And he knows that I’ve been feeling a little useless lately and maybe that I think I’m not really doing much of anything, which may be natural for all of us, but all the same, he wants to show me what he’s been doing because I was willing to do something. He already knows the future, sees the homes in and around the Rialto's neighborhood, knows exactly who will live there, the laughter, and the warmth that will be provided on a day like this -- for his loved ones here, and from far and wide; most of whom aren't so accustomed to the cold. He likes the idea of a just distribution of resources, and he wants to talk some more about it with me.

We park right in front of the Rialto and there are piles of snow everywhere. It appears that our official maintenance/lawnmower/snow removal extraordinaire, Uzi Tommy, needs to do some shoveling, so I make a mental note. We call him Uzi Tommy because he was the first one in Fort Wayne to own an Uzi, which, by the way, he was pretty proud of, not that there’s anything wrong with that. If you do think there’s something wrong with that, he says, you should try living where he does. But, that’s beside the point.

Before we get off the Harley, I decide to not let go of him right away because there’s one thing I’ve always wanted to check when I’m putting my arms and my hands around his side. I'm usually so caught up in what he’s showing me that I forget that my hands are quite near his rib cage; and right there, is where, well, you know -- he was pierced.

And so, feigning some wardrobe malfunction with my gloves, and releasing from this masculine motorcycle riding hug of sorts, I slowly let my hands glide over there, with a distant hope that he won't notice. And right there it is. The scar. I can actually feel it, and my fingers sink a little into it and this causes me to lose my breath, and this time it's not from the cold. I always seem to forget the sacrifice, the pain, the brutality of it all, and how he knew it would happen before he ever left Heaven with all of its majesty to come and be with us. This certainly shouldn't be the place for him, though the season is just right, I guess.

And to think I wasn't dressed for this?

At this point, I'm having trouble pulling my hand away and he knows this, of course. I hate it when this happens, but without warning, my eyes tear up a bit.

And then freeze.

Chapter 26 Intrinsic Expectations

2005-12-15T14:27:00.000-05:00

There’s an ongoing struggle to meet the intrinsic expectations derived from the title of this wandering and perpetual novel. To actually go, and to not just write about it.

It's an internal pressure cooker of sorts.

It all started innocently enough -- you know, the official naming of this story, because, well, I've always liked to pluck a phrase out of a piece (that somehow represents the underlying theme) and turn it into the name of the chapter; and really, to be honest, I wanted something unfettered and easy; perhaps a title that would reflect the understated simplicity of this journey.

So, as it should happen, the Jesus of my day came to see me on a Harley, and he called me over in a cloud of dust and dirt. I was drawn to him, so I went. Of course, it was written from my very own imagination, in the first person, present tense; ergo, so I went became so I go.

Suffice it to say, I dropped it all on the ground -- everything -- because I wanted to die to the details. And then I got on the back of his Harley and the rest is ... well, the rest is what I believe following Jesus should be all about.

So, after meandering in and out of chapters (that finished with merely an accidental semblance of order), there was an ending to Volume I; an epilogue of sorts where everything, I hope, came full circle:

"...ultimately, if we trust the Rider when he says go, then we will honestly rise above the mundane and the minutia and simply meet his gaze and say, so I go now -- not past tense mind you, but a personal commitment in the form of an ongoing action verb of moving and loving and going with arms wide open. And there – yes, right exactly there, is where the true and great adventure he’s always promised is waiting.”

And all of this brings me closer to right about now. I do promise to eventually make a point.

I thought this title was well and good, and so, it certainly felt well and good enough for me to also name the second volume So I Go, and together, we’ve been dreaming about a new kind of Church for about twenty five chapters or so. It sort of fits, don’t you think? An actual Church made up of people who decide to drop it all, make a personal commitment in the form of an ongoing action verb, die to the details and just go?

All of that said, I wanted to simply say that I'm looking forward to the next twenty five chapters. But to be real, and gut level honest, and perhaps to dispense with any notion that I have it all together, I think it's of utmost importance that you know something, as the reader. You see, while I sometimes do in fact go (and I hope you do too), there are times -- more times than I care to admit-- when, intrinsic expectations notwithstanding, this whole thing should rightly be titled: So I Sit on My Ass and Do Nothing.

I'm not proud of it, which, I guess is my point exactly.

Maybe you know the feeling.

Chapter 25 The Modern Day Psalmists

2005-12-12T16:37:00.000-05:00

This month will soon end, and with it, the sun will begin its descent on a year that has known little of its light; a mid-way point on a decade that has witnessed, or introduced, or simply sustained untold and unimaginable suffering.

Here, and in places far and wide.

And it should really be no surprise, for those who choose to envision the battle, that such trials can and will occur -- right now, and yes, even more intensely in the not so distant tomorrows; for these events must take place, before our very eyes, where nature and mankind coalesce to ravage homes, displace entire people groups, redistribute and reverse wealth and standards of living, fueled in no small part by an unseen evil that is beyond our earthly appreciation.

Recall with me, in chapters spilling backward, the story that was told of his form, this one who opposes us; he who currently seethes into the darkest shadows and dominion of our own private nightmares. Look above and beyond your screen, this page that you read. Do you see him there? Listen now, for with a hiss he summons his legions and they gather by rank just outside the edge of you, on the verge of me, their number and resolve far beyond our comprehension. His tongue slithers out of his mouth, for he is the serpent from which all deceit flows, and with each eerie utterance there is a fading of light, in this very room, his mere presence fashioning a void in space and time; he being the thief of any remaining goodness in this world.

And in the escalating darkness of this Neverland gone wrong, his timbre methodically rises to one of a fevered rallying cry, a brazen challenge to concentrate forces of hate upon you and upon me, should you follow a certain Savior, especially now in this season of unfathomable love, for we are sacred ground that had previously been theirs to possess. We’ve deserted them, you see --an intentional act that will not lack for a reckoning.

Now is the moment, he shrieks to his number, when you shall accept the power given you to destroy and deceive. Leave no survivor, least of all this one; he motions in your direction, and mine.

Bring distrust to healthy unions, arrogance to the humble, misconceptions and distorted communication to obliging ears. Whisper reliance on human strength and point hapless souls toward inerrancies of truth. Create and encourage all forms of disharmony among these so called followers and do so with abandon!

He pauses for effect, and now, regrettably, we already know the confusion. His army takes great pleasure in the moment. Slowly but surely the echo of their indignation begins to cascade through the ranks. One last time he raises his gruesome form to accentuate his final command.

Above all else, divert them from the rights and royalty given them. Fill their potential moments of praise and petition with suitably exquisite distractions, for only by this will we weaken the resistance!

If we could only see and feel this ensemble, we’d dare not face them on our own, for our senses would be overcome with the fetid, exhaled air of stale and putrid lungs, from nether and below, from this evil who waits with minions to devour and discourage; one demon’s dare after another, unrelenting, merciless to consume this flesh, these souls of ours, to force down these aspirations, these hopes; to accept perception and circumstance as surety, some evil clothed as fate from which naught emanates.

And so it may be a little of this, or some of that we choose, as our defense, to cope with or adapt to or medicate from the likes of the latest barrage of foul play, on a large scale, or small, delivered by this personified iniquity. The symptom of his mere presence is that we succumb, appearing quite normal and functional on the outside, but inside and on the brink of us, we’re writhing and contorting and wrestling, and essentially wanting it to stop right about now.

Malign me if you must for such folly, but trust me, he waits -- crouching and coiled as a beast or serpent of prey, an image of your choice, as real as these words, as their author, their reader, for this page carries a message of freedom, and his of opposing slavery.

Still, the Rider calls out our glory:

Press on in your form, your art, your beauty. Liberate truth, my precious Church, on the wings of your Royalty, for it must not be subjected.

And we should listen, hearken as princes and princesses of this Kingdom, and relent into his embrace, but still, we dare to not concede. There is little of retreat running through this blood of ours, so we’ll hunch over and fight his adversary, our very formidable enemy, in the shadows; sucker jabs, illegal kidney punches, engaged in this street fight, with no rules to govern dirty play, and yet, he waits for us, desperate, longing in our corner.

His voice rings true above the fight:

Enslave not these carriers, for they are the modern day psalmists, my very sons and daughters -- the dreamers, the music makers and dancers; the artists who will paint and display my beauty.

Sanction now their imagination to unfold and ensign the dull! Bring forth color and light, to defeat shadows; to die not a slow and painful death on the altar of mediocrity.

Hear it with me now; lend your ear to the one true Voice, echoing above this space we fill, this time we inhabit.

Rise up and stretch outward, raising hands to worship the One who crushes evil with his fist!

Summon now the righteous armies with me. Add to their number and deepen the line for the rivaling minions are many. Empower their strength and call forth their brilliance as they take flight -- sharpen their arrows and forge their steel. Sound the trumpets and beat the battle drums for this, my fellow warriors, is a campaign for our very souls!

And it should really be no surprise, my friends, that the battle has already begun.

Chapter 24 The Power to Transform, Part 2

2005-12-02T10:56:00.000-05:00

So, I decided to postpone the notion that this little Christmas metaphor meant only what I thought it did. Maybe I was getting close, getting warm, as if that was even possible on a day like this. But really, I should know by now that his word pictures aren't always limited to just one interpretation.

We walked toward the front of the house, leaving Tucker disappointed in the back yard, and I pondered the whole thing deep and hard, which, as you know, is difficult for me because I can’t stay focused for very long. So, I looked to him for some type of inspiration, in the silence, some supernatural affirmation for these random and wandering musings. He put his arm around me as we walked, and I was more than O.K. with that.

And then, well, he must have been willing to clue me in, or maybe it was his touch, but either way, I got to thinking about time, and about seasons -- then, all of a sudden it hit me over the head like a pile of old Rialto bricks.

Could it be that I’m one of the dead or dying trees in this little story of his, and so are you, and we’re smack dab in the middle of a proverbial December, the very last month of this great adventure, this end-of-the-timeline calendar for the ages? That, well, perhaps we’ve collectively been huddled as something of a dead or dying church, hastily constructed, without much beauty, through, say, most of November, but we’ve been spared from darkness, adorned in splendor, moved into the center of people’s lives, in this season, to enhance and encourage and illuminate love in this final chapter?

Without speaking, we looked at each other and I felt like I was on a roll, like the moment was deep and rich. It seemed like he was egging me on to continue, like he could read my mind, which, well, ... duh.

Could it actually be, I thought, since we’re on the topic of adornment (even though my English teacher warned me to never mix my metaphors) that we symbolize the loving embellishments -- the sequins and the lace and the pearls and the beads that mingle and dance reflectively to create the finishing, adorning touches on the bridal gown? The very one that’s been designed and patterned and sewn over time to allow the Bride to emerge from the dark hallways at the back of the church, as one, beautified at last?

Could it finally be the pregnant pause while the orchestra shuffles to prepare for the Wedding March, the very end of the processional, as the audience shifts in their seats to turn and witness the true Bride appear?

Oh, wow -- Here Comes the Bride, a glistening silhouette, radiated on all sides by the love that we’ve always known should be encouraged by us as the Church and welcomed, with its power to transform, if only for a moment, if only for this proverbial month at the end of a cosmic chronology.

It made my head swim, really, but it also made perfect sense, at least to me anyway.

There was some more small talk about Christmas, and the celebration of it and the man made traditions, which again he said he didn’t mind because they all seemed to focus and funnel us back toward love. And then, out of nowhere, he started talking about reconciliation, which seemed an odd and clumsy choice of a word for a holiday chat.

I told him to hold that thought, while I went in to get his coffee, which I hoped was done brewing.

When I returned, we settled on the stoop and he wrapped both hands around the hot mug, took a long sip and said that he liked where I was going with my imagination. Then he added that, basically, Christmas, or more appropriately, the day he was born, was ultimately about God reconciling me to Himself, so that I could be and should be changed by the love of God, who is in fact, love. And that I should respond by sharing this change with others through love, and action and justice.

Simple as that.

I found it odd that he personalized it, and so, foolishly, I blurted out, you said 'me', but you mean everyone, right?

Then he asked me if I saw anyone else around, or if it was just him and me, sitting on a porch stoop with a tangled mess of lights at our feet.

No, it’s just us, I answered, which, I suppose was his point exactly. He’s always been pretty good at personalizing and making me feel as if I’m the only person he’s talking to, as if I'm the only one that exists. I imagine it's like that for you, too.

If you truly love me, he added, this should break down all barriers. You should intentionally go about demonstrating it to others.

He got up, this Jesus of my imagination, and now he was excited, perhaps on a roll himself, and passionate too, just like he was when he was telling me his Christmas tree story.

Once you understand this, then you need to realize that everything about me, and why I came, the very Gospel itself, was meant to be holistic; that you reach out to people as whole people, and then from there, it all boils down to love. You have to first love them, really love them -- all of them -- not just certain parts of them, and you have to be reconciled to them before you can ever hope to reconcile them to God.

And then, he quoted some Scripture, which I thought was pretty cool, because it’s him, you know, the Word, and he’s speaking across time as if it's happening all at once.

Love others as well as you love yourself. There is no other commandment that ranks with this. (Mark 12:31 The Message)

And, Jeff since I said it, just like that, maybe you'll all start to get it, finally, here in December, that you and the Church I love -- my very Bride -- you really are the ones who will bring the splendor of heaven down to earth, just like the adorning touches on the bridal gown, just like that beautiful lit-up tree.

He came and sat next to me and took a few more sips of his coffee, which I'm confident was pretty good. I had put some whip cream on the top, because, well, it's Christmastime.

He eventually got up to go, and of course, it reminded me of Linus in A Charlie Brown Christmas, but the last thing he said was:

And that’s what Christmas is all about, Jeff.

He hugged me goodbye and rode off again, to other adventures, I suppose. I watched him navigate away from my cul-de-sac, down my street, and heard the deafening roar of that engine as he accelerated out of my neighborhood. Walking around back, I watched as Tucker ran the length of the fence, soccer ball in his mouth, following him momentarily on the stretch of road that leads to the highway.

Maybe he's on his way to see you. You know, to help you untangle your lights.

Chapter 23 The Power to Transform, Part 1

2005-12-01T08:07:00.000-05:00

I wrestled this past weekend with extension cords and Christmas lights and the indoor and outdoor trees that would hold them. I helped unpack villages and hung ornaments and I listened to the right kind of holiday mood music while everything was made just so. I even set up a Nativity scene, on a counter, with a little tiny porcelain baby; one that, I suppose, was overshadowed and perhaps drowned out by the whole exercise.

So it was somewhat surreal, as you can imagine, while sitting outside on the front step, detangling yet another strand of lights (that I should have put away nicely the year before), to see him ride up, ever so strident and sudden, and low to the ground; helmet less and out of place, again, right here on my cul-de-sac. I dropped my clump of lights and ran to him, and embraced him, for it had been a while.

You might know the feeling.

The fragrance of him had turned to all of my favorite outdoor winter smells, of evergreen and frost and northern winds, and it was obviously a cold day, so I offered him some coffee, and he accepted.

This is a bit awkward, I said to him, that you’re showing up as I’m hanging all of these lights and ornaments on all of these bushes and a huge tree in my living room, life size and then some, and well, all I’ve got of you is nestled in a miniature Nativity scene.

I said that maybe it should be the other way around, you know: a life size Nativity scene, and a miniature tree.

He smiled, and inspected my half-lit trees and he told me that he really does like the lights, and the color, and he especially likes the music, which makes sense given the whole inspirational art thing. I assumed that he was particularly fond of the old carols, as if there’s somehow more purity there.

He walked around the house with me, into the backyard, where I had accomplished the lighting of three huge evergreens. He played with Tucker and threw him the old ragged soccer ball that he loves to chase. He talked some more, mostly about how this season makes him feel, how love is encouraged and welcomed and how it has the power to transform, if only for a moment. If only for a month or two.

And speaking of love, well, he loves to tell a good story, above all one that fits the moment, as you probably know, and so he sat down with me and I could see his breath as he launched into one about Christmas trees and how he rides by quite a few of those hastily constructed, pre-cut tree lots and really, there’s not much you can do to beautify them; especially late at night, the trees just huddle together in darkness, dying a little, waiting for something, anything.

But then, he continued, a family comes along out of nowhere and selects one, carries it out of the darkness, pays for it, calls it their own, brings it home and actually takes it inside their house, right into the center of their living room and they put lights on it and ornaments and garland. And they water it and care for it and they make it quite beautiful.

He let that hang there, but he said it with such a passion that I got a little choked up. I suppose I had never really thought about it that way, but then I came to my senses and swallowed the lump down deep, because, well, he was just talking about a stupid tree.

Still, I assume he wanted me to see a picture, and so I let my imagination stroll down that lane and I considered that well, some people are dead or dying, huddled in the darkness, waiting for something, anything, and we should go and get them. And bring them into our house. And prolong their lives, I suppose.

Of course this seasonal metaphor couldn’t last because it was colliding with too many other practical things, and fearing that I might be left sitting all alone with unanswered questions that were based upon my all too rational thoughts on a cold Saturday with a hopelessly tangled mess of lights in front of me, I asked:

Well, what about January 2nd, when it’s all over and its needles have fallen off and we strip the dead tree of its ornaments and throw it out on the curb and pretty soon it ends up in a wood chipper and becomes mulch by spring time? Huh? What about that?

Once again, he looked me deep in the eyes and he paused for a moment, too long really, the kind that made me squirm a bit. Even Tucker seemed uncomfortable and he whimpered a little.

He explained that he doesn’t go about telling faulty stories, and maybe it’s my imagination that’s a bit tangled.

Chapter 22 Like Something That Matters

2005-11-21T15:41:00.000-05:00

Right about now, the second Bush is having a pretty rough go of it, for obvious reasons, with the war abroad and the one brewing at home. Somehow, I have a sneaking suspicion that the first Bush, and now the second Bush are telling a potential third Bush, that being a President -- well, it’s just not worth it.

Maybe they’ll have a chance to talk it over at Thanksgiving.

Anyhow, moving on to a completely different subject, you’ve probably figured out by now that I’m a sucker for a good sunrise. I can’t remember a time when I didn't love them and the way they ease into my perspective, with a certain warmth, and then, how they erupt onto my scene, heralding a proclamation of something that matters -- if only, perhaps, to suggest the sheer magnificence of a Creator who renders such art on a whim, because, well, He can.

So, with that said, Gabe and I were on our way to the Rialto last weekend and the sun was literally bursting upward from the horizon, as a cylinder of hope, and all around it were oranges and plums and other fruit inspired colors. It was a stirring sight, like some type of exploding, fire-filled geyser toward the heavens. I pointed it out to Gabe, to hopefully transfer this sunrise appreciation through some fatherly influence, but he was none too impressed. I suppose that’s the way it goes with an eleven year old.

Now, for the record, Gabe is the oldest of four children and he has blonde hair, too, which is long and I suppose bushy and it usually hangs over his eyes, perhaps as a style or maybe as a symptom of some type of pre-teenage angst. He is brotherly in a dictatorial kind of way, presiding as a firm and sometimes benevolent judge over his younger siblings as if it’s a God-given right. And so, you can imagine how hard it is for him to give up that regality and be subjected to the rule of mere parents.

He’s been a challenge, to say the least, nearly from day one, mostly because he is a gifted orator of the most argumentative sort. His sharp mind is always racing ahead to fashion a winning debate while everyone else tries hard to keep pace with his raw and seemingly boundless kinetic energy.

A friend once suggested, “Gabe, some day you’ll change the world. But for now, take this little pill.”

Seriously, his heart is big and generous and deep, just like his brown eyes. He’s into music and all things percussion and he’s an excellent student and really, I can’t remember a time when I didn’t love him way too much for his own good. And, of course, when I tell him this, he never believes it, but all the same, I repeat it over and over so that maybe he’ll know it some day and he’ll feel it deep inside like something that matters -- maybe like something he’ll just come to expect in life.

So, Gabe was with me on that beautiful sunrise of a day and off to the Rialto we went, to work up on the roof and to be surrounded by men who like to chat it up with him and muss his hair and teach him all about their craft. We worked on an old brick parapet wall that needed to be repaired and patched up before the rest of the professional installation could take place. It was extremely windy, but a great day to be alive and to experience what it means to make something with our hands, or at least to watch others do it.

As a side note, if you ever get a chance to spend time with a brick mason, or any craftsman on a job site, I highly recommend it. It’s like going to school.

Harvey was there, of course, and Larry and Harvey’s son Steve, so Gabe and I joined in and we spent our time learning about various things like earthquake bolts and how to mix mortar and why the wind doubles in strength when we're within ten feet of a building; and I suppose up on a roof it triples, or at least it sure felt that way.

It was truly a humbling experience to be up that high, exposed, and to feel the forceful and random wind -- to lean hard and get our bearings, often, because it made us uneasy and a little unsteady; to see Gabe in the thick of it, using that pent up energy to chip away with a chisel and hammer in the margins of the old wall, in the grittiness of it all with the whipped up dust clouds from ancient bricks and past generations; and to watch him lugging buckets of debris to dump over the side into the alley way.

And just in case you didn’t know, boys and young men of varying ages, and OK, I guess all men like to watch objects fall from high places and hit the ground below, especially if everything breaks and explodes and makes a loud noise upon impact. The bigger and louder, the better.

Of interest though, on this very blustery day, Larry grabbed Gabe’s attention and asked him if he’d ever seen the wind; the actual wind, not just other objects moving because of it. Gabe was quick to say, in his doubting, sarcastic, eleven year old way, that sure, he’s seen the wind, along with Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny and all of the other things he’s stopped believing in now that he’s too old and too mature and really all too cool for such nonsense.

So, unfazed, Larry went in search of a long, straight piece of wood and upon finding it, balanced it on one end, while Gabe held onto the other, and he had him place his eye down by the top corner. Ever so calmly, Larry told him to wait for the next big gust of wind and to pay close attention to the length and the edge of the board. And so he did, and I joined him to witness this potential miracle, and then, there it was -- we could actually see the wind feathering up over the side, almost like fingers grabbing the wood to take it out of our hands. No tricks, no mirrors, just the wind. Just like that.

After a couple of hours, it was time to leave the rest of the parapet wall brick job to these generous and highly skilled men, and so Gabe and I hit the road to go back home. On the way, we talked about the unexpected things in life, like seeing the wind and working at the Rialto. We were dirty and tired and I suppose a little sore, but quite satisfied that we had contributed something to the cause, and of course, this was a good lead in to share the bigger picture, about how God uses everyone, sometimes in small ways, and about Jesus, who we know is at work, all around us, just like the wind, even though we may not always see him.

And I couldn’t have scripted it any better myself, because well, right about then, just like the wind, there he was. We did see him, I kid you not. Jesus rode by on his Harley, easing into our perspective, casual and free, and he stayed with us most of the way home due to a series of red lights. It was so unmistakably him that, once again, just like the sunrise, I tried to transfer this appreciation onto Gabe through some type of fatherly influence.

We talked about why he’s outside riding and where he might be going and why he likes the open air, and why it's so important to believe the impossible. And I think, because he had just seen the wind, after so clearly doubting the possibility, he gave me some latitude and was maybe even a little more inclined to grab onto my imagination and to make it work for himself; to know the adventure of following someone such as this Jesus, the incarnate God in human form -- to actually picture him, and not just others moving because of him.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s what it should be like. We should seek out the impossible and the improbable moments in our lives where we actually do see the wind, so we can take it a step further and visualize a God and His Harley riding Son moving and doing alongside us as we endeavor to hold some type of church in the margins and the alleyways of our world.

He is so very much like that radiant cluster of colors, arriving with a certain warmth, starting our day, with God heralding him as a proclamation, trying desperately to focus our attention up against the length of something straight and true, so that we see him, this incarnation that matters, grabbing us with gentle, feathery fingers that long to render art in us, and through us, on a whim, just like that, simply because He can.

Don't be deceived, the wind will intensify, out in the open and maybe even double in strength in the shadow of some firm foundation of a rock, the very one from which we've always found our bearings. But up on the roof, watch out, because there’s a dangerous and prevailing wind there, with gust filled and seemingly random risks; indeed it will make us uneasy and a little unsteady, and I suppose dirty and tired, but with it will come the promise of what this adventure was always meant to be, as we work with our hands toward a cause and lean hard into something that is pure and right and beautiful.

And really, like the sunrise that began the day, I'm just a sucker for the whole thing.

~~~

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

Chapter 21 A Stranger in a Car

2005-11-14T15:26:00.000-05:00

There's a stranger in a car
Driving down your street
Acts like he knows who you are
Slaps his hand on the empty seat and says
"Are you gonna get in,
Or are you gonna stay out?"
Just a stranger in a car
Might be the one they told you about.

Well you never were one for cautiousness
You open the door
He gives you a tender kiss
And you can't even hear them no more
All the voices of choices
Now only one road remains

And strangers in a car
Two hearts
Two souls
Tonight
Two lanes

You don't know where you're goin'
You don't know what you're doin'
Hell it might be the highway to heaven
And it might be the road to ruin
But this is a song
For strangers in a car
Baby maybe that's all
We really are

Strangers in a Car, Marc Cohn

It occurs to me that I never really listen to an entire album from start to finish. I grab onto one song and I listen to it over and over until there's likely some type of groove on the CD, much like the one in my head. The song becomes full of life and imagery and it breathes on its own, really, more so than I think the songwriter ever intended.

Unbeknownst to him, Marc Cohn set out to write one of those groove songs for me, because, well, Strangers in a Car drowns out the other ten songs on the album, though I'm sure they're all very nice.

So, with that said, this particular song obviously has some special meaning to me, so here it is:

You see, I'm altogether haunted by a stranger, this mysterious image of evil; he's a predator of the worst kind, really. And since we toy around with the notion of travelers and roads and a Harley and a particular Savior who rides one, perhaps we should parlay some of the metaphor, you know -- for this stranger is best imagined out there in an unfamiliar car, driving slowly down our mutual streets, very near to where we live. He rolls down the window and he tries to get our attention.

He is very much like the man our parents told us never to talk to, despite his enticements and his tantalizing tricks. And when we were finally old enough and big enough and smart enough to defend ourselves against someone such as him, they exhaled a sigh of relief, and really, can you blame them?

But aside from all of that, imagination causes him to still lurk deep in the recesses of my psyche, and maybe even yours. He acts like he knows who we are, and he actually does; he's done his homework, which is pretty scary when you think about it for he's a swindler of the darkest sort. He slaps his hand on the empty seat, because he desperately wants us to get in the car with him, and sometimes we do, throwing cautiousness to the wind, maybe repeatedly, and before we know it, there's that so called tender kiss on our cheek and we realize that we've been betrayed, again, for the umpteenth time.

Yes, pretty soon, we appreciate that there's a stranger driving us around this town, in a car of his own design.

Of course we know who he is, and we think he's mainly up to some tangible destruction of our health and our wealth and all good things visible to collective others. We think our time is coming, or maybe it's past, where he's going to just steamroll over us and leave us wounded as he moves on to take more victims, but in actuality he wants us to join him for a very long ride. In fact, he is going about a subtle but extended obliteration, of my life and I suppose yours, causing deep loneliness here, rejection there, depression and suffering and self-medicating of the worst kind, and that's just the beginning. Sure, he'll still do his best to destroy the big ticket items, whatever it takes, but he knows that the most effective plan involves a steady and lifelong leaning away from the adventure.

And all of this leads me to his other lies, specifically, how he suggests confirmation of our previously held, but faulty thinking, maybe even now as you read this, and maybe even now as I write this. We're sitting in the car, and instead of patting the seat, he's rubbing our knee and telling us everything is just fine the way it is.

And that's where the church comes into all of this, which you knew I'd get around to, as if I needed to beat a dead horse.

You see, this stranger in a car is responsible for the malaise we feel, that this is as good as it gets -- that this is all there is to church, to this spirituality, to this God we claim to follow. Somehow, he's convinced us that all of the voices of choices are gone, and the only road that remains for who we are, and what we're to be about, is somehow bound and reduced to some ancient tradition, even though we feel dead inside.

It's truly a sinister way to get us into his car, and to keep us there -- to get us to buy into the generational, denominational ennui, but he does it all the same. Pretty soon, we're fraught with conventional, and predictable church thinking, and with it, we're being led down a dark side street, far from breathtaking heights and far from the notion of what this trip is supposed to be about in the first place.

And well, crap, in fact, hell, we think it's the highway to heaven we're on, because that's what we've been led to believe. Or maybe just maybe, it might be the road to ruin.

So, if we're not sure, let's go back to the facts and we'll figure out this new kind of church together. Let's slap the bastard and get out of his car.

For starters, dig down deep with me and ask the God of truth to consistently reveal the strategy of the stranger, because, well, he's getting the better of us and he's driving us with his unfamiliar but all too creepy car to a place called apathy. We need to beg, and beg hard that God will give us clarity as to what the stranger looks like, maybe even a description of the car.

For example, if you've ever felt closed in and constricted and you can't breathe and you keep looking at the clock, and you don't like people staring at your scars, and you don't have much leg room, and you're caught up in some old tradition and set of rules and morals and musty old hymnals and little cards with little pencils for you fill out while your ass becomes numb on a pew that should have been designed better, well, then imagine the stranger in the car sitting next to you, slapping the seat upon which you sit and rubbing your knee.

You're on a road toward nowhere, and he's happy you're coming with him.

OK, so now, since I'm on a roll, let's get this party started as I clarify something else. There's something mentioned over and over again in the Bible, trust me. Don't dare me to start whipping out all of the verses.

The poor are, and should be the center of our concerns, as the Church.

The poor can be the typical people that come into your mind -- the homeless, the prisoner, the widow, the refugee. But don't forget the ones, like you and me, who at times feel unloved, unwanted, ignored, or the ones who suffer physical and emotional abuse. We're all poor in some way, damn it.

Jesus told us one time, and therefore again and again, that the poor will always be with us. He's right, you know, as if I needed to remind you of that. Don't check wallets for the answer, just look around you.

For this to work, all of us, you and me, with our very own poverty issues must realize that when we experience it inside and then learn to share in it with others who are outside and less fortunate or perhaps equally suffering, we form a bond that is the Church. We spill it -- all of our own brokenness, our crap, our crazy demanding issues, our messiness, right onto the floor and then we pick up the pieces together and we learn to forgive each other through it and in it.

God, it's powerful.

And then, this is when the stranger in a car gets really frustrated, because we stop beating each other up. We reach out with all of our scars and all of our brokenness to the margins and we extend grace by taking in more and more of the poor in body, poor in spirit, poor in mind and we spend much less time on disagreements, much less effort on silly rivalries and really, our entire focus shifts.

The way God designed our bodies is a model for understanding our lives together as a church: every part dependent on every other part, the parts we mention and the parts we don't, the parts we see and the parts we don't. If one part hurts, every other part is involved in the hurt, and in the healing. If one part flourishes, every other part enters into the exuberance. (1 Corinthians 12:24-25, The Message).

It really is in the Bible, just like that. And if you think you're not hurt, think again. You've been wounded somewhere, and that makes you hurt and therefore, it makes you poor in some way -- you carry with you a poverty that others can lift you up and out of. And guess what? You're rich in something, too. Find out what it is, because by sharing it, you could buoy someone's spirits -- right now, today, more than you could ever imagine.

Alright, I'm done for now, I promise, but please let this one thought resonate -- really, give it a try. Start off small if you need to, but let this be the groove song that plays over and over in your head as it turns you and other poor people around you into a new kind of church, one that's full of life and imagery; one that breathes on its own as it was always meant to do.

The poor are given to the Church so that the Church as the body of Christ can be and remain a place of mutual concern, love, and peace. Each person in our world deserves a dedicated caregiver as faithful as God himself.

The Church is the people of God called out of slavery to freedom, sin to salvation, despair to hope, darkness to light, an existence centered on death to an existence focused on life. When we think of Church we have to think of a body of people, traveling together. We have to envision women, men, and children of all ages, races, and societies supporting one another on their long and often tiresome journeys to their final home.

Our decisions to act in loving response to others is a channel of God's love for all. Henri Nouwen Society

Chapter 20 Poetic Intentions Notwithstanding

2005-11-07T10:42:00.000-05:00

I wandered to that place where cliffs fell into shadows. I was lost and dark consumed my distance. Ignite some flame, I begged to nothing. Come quickly now and cheat the night!

Alone you found me, so tired there. I was cold and shaking, but then, your whisper was ever true.

Hearing you, I made the choice to follow.

Now leading me, you reach back and hold me close; unyielding. Together we watch the light creep slowly in. Underfoot the rocks unsure; your grip grows tighter still. It’s clearing now, you gently promise, as the wind calms and night surrenders.

It is warm in that place and true and right and good; and I am home.

Feeling you, I make the choice to not let go.

My lover left me for the weekend, traveling north with her girlfriends toward all things Canadian. She deserted me, merely a man, to contain four mischievous, flaxen haired cherubs by day -- and by night, to wrestle unseen demons and their unknown numbers, all of whom clanged loudly a cymbal of dependency and loneliness in my ears.

And so, turning and tossing the first night, I wandered to that place where sleeplessness stirs up shadows and I stumbled into a lair where, in fact, I was lost and dark consumed my distance.

“Ignite some flame,” I most certainly begged to nothing.

“Come quickly now and cheat the night,” as if, anyone could even do that, my pathetic, poetic intentions notwithstanding.

Sure enough, drifting away, the night did surrender and morning eventually came, imparting its autumn, sun-filled grandeur and divulging some peaceful assuredness and promise of goodwill.

So, ever mindful of my own sleepless shortcomings, those four fair haired and nearly fallen angels found security in the care of their grandmother, for a moment, as I rode eastwardly upon my imaginary Harley on this Saturday, to join real men; a dozen or so of them who were working hard upon the Rialto’s roof, on their own time, with their nail guns and table saws and tool belts, and really, all things quite testosteronish and foreign to me.

I climbed dark stairwells and rocks unsure, up two ladders to greet them, out into the open, vivid air, precariously walking over hastily bridged rafters and treacherous spaces.

Quite shortly thereafter, as you can imagine, I wore my hard hat awkwardly and found my smooth, writer boy office hands were no match for this rough hewn arena. I soon became satisfied to be but a gladiator's gopher; to fetch some folly as I warded off my fear of gravity.

The next day, confident of my own private masculinity, now as a pizza boy, I delivered dinner to these brave souls as the sun set all around them, providing a purple and pomegranate sky. As they ate, with sure footing below me, I gained more assurance and bellied up to a stable rock of a corner and peered down upon Calhoun and Pontiac, staring vertigo straight in the eye as it hailed me to some conscious surrender.

Larry joined me there, wearing his Superman t-shirt, reminding me in no small measure that he is, in fact, a super man. All the same, he's had some very rough days recently, suffice it to say, where dark has certainly consumed his distance. But he quietly pointed my gaze outward, and there, just above tree lines to the north and further east, three crosses, of equal height on their steeples rose to conquer the horizon, beyond this feeble earth with its granite fixtures. Larry had been there alone, early this glorious Sunday, and as he prepared for a long day atop this now benevolent behemoth, the sun rose -- majestically heralding their silhouette, for his very own church service.

There they were, as a heavenly windfall to a wandering and perpetual novel. Only from this height, this clearing, high atop this grand theater could these crosses be seen. Too low, and their equality would be forever lost in the skyline; too high, and peering down, they would blend into the obscurity of concrete and metal. Three crosses hovering there at the same pinnacle, rising from different churches with different beliefs, I can only assume, miles apart from each other as the crow flies -- but, there they were, as if some architects and designers of decades gone by saw fit to measure and compare and be of the same mind; to display some ethereal assurance to Larry and to me and now you that church is all about a level field, to experience here or there or anywhere, each one not meant to be above the other, but for herself, one Bride, so beautiful and elevated for her Groom to rise and meet her.

We stood there with the wind whipping up its postponement of winter, with the knowledge that this life will surely find us alone, now and most certainly again, wandering near that place where we hope to be found, so tired there, amidst treacherous spaces and bridged rafters, shivering and leaning with vertigo, longing to be held, close and unyielding.

Of course it's cold there, but His whisper is ever true. So we follow.

We follow a promise that this reconstructed roof upon which we stand will cover a new kind of church; an exodus of the lost and lonely who are finding their way, in need of leading just as we are, and perhaps we'll all find it together in a place where the wind will calm, where it will be warm and true and right and good.

And so, as I watched this light creep slowly in and around me, I did surrender there, with His grip upon me, and a clearing of all that swayed. The promise of three crosses, level in my view, held firm, for he has cheated the night, once and for all.

I was home, making the choice to not let go.

(But still wanting Kristie to come back.)

Chapter 19 Jesus Himself Came to Audition

2005-10-27T21:49:00.000-05:00

Every so often, it helps me to pause and get my bearings.

So, with that said, it’s important for me, and I suppose you, to know that in the chapters tumbling backward, there was a play about Jesus.

And even though I was the so-called playwright, please don’t be too impressed because I only wrote one play, albeit a big one, specifically about Jesus, as if I knew him, which was true but only in an incidental sort of way.

In this play about Jesus, since art has a way of emulating life, the story went that a director/playwright wanted to put on his own play about Jesus, but he failed miserably, three times in a row, with his casting of the actor to play Jesus. One didn’t look quite right. The other didn’t sound quite right and, well, you get the picture. So, he dismissed his Jesus actors one by one, and just as he was about to give up on his play altogether, lo and behold, Jesus himself came to audition, riding a Harley (of course).

Everyone in the cast and crew and most importantly, the director, was somewhat clueless to the truth that he was, in fact, the real Jesus, even though he was really good at playing the part, for obvious reasons.

And, of interest, they just so happened to be putting on this play in an old run down theater (because they couldn't afford anything else), and they noticed that this new Jesus actor started to slowly restore it.

Because, well, he was a carpenter, remember?

And then, it all came together as a modern rendition of the Gospel, with the whole restoring the theater thing being a big fat metaphor for our world, and everyone finally got a clue, as he started to redeem the cast and crew and ultimately the audience. And really, nothing was ever the same from that point forward.

And so, to fast forward to this present moment, as many of you know, somehow from that play, within a play, the very one that never did take place, I’ve also learned that nothing will ever be the same.

Nothing. Ever again.

Because, well, you see, I found myself the other day on my lunch hour, about three years now after the failed play debacle, joining my two new international friends, Yednik, from Ethiopia, and Hashem, from Iraq on a job interview at a local factory. I sat with them in a conference room and introduced them to the human resources managers and then walked the factory floor with all of them, helping translate their needs to the company, and the companies' needs to them.

They were quiet and humble and leaned hard with deference toward me at times when they didn’t understand, and they smiled awkwardly and I think a little desperately. Of course, I didn’t know their native tongue, and they were doing their best with mine, but I suppose, mostly what mattered was that I was there with them. And I was helping them find work.

The true test came when they were handed the job application and I had to leave them there, alone, in the room. Some of the machinery in the factory required them to know our particular language, to read it and to understand it, and so, how they did on the application was of utmost importance.

I went out and spent some time in private with the gracious people from the company, trying hard to be an advocate for these refugees who have known much pain, in and out of borders, landing here in a strange culture and time and place.

This company has come to know, through hiring other members of the internationally displaced, that these people leave their homes with nothing, travel with nothing and arrive with nothing. Their dignity is all but gone. Their lives are filled mostly with darkness and with very little hope, but slowly, ever so surely, they make their way to my backyard. And maybe to yours.

And so, the end of my lunch hour was approaching and I needed to leave and go back to my means that justifies an end sort of job. I went in to say goodbye to them and thankfully their applications were mostly finished, and right about then, Hashem grabbed both of my hands and asked if he could start working now, while Yidnek nodded, as if he was asking for both of them.

The question, asked just like that, made my knees buckle simply because of the sincerity of it all and the longing, really. I fumbled with my words a bit, probably because I couldn’t take my eyes off of his; they were so mournful and dark and fraught with something I’ve never known. I eventually came to my senses and explained that the company needed some time to check their application, their references and their background and that I would do my best to help them.

Without exposing my weakness, my feeble flank, I felt mostly helpless, as I usually do in these situations. But I comforted myself that I was at least doing something, a little bit of justice perhaps in a vast, heavenly redistribution of resources.

And then they both nodded, in a sort of respect I think, undeserved or otherwise, and they smiled true smiles and said “God bless you.”

~~~

So, I tell you all of this simply to say, that if you ever wonder what or who Jesus cares about, please remember this story about a Jesus in my day play, and a plan to display that very Jesus on a big stage of my own design; a Jesus who I thought looked like him and sounded like him.

But most importantly, remember the hard cold facts that I was wrong, and no play was ever going to happen. It was all a divine ruse to help me realize that the big play is all around me -- and my particular role in the play was always going to be about befriending these men and these women and their families who had been coming to this town long before my play and well back into the days when Ford was tripping at the White House and I was wearing tube socks and toughskins jeans from Sears.

This clueless and ever so righteous playwright knew nothing of them, or any displaced or poor people for that matter, and frankly, I didn’t care. And to really jazz it up, why would I know or care about a forgotten old porn theater with a forgotten old story in a forgotten old part of town? It just boggles the mind.

Truth be told, as I get my bearings, I thought this whole church thing was about me getting the oh so lost ~in~ to show them a Jesus of my own design, but in reality, a new kind of church is about me dismissing some poorly cast Jesus actors and getting ~out~ to reveal the design of the real Jesus in me, and to watch as he slowly but surely redeems his cast and crew and audience.

Maybe some of you already knew that, in an incidental sort of way, but I’ve always been a bit slow on the up take.

The thunder I think I hear on this day isn't really thunder at all. I can make it out ever so faintly -- not because it's rumbling for the first time but because for the first time I have ears to hear. You see, the tires on that Harley are worn and the seat is weathered and, as I said, the saddlebags hold very little. But the rider isn't tired, even though he's been riding around this forgotten part of town for a long time. A really long time.

He's busy at work and he's doing that very thing that I said I'd do so long ago when I promised to follow him.

And it is right around this time that I slowly begin to get a clue. My play that hasn't made it to the stage is forcing my hand, but only in the days and weeks and months ahead will I see that the real play has already begun, and it’s all around me. I’m in it -- everyone is in it -- and our parts were written a long time ago.

The lights are up and we’re on.

Chapter 18 Embracing Sharp Turns

2005-10-27T15:56:00.000-05:00

It’s nearing the end of a vibrant October, and another birthday has rolled around, as they tend to do, for two very special boys in my life.

Tate and Levi are six now, and they're twins, though they’re not the least bit identical. In fact, aside from being born on the same day, they don’t share much else in common, except of course an obvious resemblance to each other and a bent toward living life in a large, unfettered way. I guess they also share vivid imaginations; so vivid in fact that I’m actually jealous, if you can believe it.

Of interest on this very special day, was a gift that arrived for Tate, and it may yet qualify as a top ten contender for the best birthday present of all time: a Harley Davidson bicycle.

It’s just as you might expect -- low to the ground, with an oversized back tire and a tiny front one attached to extra long chrome down tubes. It has those familiar, widely set handlebars and a faux leather banana seat that he sits in, casually, like a certain kind of king, cruising around the cul-de-sac.

I’ve been impressed to no end with the quality of the bike, having put together and thrown away many of the lesser sort. It’s just so solid and well made, and quite frankly, I’m comforted by the fact that I now have some type of Harley in my garage.

Since receiving it less than a week ago, Tate has fallen at least a dozen times. It’s quite different from his other bike; the turns are sharp and awkward, mostly because of that small front wheel. It’s going to take some getting used to, not to mention the fact that it’s really too big for him; but, apparently, he’s not too worried about it.

One of Tate’s early accidents, however, involved something common to all bikes and perhaps other six year old riders, when his shoelaces got all tangled up in the pedal. I was watching him from the sidewalk and he went down hard and fast -- so suddenly, in fact, that he had no chance to even put out his hands. He hit his forehead square on the concrete and I heard it and felt it all at once. I ran to pick him up, but I didn’t realize his sneaker was all twisted in the chain, so I was literally lifting up the bike with him, just to comfort him a little. Finally, I caught on, took off his shoe and held him tight while he cried it out with a large knot already forming on his forehead.

Tate has long floppy blonde hair that falls as haphazard bangs, and so the evidence from this incident was immediately covered up as he dried his tears. And then, a deep breath later, he got back on his new bike, defiantly perfecting his practice and embracing sharp turns. I admired his courage and I suppose his persistence, as I returned to the sidewalk.

A curious thing happened then, as he picked up speed, ever faster against imaginary opponents. Racing in concentric circles around this illusionary track, his angelic hair was whipped back, exposing his latest wound as he precariously leaned into more danger, as if to say, this ride outweighs my fear of it.

He’s fallen since that time, adding more road rash and bruises to various parts of his body, but every day, he’s more comfortable and more natural.

Yesterday, he told me that now, he can ride that big ol’ bike with no hands.

And all of this, as you’ve probably come to expect, causes me to wrestle imaginary notions, especially about church, and so, I carry with me the snapshot of this bike, the falling down, the crying out and the getting back on, because, you see, it just so happens that I’ve fallen many times, and I assume you have too. Brokenness is something we all share, across mutual spectrums, and combined, we offer up quite a challenge to the perceived margins and limitations of grace.

Maybe we’ve fallen repeatedly over the same thing, or we've been victimized or simply been dealt a rotten hand in the first chapters of our lives. Perhaps it's something common to all of us, but whatever it is, we just can't beat it, and so we simply watch others from the sidewalk, convinced we're damaged goods and far removed from the hope of ever feeling the wind in our hair again.

Are we hiding there, on the sidewalk, because we fear that the falling down is all we’ll ever know? Or, do we rationalize, for really, this ride -- this following after is just too big and awkward for us? Somehow we know the concept is solid, but it's quite different from our previously held view -- you know, that church, the one of a lesser sort that we've thrown away, the very one that slowly but surely became distant and unappealing.

Maybe, just maybe, our view of church is that we should sit and wait and hope that some bride will come, prim and proper and pure and she'll pat us on the head and tell us that everything will turn out fine in the end.

Could it be that we waste so much time waiting and wallowing in our problems and blaming the old kind of church for not meeting our needs, that we forget we're the church, a new kind in fact that springs forward into action, defiantly perfecting our practice despite our brokenness and the knots on our foreheads.

Perhaps we should ask not what our church can do for us, but instead, declare what we can and will do as a church.

You see, I'm more and more convinced that this is the way we’ll truly know what it means to be held. We've got to repeatedly get on and ride and fall off, sometimes so hard and fast that we can’t even put our hands; so often, in fact, that like Tate, instead of giving up, we practice it courageously until we can ride with no hands, enjoying a freedom unlike we've ever known. Yes, of course, there will be times where we’ll be tangled up in it and perhaps bloodied and bruised, but there is One who will pick us up and out of it and He won’t let go while we cry it out. Plain and simple.

I Cor. 15: 58 With all this going for us, my dear, dear friends, stand your ground. And don't hold back. Throw yourselves into the work of the Master, confident that nothing you do for him is a waste of time or effort. (The Message)

It really is in the Bible, just like that, with the second part quite conclusively containing an action verb. Incarnation is rarely for the complacent and the stationary, so we ride. We throw ourselves into the work as followers of One who is riding right now, grittily and brazenly in our midst, showing a crazy love for all who are out there -- those who are untamed, unseen, unsafe and unloved, and broken just like us. He keeps moving and he invites us to come for he wants us to live life in a large, unfettered way, with vivid imaginations.

So if it helps you to see it, then imagine it so.

Visualize this redemption that we aspire to, the getting back up and accept it as the gift it really is -- a gift oh so worthy of any top ten list, for it brings with it the outrageous and incomprehensible bonus of being able to ride through life on the edge -- to love and to sacrifice for no other reason than because it’s right and received by the unlovely, the unsuspecting, the unwelcome and the underdog.

You’ll have to hang on and embrace sharp turns, and trust the quality of it and then you'll feel the wind on your face. The mere acceleration of it all will no doubt expose wounds, fresh or otherwise, but we must not wait on the sidewalk, for this, my friends, is a new life with a new purpose -- a new kind of church and it’s out there waiting for us to embody it as only we can.

Make no mistake, though -- it’s really not safe. But, remember, even with the danger, the ride must outweigh our fear of it.

Chapter 17 My Handsome Sweater

2005-10-19T16:39:00.000-05:00

If you want to destroy my sweater, pull this thread as I walk away.

Watch me unravel, I’ll soon be naked.

Lying on the floor, I’ve come undone.

Weezer

It occurs to me, right about now, as I’m listening to the angst ridden lyrics of Weezer, that I too wear a sweater. Thankfully, mine is still intact, but it seems I take this for granted, when in fact I should count it all joy, and be forever grateful, if only for the simple reason that I’ve been adorned with much splendor.

Still, I casually but confidently dither about in these garments of grandeur -- the very regalia of the One who loves me. Certainly it’s a leap of epic proportions to jump from Weezer to God, I know, but you'll just have to trust me, and I promise to stitch it all up by the end.

You see, He, being in fact God, fills my lungs and suggests my pulse this day, and come to think of it, yours as well; and He clothes us in such a fashion that we are quite beautiful to Him. So, to expand upon this darn of consciousness, Weezer got me to thinking, that even as God weaves amazing and stunning beauty into His design, the stark reality is that we're always just one string pull away from becoming drastically and quite conclusively undone.

Indeed, I'm but a mere moment away from being discovered -- naked and prostrate, lying face first on the floor next to a bundle of yarn that used to be my handsome sweater.

I say all of this, because, it seems in my audacity, that I have ignored this notion, and I am perhaps not alone -- especially in the church -- because, well, we've reached a supreme level of self sufficiency and superiority, and for lack of a better word, superciliousness.

Somehow, in some way, Weezer is enlightening me, and hopefully you, and revealing in no small way that we need to dispense with the misplaced and long held presumption that God, in His infinite wisdom, saw fit to love us more than the next group of people. Certainly, He loves you and he loves me with a passionate, unrelenting and often unrequited love, but he loves you just as much as he loves me, and yes, he really does love that man or that woman or that group of individuals you’re pondering right now, which is certainly unthinkable, but it is ever true.

I have a hunch that in our circles, we don't give this much consideration. At least I don't, as I toss stares of judgment at the stylistically challenged and repeatedly render guilty verdicts in the trials of my mind.

We go to great lengths to muster our own strength and we elbow our way to the front of the line and we endeavor quite smashingly to do it all on our own; we smugly assume that we're entitled to more favor in the eyes of our own private Creator, more favor than perhaps He would or should show for the next guy. We conclude that we're more pleasing to Him and more obedient, and with that affection and preference locked in for a lifetime, we set about to capably and confidently choose our own outfits and attempt to accomplish much through our garb and gear and accessorizing.

And this ability, this self-sufficiency, this cavalier independence, whether we like it or not, has its way with our denominational dress, our righteous and regal religious trimmings, our chic bias and our prideful and prejudicial panache.

But somehow we must repudiate the notion that these new trends we fashion and these styles we strut are exclusive reflections of God, the very One who, lest we forget, became a common, unadorned man, by choice, two thousand years ago, without pomp and circumstance; the very One who, right about now, in my imagination (and maybe yours), is seeking and loving all as he circles our respective towns as an unassuming Harley riding peace maker, wearing a leather vest that has some dried mud on the back of it, jeans that need a good wash, and boots that are beyond polishing.

Malign others, if you must, for their inherent differences and their errancies, but beware, for each of us bears the unfortunate but true unraveling point -- that dangling, hanging string. We are, in fact, a mere stitch and pull away from being stripped naked on the floor, our destroyed sweater in a pile next to us, crying out to a Maker who sees mankind as His creation, a Stylist whose vogue is ever now; his love, ever true and unchanging.

Indeed, there must be acceptance and humility, a nimbleness and flexibility of spirit, a darning of a gentle mosaic manner, especially as a new kind of church, that serves not merely to tolerate, but to appreciate and integrate, for our world is increasingly made up of those who don't always fit into or match the clothing we pull from our collective closets.

And so, that, my friends, in a thimble, is what Weezer taught me today.

Chapter 16 What it Means to Move

2005-10-13T16:26:00.000-05:00

Summer is still welcome in October, and right about now she's exhaling a big old breath of warm air, one last time. Perhaps an awkward dance partner to falling leaves and mosaic colors, she still lingers and offers a fleeting presence amidst these very autumnal moments.

Outside, in my mind’s eye, the Jesus of my day is welcome too, and he’s waiting for me. The morning is brand new, but he's already flush with the day and from adventures unknown to me. He's been busy, I can tell, for I suppose he's living out the gospel, as only he can. This incarnation thing has been perfected by him, in the early morning hours, noon and night; but whatever you want to call it, right now I’m just drawn to the mere humanity of him.

I walk briskly to him and embrace him, as I’ve done before, and he holds me close. It's so natural and right and yes, he still has the fragrance of all of my favorite outdoor smells and maybe that's just the scent of heaven. It bears repeating that he’s everything I ever wanted in a brother, a best friend, a companion. Even a father, all wrapped into one.

As usual, he invites me to ride and so I climb on the back of that low Harley, still unable to truly commit to my own bike yet, beyond what I borrow from someone else, but he seems strangely peaceful about that for now. It’s curiously loud today and the echo of the engine and its useless muffler is nearly overwhelming at times.

As we weave in and out of minivans and SUVs and cars of all types, it occurs to me that I've never thought about the strange sight of two men on a motorcycle, not that there’s anything wrong with it, but I’m sure we draw some attention, perhaps some stares, as we ride about 20 minutes or so through my part of town, towards downtown, and beyond, to a place familiar to me, and of course, him.

Eventually we ride down Calhoun, under the old railway overpass, and we look at our reflection in the Saigon Restaurant windows while we're stopped at a light. Up ahead, Alberto's is advertising 99 cent margaritas and of course this draws my attention, even in the morning, but damn it all, we keep on riding. We turn left on Pontiac and into a not so nice section of town, a five iron or so away from the Rialto, but it’s alright because there’s a lot of daylight around us now.

He parks the Harley and we walk around. He says that he wants to talk about this new kind of church that I’ve been so brazenly tossing around. This causes me to gasp and gulp a little, because I’m wondering if I’ve offended him in some form or fashion. I mean, really, I always ask him to help me tell this story, to mold and shape these ramblings, so I’m thinking he’s listening and taking me up on it.

But that’s not it, thankfully. Instead he says it’s time for me to comprehend real change. To envision what it means to move. You know, really physically up and move and experience another side of incarnation.

Of course, there's that incarnation word again and it's clumsy to me and it always confuses me and it’s really just so drastic at times.

And this moving idea is new. Move? As in, move? Where, pray tell?

But then he speaks very clearly about his new kind of church, which really isn't new to him, and how he’s slowly cajoling me and perhaps you and whispering truth to us about what it means to live with others, to celebrate with others, and even to suffer with others. Alongside others.

He asks me to picture a bride who throws off her veil and dances without inhibition at her reception and brings her plate from the head table to eat with the guests and she runs out the door and invites people from the neighborhood to celebrate with her, dirtying the bottom hem of her bridal gown on the street, but she doesn't care.

Indeed, he wants us to see how we can look for real answers to real problems if someone else’s problems become our problems. Then, together, we can solve them.

And that I’ll never truly understand or appreciate this from where I live.

He talks some more, about his example and his own becoming of flesh and about his relocation and his dwelling among someone such as me, how my problems became his own, as if he needed to accentuate his point.

I’m a little deflated right about now because this is just not on my horizon, not now anyway, I assume, and therefore I render my conclusion that he's speaking figuratively and this allows me to breathe easy for a while. To inhale some more of this summer air. I mean, come on, the whole selling of my possessions and giving away of everything to the poor, well, certainly there’s a less than literal application for the here and now and it would seem I’m making some progress. In my defense, I think I’m grooving along pretty well with the sacrificial living thing, buying an old porn theater here, helping refugees adapt to a new life there.

I just need to hold on tightly, for a little while longer, to what I have -- you know, my nice house, on my side of town with no crime, my easy commute, the good school district for my kids. Surely people have problems there. Can’t I help someone with problems in my neighborhood?

He smiles, and of course I can, but I’m not, and I’m not listening to the issue at hand and so basically I'm just missing the whole point, once again catching a big old red herring on the end of my line, which seems a misplaced metaphor right now but this is my imagination.

We ride around the neighborhood some more, taking in the colors, breathing in more gulps of this unseasonably warm breeze which is somehow all the more pleasant on the back of his Harley.

And then it strikes me, all at once, as I lean into turns with him, that I'm just like summer and her gawky presence, an awkward dance partner, who is welcome but doesn't quite belong here. I linger, here and there, but my own presence is fleeting, much like my reflection on a borrowed ride in the storefront windows of this Calhoun corridor.

He changes his course in a southwesterly direction, toward my comfortable, safe side of town. I'm leaning with him, trusting the ride and the Rider, drawing stares, navigating again through this gospel, this clumsy concept of incarnation, as certain adventures remain unknown to me, for now.

The mere echo of this whole thing is nearly overwhelming at times.

Chapter 15 This Enduring, Timeless Struggle

2005-10-11T14:14:00.000-05:00

Thousands more find ruins today and another battle has seemingly been lost in this celebrated war of the ages, the very war that rages on the edge of me.

And because of it, I’m once again stunted in my feeble attempts to recognize You, as this curtain descends, like the October fog around me.

With the gray of the morning, I’m ashen too, and forever at odds, it seems, with who You are, as if the breathing in of One who just is holds no bearing, no advantage, no explanation.

Yet I write, for this art must paint You. My design is known by You, as is my longing to contain You and bring form to the formless, to rip light and its shadows from voids, to color the dull.

Fall down upon me now and create the weight of something -- anything -- for me to bear a piece of You. Draw near in some fashion, beyond these whimsies and conjecture, for this appetite will not be satiated with trinkets or toys. Put skin upon your flock and multiply their numbers; time their rhythm with mine, for I crave some companionship this day, of the supernatural sort.

Bring tension to this story, I beg; release some rising action that will at once invite resolution and a looming epilogue to cap this enduring, timeless struggle.

Reveal Yourself to me once more, for I’m thrashing about beneath these wanderings and taunted endlessly by one who hides You from me.

Offer peace to these members and calm to this spirit; cocoon me away in Your infinite reality for musings of the human sort render no such comfort.

Chapter 14 Rational Borders and Square Corners

2005-10-05T08:55:00.000-05:00

It occurs to me that we don't have enough letters in our alphabet to accommodate all of these hurricanes, here on this early day in October -- a month which finds itself nestled squarely in the final chapter of a year that has known much pain.

All the same, it seems on this day, that this concept of a new kind of church is finding solid ground, perhaps even with sure feet, amidst the rubble and the heartache and the despair.

Something is happening, in and out of the moments that make up our day, where the burden of shattered lives and heartbroken humanity is revealed, ever so steadily now, as a weight that we must all share, under one banner. We are becoming the ones who multiply and form the thousands who choose to see through His eyes and realize that it’s not about us anymore, as we deliver a love that knows no boundaries, no prejudice, no bias; a love that doesn’t shrink back from mankind.

Yet, for all that has been accomplished, some attention must be given to that which has gone before us, and specifically, what went wrong there; right about there, where dreams slowly, but surely, became nightmares of our own design; a place worthy of a story, a revealing of some element of truth; perhaps some enlightenment through imagination (or something like that).

So it is then, in a slumbering, backward slanting memory of my own that I find myself now, caught in a semi-conscious realm, where I’m just as much asleep as I think I'm awake.

I’m standing over it, looking down, about to fall back into it, because it seems so restful there. Just like I remember it.

I’m lying on my back, looking up from what some would call a hole.

These walls of dirt and clay comfort as only they can, surrounding me with a steady, reliable temperature -- for I’m deep enough under to not be too hot. Or too cold, for that matter.

I’m just right.

You see, down here, everything is in order. This way of thinking, within these walls, is tried and true. And it works best, as usual, within rational borders and square corners.

Quite frankly, it has for generations, so I don’t see any reason to change.

While I'm here, I leave my messiness behind, because there’s no place for it. I think linearly with parameters and I color inside clean lines. Whatever I bring to the table should fit right into this box. I mean hole. Nothing more, nothing less.

Those around me, down here, act a lot like the people who belong, and they look a lot like me, and of course, the collective others who have yet to come.

Sure, I squint a little, but that’s just because there’s a lack of light. The squinting helps me to look serious and grave (forgive the pun) as I go about the appreciating and the valuing of our community and our commonality.

I’m told not to worry about the light, or the lack thereof, because at night, I can look up at the stars. Not all of them, mind you, just the ones that float overhead from our viewpoint. Of course there are other stars, legend has it, but the ones that are most important are seen best from our perspective.

I do get to enjoy the high noon sun, which is nice. That’s usually when others gather together and make sure everyone is following the rules. Appearances are so much easier to examine in broad daylight. Of course, if it gets too bright, we have certain ways of covering up, because, well, we wouldn’t want too much exposure.

Sure, there are certain things that I miss, like the sunrises, and the sunsets for that matter. I can’t quite get the angle right to experience them from down here. Of course, I have a sense that something unusual is happening just beyond me, because the color surrounding the perimeter of my hole starts to change.

Now, it does get tight from time to time, in this place, so we just dig sideways for more room, because that’s what everyone else is doing. It will all be worth it.

Once we have a bigger hole.

So that we can sit in it.

And hold hands.

And sing, maybe.

And never leave it.

And look at each other and talk about how nice our early grave really is.

Then, I wake up in a cold sweat.

Could it be that the most profound and life changing experiences awaiting us as a church have little to do with safe, predictable choices and the walls which close them in? I wonder, how many of us live cowered in a church corner, clinging to our control within the confines of modern day, Pharisee mandated minutia?

What might happen if, instead, we climbed out of these early graves and became a unified, nondenominational explosion into the community, with a focus less on a sheltered denominational subsistence and more on love in action and anonymous compassion for those who have run out of hope?

Might there be moments of unprecedented wonder just around the corner, the very adventures that would weave the colorful fabric and design of our existence from this day forward?

If it helps you, then imagine it so, for indeed there is a splash of sun expanding the sky and warming the skin.

Walk into the light with me, and join me as we find our eyes drawn to the downtrodden and the underdog. Follow closely with me after the Jesus of our day and together we'll discover that the beat of the Rider has begun to throb in our hearts and his rhythm is slowly finding its syncopation.

No longer are we mere admirers or spiritual spectators from safe distances! We are in fact a new kind of church, eyes wide open, with sure feet, meant to experience and deliver a love that is unconditionally true.

Chapter 13 Closer Than They Appear

2005-09-29T15:46:00.000-05:00

The clouds look like big shreds of cotton as I’m tearing across town, late again to pick up the twins from kindergarten.

The posted speed limit is really just a suggestion, I think, and Green Day is egging me on, screaming through my speakers, probably louder than even they anticipated; and Billie Joe is asking me if he can get another Amen, so, of course, I oblige.

It’s all a blur, really, the landscape, the cars, the traffic lights, my preoccupation with this or that, but up ahead, well, there he is, and it’s painfully obvious that I’m going to blow right by him because he’s apparently just taking in the scenery.

It’s cooler now and his leather jacket is on again, probably for the first time this season. The tassels on his sleeves are dancing in rhythm with the ones on his saddlebags and he’s leaning with his left hand on his leg, his right hand on the throttle of that low Harley.

And almost as if he knew I was coming, he looks to his left to watch me pass him; he’s just so casual -- easy, really, with that familiar blue bandanna on. He nods at me with a graceful lilt about him, as I break the law, windows down, head banging to get it out of my system because, well, the teacher guards at the school don’t need another excuse to think I'm a punk.

Now, for the record, I’ve heard it said that pigeons bob their head when they walk so that they can bring an image into focus, and this makes sense to me, and helps me as I’m thrashing my own head about in this chaos of my own creation.

But, I digress.

I’m just past him when he does something drastic and he switches lanes, veers right behind me, speeds up and keeps pace with me, and I watch him closely in my rear-view mirror. He’s helmet-less, like I’ve come to expect, and smiling.

I’ve got a few more turns to go, which will lead me off onto country roads, over train tracks, far off the beaten path, and so I assume he won’t follow.

But sure enough, there he is. He’s not tailgating, mind you, he’s just there, taking turns with me, in my wake, unexpectedly, and I’m pleasantly surprised that he’d pursue someone such as me, even after preceding chapters of shameful, sinful behavior.

I finally turn off to the school’s pick up circle -- you know the kind -- where teachers stand with clipboards and look leeringly with distrust at someone such as me, and perhaps you.

In line now behind minivans and SUV’s of all varieties, he’s still behind me, which, for obvious reasons, makes no sense here at the Lafayette Meadows Elementary School, you know, with that big ride of his.

Tate and Levi are in line, waiting for me -- a collision of blonde hair, big backpacks and even bigger smiles; they run to the car as if I’ve been gone for weeks. It's an explosion of life, times two, as they jump into the backseat of my Stratus, still smelling like summer, with the usual frontline reports on all things Kindergarten.

But this image behind me is begging to be brought into focus, and perhaps ever more so in this desperate head bobbing, broken speed limit pace of preoccupations and blurred landscapes. And so, I look at him more closely as he smiles, now in my side mirror, right above those words that say “Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.”

This causes me to lose my breath a little.

I turn the music down so as not to offend collective others, and my imagination gets the better of me as the Jesus of my day slowly passes me; moves in front of me, and I pause in the thought of it all, with my forehead against the steering wheel, hesitant now to tear across this town, a whirlwind of my own design.

I breathe in deeply, and just off in the distance I feel the echo of him as he takes it all in; a Savior who is much closer to me than I thought, One who would savor it all with me if I'd only take the time, far off this beaten path.

Chapter 12 To Render this Moment Appropriate

2005-09-27T23:29:00.000-05:00

You can hide ‘neath your covers,
And study your pain.
Make crosses from your lovers,
Throw roses in the rain.
Waste your summer praying in vain,
For a savior to rise from these streets.

Bruce Springsteen, Thunder Road

The sun stretches across a crisp sky on this new day, and I’m far from God, wrestling this notion of faith and raising the stakes on grace. I'm caught in this seemingly eternal cycle of fist shaking and then surrender while I hide from some perceived arrival of wrath.

Thankfully, the Boss knows some pain too, some angst, maybe on my behalf, because he’s luring me away from something, perhaps to something, or, at least, he’s doing it for some girl named Mary. I guess, really, he’s just a voice coming through these speakers, a recorded memory of him from way back then -- as in, when Carter was taking liver pills.

But with or without the real Bruce, I hide ‘neath these covers, as if it's possible to find something better under here. I wander through these shadows for a time, tempted to a second home of the most painful sort. If this thing we follow after is too good to be true, then, well, maybe it isn't; true, that is.

And it is here, in this other place, lost as usual, where I speak ever so softly, as I have many times before, in the chapters that fall backward. It is here where I do indeed make crosses from my lovers, those unseen temptresses who beckon and sequester me.

In here, I’m afraid to raise my voice. I will not cry uncle, for I’m afraid of tears, too, as if perhaps I’ll awaken something too emasculating, and that just won’t do. It’s not like I want to study my pain, or even bear this shame in a dark corner of my own creation. I just want to gently go about my recovery from this.

So, it comes out, scratchy, like a hoarse muttering for him; for only him with ears to hear.

Will You look for me? Will you stretch across this distance and find me? Will You pick me up because I’ve stumbled, again? Will You fill this dark and desperate place with some type of light?

And so, that’s what I whisper today, just another day inside the shadowed bowels of the Rialto, with enough construction debris at my feet to render this moment appropriate for my mood, this lurking spiritual ennui and muck and mire.

Then, looking up at the place where a screen once was, where sparkling images filled Saturday afternoons; where memories were born, night after night; where one fateful season, more skin was revealed than a humble Greek immigrant ever imagined possible -- right there, is a light, which seems to have no source, streaming in as if it is welcome, completely at home and perfectly fitting for this moment.

I start searching for what this could be -- this illumination -- so, I put my hand in front of a work light, for I’m sure it’s just some reflection. Or maybe there’s a hole in the wall, out into daylight; a new one that we’ve not yet discovered.

But that's not it, so I start to climb toward the balcony. Maybe something is coming in from a side window, working its way through the stairwell, bouncing this way and that off of a piece of scrap metal or broken glass.

Still nothing, so I’m upstairs now and I put my hand in front of the projection room and see the shadow outline of my hand all the way across the theater. Sure enough, light is streaming in from a front window, across the entire second floor, into the small space that holds those old fire-breathing projectors, past them and through a rough hewn hole, beaming like a laser right up to the front screen where flickering bits of celluloid once created magic, of various sorts.

Light is piercing from one end of the building to the other, effortlessly, straight as an arrow.

This finds no electrical source, no bending reflection; it just is, across this upper room of my inability to stay good, down into darkened closets, these portals of sin, straight on through the rough hewn holes of this heart.

Maybe it is all just so true that what we think is good can't ever contain it.

Could it be that a Savior would rise from these streets? I think so; really I do, but what am I waiting for -- because he already has. Nothing else can explain this turn of events, this twisting of fortune, as I stand ankle deep in pieces of history that have been waiting for new life; yes, even despite this shadow I create to divert a stream of continuous Light, who moves straight on through the middle of me, across the whole span of me really, and endeavors to overcome it all, come what may.

So then, maybe through these whispers, I’m not praying in vain, so I’ll get a little louder, more confident, in fact, if I know I’m alone, in a conventional sort of way.

Unfold and unravel me! Search me deep within. Sweep away the cobwebs and shadows of bitterness, indecision, judgment, lust and pride.

Turn me upside down. Find me unholy, unworthy, unabashed and take every square inch and reconfigure me. Reshape and retool me.

I walk downstairs, out into the day where the sun has indeed stretched across the sky. I'm found again, pierced by truth as if it is welcome, completely at home and perfectly fitting for this moment.

Chapter 11 Redemption in Their Hands

2005-09-22T09:39:00.000-05:00

It’s early fall, and the days are drawing to an end much more quickly now, somehow like a curtain for a play that has worn out its welcome.

And here we are, deep within the second term of the second Bush. I think it's safe to say that he's having a rough go of it; mostly because of a natural disaster, but partly because of a man-made one.

On a lighter note, the Rialto’s new roof is about to go on and I love the big fat metaphor of it all -- you know -- with its covering and its protection and the whole promise of real transformation that can take place now. Leaking rafters will leak no more, which is nice, because dry wall and plaster can now cover a multitude of sins. Plumbing can bring needed water in and out and electrical can be finalized, and maybe we can even move in, which is what we've wanted to do all along, for obvious reasons. You see, we can finish what we've begun, simply to make an old, vacant porn theater come alive for those who would find their way here; from all over the world, or, perhaps, from right down the street.

And in and out of these moments of endless work days and countless volunteer hours, there are men who have become giants in my eyes. Men like Jim and Larry and Harvey and John and Russell, all of whom simply carry with them the resolve to see something through to the other side; to muscle it and to manage it and to bring an offering on the altar of a sweaty brow, some bruised flesh, and dirty lungs. They quietly spin the combination on our five dollar lock and they willingly enter this concrete leviathan, kick up some dust and work on their own time, often late into the night. They wrestle with metal and wood and plaster from years gone by, because I suppose, they like to feel redemption in their hands, much like the Jesus of my day might.

There are men like Phil and Joe, brothers in arms who get up early and trudge with me to the Rialto every Tuesday morning for prayer. They are as regular as the coming of the seasons, and we always leave better off then we were when we came, because, well, that sort of thing just happens when Jesus shows up (which he told us he would do). We sit in hopelessly dirty chairs, in a circle, and we laugh and dream and imagine a new Rialto and a Rider who gets up early with us.

And then, there's Bob, who has been a pastor since around the time of Kennedy. I have breakfast with him now, from time to time, because I'm hoping that an embrace of greeting will somehow rub a little of him off on me. He's been on the front line for over forty years and sure, he's older now, but the sparkle in his eyes is ever bright as he passes the torch on to new warriors. He's been dreaming of a new kind of church from before I was born, for he is the man who forged an army of saints with his bare hands and fought for decency and the downtrodden, and led marchers around the Rialto back when Reagan was trickling down one thing or another. And now, all of these years later, he understands and appreciates the sacrifice, and he smiles in the warmth of a creative God.

Still, ever so slowly, it seems as if the curtain is closing. Yes, despite the looming largeness of these warriors in my life, it is ever clear to me, and perhaps you, that there is one who will never stop hunting us. His malice is true, and his leaning, ever forward. The attacks are relentless, but they must be visualized in our minds or else they become nothing more than whimsy and fairy tale, which, if allowed to happen, is folly indeed.

And maybe in your town, and certainly in mine, there are questions swirling around about church and what it could look like and maybe feel like. I’m not exactly sure, but I have a hunch, and I hope, by now, that you do too, through the thick and thin of these chapters and wandering ramblings of the perpetual sort.

No doubt there's some sacrifice, some reliance on elders, some brother and sisterhood and some plain old muscling through to the other side. There are long awaited roofs that are needed to bring refuge, to cover a multitude of sins, and beneath it all there's a hope to move in so that redemption can be felt with calloused hands.

And there's an army of saints to be forged; to anticipate and defend against the one who would unseat us and try to strip us of our royalty.

It's messy, for sure, but there's laughing and dreaming and it gets all mixed up with the imagining of a Jesus, seated right next to us in the grittiness of it all.

Which is what we've wanted all along, for obvious reasons.

Chapter 10 Actually, That's the Whole Point

2005-09-14T11:58:00.000-05:00

You and I are both hungry and so we need to eat.

We have different tastes, of course, but thankfully there's a big, well known restaurant that we both like.

When we get there, the menu we're ordering from has a wide variety of dinner selections to choose from. I like steak and you like fish. And both choices are excellent because the Chef is out of this world.

We enjoy our dinner together (that we ordered from the same menu) and we even steal a few bites from each other's plates for variety.

But, really, at the end of the day, I prefer steak.

And you prefer fish.

Some experts say that fish is much healthier, but they can never seem to agree on anything, so I'm not too concerned. The important thing is that we're getting fed and our bodies are being nourished.

And the conversation and the community we share are of utmost importance.

All the same, regrettably, every time we go out to this big restaurant, there are people at tables around us who would rather argue about why their choice of dinner was better, or about why they receive preferential treatment from the Chef. Conversations get heated over this and over that while some hungry people look in from the outside, their faces disgusted.

And, I suppose some of them will eventually walk away and look for another place to eat.

As the people inside argue, even they lose sight of personal taste and tolerance, and really, they're just getting fat talking about it. The Chef is pretty upset at this point, because it seems like all they ever do is bicker and take up space.

And so, I've decided that I'm not going to question your decision to eat fish, and I hope you're OK with my leaning toward red meat. We both love this Chef -- so I think if we fought about this, we could get heartburn; or worse yet, lose our appetite altogether.

Also, when we're done, I think we need to go out and burn off some of these calories. The Chef encourages it, of course, and as we go, we'll keep our stimulating conversation alive. Ultimately, we're designed to be people of action and since we're fed and full, well, we're stronger and healthier.

You see, while we love the Chef and thoroughly enjoy the food and the restaurant and long to eat again, we don't eat to sit still. We don't eat just to eat. We gain sustenance through the process, you know, for energy -- to go and to do the things we talked about during dinner.

Actually, that's the whole point.

In fact, the restaurant is just a building, so, by itself, it's really not as important as the Chef and the recipe and the dishes He prepares, because, really, the ambience and the wait staff are only as good as the cooking coming out of the kitchen.

And even though I don't think we need to dissect our dinner choices, strangely enough, the amazing culinary touch of the Chef finds itself repeated and reflected and revealed in the variety of so many of the dishes that we prepare and enjoy when we can't be at the restaurant.

Come to think of it, maybe we're a new kind of Restaurant.

So we start to feed people who are hungry.

And maybe, just maybe, they'll want to learn where we got the recipe.

Chapter 9 A Neverland Gone Wrong

2005-09-08T16:31:00.000-05:00

There’s a hidden room just beyond the reach of sunlight. Its moldy door of wood is covered by untamed brush and twisted branches of the ominous sort, and its hand-forged iron latch bears the weight and rust from another time and place, far outside this contemporary comprehension.

It is a room that sits on the edge of jagged crags and just beside random cliffs, deep within menacing shadows and incidental nightmares, where the air is humid and stifling and overbearing. The obscurity of it all is so frightening, in fact, that the mere presence of it fashions its own void between restless awakenings and stirred slumber.

And just outside the door, flocks of the startled can be heard taking flight, fleeing all at once, leaving an eerie silence in their wake.

I find myself inside this room, caught in my own private dream state, a Neverland gone wrong. I’m held captive within this place, for its entrance is locked from the outside. I’m pounding helplessly against its rotting, but strangely secure door, desperate -- for in this room, instead of insulating walls, there is a dark chasm, from which I’m certain I’ll never escape.

I’m angry, and terrified, of course, because I’m trapped. But a certain something, or a someone of unprecedented evil is making matters worse by competing with musty and rank odors and breathing against my skin with a clammy warmth, in such an uneasy way that I’m scared to death and I know that I’m far from home.

I'm here, again, because, in here is where I absorb and listen all too attentively to whispers, the very ones that serve to remind me how unworthy and unlovely and untalented I am; and certainly unusable and undeserving. I can hear them now, accompanied by the seething of this other being with his minor chords and clanging disharmony. But somehow, despite the messenger, all of it is simply believed as the truth, and that I should bear these brands as my own.

And then rot alone in this room of discarded potential.

But, if I could twist my body in such a way, or bite my bottom lip hard enough, or find the breath necessary to scream, then maybe, just maybe, I’ll wake up.

So, this is what I do.

And then, the bad dream draws to an end, like it always does, when the appointed person of this day, this hour, this nightmare comes to release me, and, quite frankly, whoever lets me out is undoubtedly the unpleasant person who locked me in.

I wake up, sweating, and baffled once more; my lover sleeping peacefully beside me

You see, this person, or the collective others of years gone by, well, they’ve put me and perhaps you in this place and they’ve shackled the door. My reoccuring nightmare aside, in real life, they’ve walked away while we’re screaming and all alone, but for the one they’ve left us with, where lies will be repeated, over and over again. And certainly, their words speak loudly and forcibly, for we can almost see their tongues (unwittingly or otherwise) escape as mighty swords, slashing outward at the victim it finds of us.

And then, on the wind of their bidding, we’re carried, lifeless, to this prison.

They’ve inadvertently become the key master, the warden, the very delegate of the evil one who is just beyond our sight and just beneath our mere appreciation of him. For he prowls and he seeks to devour us, in any way he can; he hides us away in this prison, perhaps just as real a captive as our imagination allows us to be.

Yet, somewhere within the depths of this man-made nether world, a Voice echoes out a battle cry that our hearts are good, and true, and beautiful by design, and this makes us more than worthy, and absolutely lovely and multi-talented; certainly usable and oh so deserving.

The Voice carries over the wind with a reverberating timbre that shakes the trees and clears away brush, and removes at once the oppressive stench of this place. And from the inside, he can be heard over the door pounding of the desperate, as he shouts:

This one is mine!

He is a locksmith of sorts, this great Rider, and so he reminds me (and I hope you) of the very moment when he fitted the door with an inside lock, with a key that we hold firm in our hands, around our necks, or ingrained upon these broken hearts that he calls redeemed.

Damn it, once again, I wasn't looking for it, and maybe you weren't either -- the key hole on the inside, and the way to escape, so instead, I stayed in the dark and believed it all, my fists bloodied against a door of arrangements made with the evil one to believe, and therefore suffer, at his hands.

If it helps you, then imagine it so. This great Lover we follow after won't stop us from going in, but he made a way out. We've been given this key and a new lock on the inside to release ourselves from bondage, to throw back shielding brushwood and to climb into the places where sunlight dances and shadows fade into the land of the living. Yes, to be a beautiful bride ransomed by her Prince from the prison depths of the too far gone.

To never again believe these lies.

And to become a new kind of church.

Chapter 8 Humanity as a Whole

2005-08-31T16:42:00.000-05:00

There’s much sadness in our world, today, and in the days to come. Words typed from dry ground, miles away, seem pale and lifeless and trite, because the mere freedom of others to live and their option to prosper has been yanked like a space rug out from under their feet.

So, I feel like I'm lost, tapping away at these keys, looking for some pacifying relief, some comfort, pathetic as that is. There's guilt, because I can only help so much, and because I know no such pain. I'll admit that I've tried to numb myself to it all, and maybe you have too; but the very ones who would be merely faces, are so much more now, due in no small part to the reality of this whole Christ following thing.

Somewhere in the passage and transformation of what once was, through the very development and progression and accumulation of thoughtful souls that share this common screen, we've heard the adventure of the street calling us. And so, the mere humanity of others, out there, is of huge consequence and it weighs heavy as we journey together toward this new kind of church.

We've begun to care. Deeply.

We all know, without saying it, that if our brothers and sisters within this rather large family are entangled in this kind of despair, this kind of horror, then we simply can’t enjoy our own freedom today, with our own sure and warm and dry feet. If they’re shackled like this, well, then, humanity as a whole must help bear the chains.

So it is that I must pray, and beg for you to do the same, and then pray again, for sanity, and for peace and for patience; for provision and for prosperity once more.

And please give, even a little something -- because a little something goes a long way when it gets multiplied and magnified and moved through the hands of the Great Comforter.

God help us all.

Chapter 7 Down Deep Where Longings Go

2005-08-23T10:44:00.000-05:00

The air is crisp today, and in the not so far off distance, there is a craving from a distant cello that is somehow auspicious.

I feel as if I’m alone, right here on a bench of sorts, with a hastily packed bag next to me.

I’m not sure exactly where the cellist is, but I can feel the majesty of it all in subtle strokes; I know intuitively that it underscores me, as a perpetual rhythm, as if the bow is gliding across strings because of me, and for me, and maybe straight on through the middle of me. So, I close my eyes, and wait, because a companion has promised he’ll join me.

And I'm hoping he will.

Then, I hear it, a soft beat of a big bass drum or maybe that was thunder, and it’s followed by another and another and it echoes as an accompaniment to that soulful cello; they mix and evolve into a cascading texture of timbre and progressing pitches, and in this surging stream of heightening harmonies and congruous chords, I become lost, right here in this moment.

My hands reach out to something, because it’s so close, like a light, and I can almost touch it.

So, I stand to get closer to it. To embrace it.

But when I do, I realize all at once that many people are in fact on benches all around me, and maybe I'm not as alone as I thought I was. The music is certainly for me, but for others too, and they’re standing now, joining me.

A beautiful symphony is right in front of us.

Then, it is quiet, and we sit.

Perhaps I’m daydreaming, but maybe, just maybe, I’m not. I grip my bag with one hand, and use the other to wipe my eyes, for this swirling circumstance causes an unforeseen emotion. I’ve been swept away.

Of course, it’s starting to come together for me now. This bench that I’ve been sitting on, static, waiting for release, well, it's quite a familiar one, as are the benches all around me with collective others seated on them.

My bench is comfortable. It is safe. It has a cushion.

But something about this moment -- it generates an impetus inside of me, down deep where longings go and wait to be let out.

Tears are dried and silence is broken, and so I reach inside of that bag and pull out a Book, and lay it on my lap. A voice drifts in and out and pages are turned, and pretty soon, that hunch I’ve had about a new kind of church, well, it’s true. It says so right here, in thin pages that turn like air, and words start to dance, like a beautiful waltz right in front of me, because they are so alive, literally, with a pulse, even though that doesn’t make sense. They swirl around me and cause me to imagine what it would be like to live them. To really, honestly, live them.

And to not just write about them.

Then, others begin to leave their benches and I realize that I’ve now left mine and I’m walking out into the light of another sort.

And, then, there he is. He's been there all along.

He’s come to me and perhaps to you with an altogether different pew; an empty seat behind him on that old Harley. He looks at us, looks back at the seat, and then with his hand, he beckons us forward. He’s come, just as we asked him, just as he promised.

The leather seat is worn by the weather, by time and perhaps by those who have ridden before us. My car, or your minivan or our collective SUV is waiting, but imagination allows us to go, so we get on and we wrap our arms around the God of the universe, somehow contained in a body.

And now, he’s going to show us where he’s been and what he’s been up to, in my town and yours. We hang on tight, and we trust him, and we rest our head against the back of his shoulder.

Church has in fact begun, just a little bit ago on this very day, and it underscores us now, as a perpetual rhythm, out into the moments that will blend into the rest of the week.

The sound of the craving cello returns -- right there on the back of that ride, down deep where longings go and wait to be let out.

Chapter 6 I Like Writing About It

2005-08-10T16:25:00.000-05:00

Back when Clinton was preparing his pardon list, I started praying with a group of friends. We committed to meet every Tuesday, at 6:45 in the blessed a.m. -- you know, for that play about Jesus.

The play that never was.

Regardless, by now, we've been at it for five years or so. On some occasions, we've had a group as large as ten. Sometimes, as small as two.

But I’ve never been alone.

Ever.

Well, until this past Tuesday, that is, when I walked into the Rialto, like I've done countless times before, and sat down, waiting for someone -- anyone -- to show up.

But, apparently, no one was coming.

It was just me, and so I got up. I walked around and prayed, stumbling through that concrete behemoth with construction debris and strange noises everywhere. It was dark, but that didn't matter because I like to imagine, and so, I started to see everything lit up, with walls and ceilings made new, and people coming in, laughing and finding refuge, and maybe even worshiping.

A new kind of church, sort of, in an old porn theater.

Before too long, off in the distance, there was a rumbling, and it was great to hear. After all this time, I still get the intensifying pitch and reverberating roar of it all confused with actual thunder.

Things started rattling around me. Then, I looked out and there he was, probably breaking some noise ordinance at this hour. He was waiting at a red light on this early Tuesday, at Calhoun and Pontiac and he turned to look at the Rialto's large windowed doors of the front lobby, but all he could see was his reflection, because they’re all mirrored. A few years back, it was against the law for you to look into the Rialto from the street, if you catch my drift.

But He’s God, so he probably saw right through the door, and could see me standing there.

He turned right, and then I heard that engine without much of a muffler go behind the theater, by the alleyway, onto Woodland and back around. He was circling, like he always does, to get a lay of the land.

I went on walking through, into dark corners, praying, moving. I knew he’d be in pretty soon.

And then, there he was, coming in through the alleyway door.

“You thought you’d be alone today,” he said, just like that.

“Yes, but here you are.”

I hugged him, close, and of course, he smelled like the outdoors; the summer season, mixed in with little grime and earth and oil.

He pulled away from the hug, gently, and held me at arms length with his hands on my shoulders -- a masculine expression I find acceptable.

“What do you think of this new kind of church idea I’ve been tossing around?” I asked, breaking the silence, not as humbly as I would have liked.

He looked at me deeply, then up at the beautiful blue dome above old theater. Perhaps the only thing of beauty left in the Rialto. We both stared at it for a moment.

“Who is it that you think I am?” he asked, after a long pause, out of another blue, like I’d just met him for the first time.

I just stood there, stunted and numb tongued from a question like that. I was a little offended, and obviously unprepared.

He walked over to the old broken down stairs that wander up to the balcony. He motioned for me to sit next to him, but, well, I had dark pants on, and didn’t want to get them dusty.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“It’s not a difficult question, Jeff.”

“Well, you’re ... you're ...”

I stuttered a little and too much time went by. Before I could finish the sentence, he cut me off.

“While you’re thinking about your answer, I’m going to leave for a few moments, and then I’ll be back. When I return, I'll ask you again.”

I thought that maybe it’s better when other people show up to pray, because I’m not really ready for this at 6:45.

So, he left, and before his riding boots even turned the corner, there was a homeless man. I have no idea where Jesus took off to, and I have no clue as to how this guy got in, but he smelled not so good as he approached me. Maybe he was the one who lived in the alley, the man I never did find, and he decided to come around to the front door.

We stared at each other for a brief moment. And then, there is this thing I do in these situations, more like a reflex, and I’m not proud of it. There’s always a smile, don't get me wrong, but it’s a dismissing kind, where my lips are closed tight and I slightly turn up the corners of my mouth. I look for exits, even when I’m outside.

Anything to make my escape.

So, obviously not prone to overt compassion, this is what I did, like a knee jerk reaction. And then he was gone.

I was alone again.

Then, coming around another corner, was a man, quite large, with tattoos, gang apparel and dark sunglasses. He could have been a convict for all I knew. He walked past me, right through me, actually. The front door and some of the side doors must have swung open all the way because the traffic was very loud from the street.

Then a widow walked in, I think. Or at least she looked like one.

Then a pregnant refugee came in with bare feet and small children were hanging on to her tattered dress.

This was becoming a fashion show of the most bizarre. On and on it continued, and I was overwhelmed as they shuffled in from all corners. Quite frankly, I don’t remember leaving any of these doors open, but I guess I did.

And then he was back, right there in the midst of it all.

“Who do you say I am?”

This is not rocket science, I thought. Of course he sees me doing this awkward body language thing with my pursed lip smile, and he knows what I will do before I even do it, which frustrates me to no end. I’m rejecting him. But to accentuate his point, one by one they walked near me, or rolled their wheelchair over, yet I was the one who was paralyzed, as usual.

He knows better than I do, that pity without action, is merely pity, and we might as well just call it indifference. But, come on, they’re all dirty and maybe even sick and they’re right here in the Rialto on a Tuesday morning, and how could I be prepared for that?

He walked back in and looked at me with those eyes. Everyone was gone now and it was deathly quiet, all of a sudden, as if the traffic stopped outside, which would be impossible.

"And how about you, Jeff? Who do you say I am?"

“That’s not fair,” I argued. “Think about the disease. Even health professionals wear rubber gloves.”

He moved over to the steps, again. And as he passed, I heard him whisper, “Or maybe what’s inside of you is the disease.”

Ouch, that hurt, I thought to myself.

So we sat on the steps for a while, and inside I was smugly proud that I was getting my pants dirty for him.

"What do you think it will take?" he asked.

He always asks such simple questions like that, the obvious kind that I should know the answer to.

“I don’t know. Practice, maybe. I like writing about it more than I like doing it.”

“You don’t need practice. You need perspective.”

More silence. More looking at my shoes.

And then, out of nowhere, Chloe came running around the corner and she was crying and bending over with her hand on her knee. Blood was running down her leg and she was calling my name. What’s she doing in a place like this?

“Daddy!”

I rushed to her, but as soon as I got there, she was gone. I turned around, confused and a little angry with him for these mind tricks, but Levi was standing over in a dusty corner, head in his hands, and he was sobbing. All I could hear was:

“They were teasing me again. I don’t understand why I’m so much smaller than everyone else.”

I walked cautiously and tenderly up to my son and I went to put my arm around his shoulder, but, then, he too disappeared.

I reared back, and of course, I knew that this was some kind of test, like all of the rest of them on this surreal morning. If he wanted to do it this way, that's fine. Two can play this game.

All of a sudden, sitting next to him, was Tate, Levi’s much larger twin, and he was bending over, holding his stomach. He’s had a lot of pain there recently, and it’s caused his mother and me a lot of worry.

I hesitated, holding my breath. I won’t go to him this time, I thought. I'm good at being callous.

But, well, damn it, I couldn’t help it. I rushed to him quickly, knowing full well that he had me, yes, right there where he wanted me.

Then, he too, was gone, like something out of a movie. Or a bad dream.

Lastly, Gabe was standing in the shadow of the doorway. He was looking down, both hands in his pockets, dejected. Too old to cry, of course, at the age of 11, but I could tell he was holding it off. Something must have happened today, his very first day of Junior High. My heart broke for him, because I remember those days, all too vividly. Before I could make it to him, though, he stopped me.

He, being Jesus.

“Why do you go? Why does your heart break? Why do you want to hold them and comfort them?”

Defensively, I argued, "That's not fair. You can't compare this with that."

I looked down. That was the wrong thing to say. I had no answers. How could I, really? I knew what he was driving at, as I stood there in that old concrete grave with my brand new perspective.

All of sudden, the doors slammed shut and it hurt my ears.

“This is the rock on which I will put together my church, a church so expansive with energy that not even the gates of hell will be able to keep it out,” he said, quite emphatically, in the echo of it all.

I know that’s in the Bible. But it sounded incredible from him then, right there in the Rialto.

And then, he was gone.

So, it was just me, all over again, wanting more. I wasn't really sure if he meant the Rialto as the rock, or my new perspective, but I had a hunch.

I walked through and heard that rumble turning down Pontiac. He was off to other adventures and so I just kept praying.

Alone, for now.

Chapter 5 A Seasonal Laziness

2005-08-08T15:49:00.000-05:00

It occurs to me this day, that about twenty people, give or take, stumble across this wandering and perpetual novel on a regular basis. We've become a community, of sorts, because of our common interests and shared dreams. And all of us (I hope) are intrigued by the promise of an adventure -- a summoning to be a part of something beautiful.

But, while that's all well and good and touching, if you're anything like me these days, you're watching the summer drift by, without much direction, and you're prone to a certain idleness that mimics the laziness of this season.

It's hot out there and it's best to just stay inside.

All the same, despite this brooding indolence of mine, and perhaps yours, there are little (and not so little people) who are starting to get their act together. They've begun practicing for the football season and for other sports in open fields, here, there, and everywhere. Whistles from coaches and echoing drums from distant marching bands fill the air. The splendor of autumn adornment is not so far off now.

Actually, of fleeting interest, even though my favorite season is the beginning of each one, I have a special place in my heart for the fall. Somewhere deep within my wiring, I’ve been programmed to return to something of consequence, as if the harvest is ripe for me to pull my life back by the bootstraps and to saddle up. To accomplish goals that were set so long ago.

It's a time to get back to it.

Still, I’m divless and drifting and I’ll admit that I want the summer to last. This life of leisure, this season where laziness feels most at home, well, it beckons as if it is the prize; that the toiling and the trudging during other seasons and chapters of my life are endured merely to enhance my ultimate view while I lounge and loaf. Sure, deep down inside, I know this is a lie, whispered from one who has much to gain from my planned inaction and seemingly shallow sense of direction, but I pursue it nonetheless.

And despite the lethargic climate of this present now, I know that this God I worship isn't lounging; in fact, He is ever steady and intentional in His manner -- He's always in the game. He still calls my name, pushes me from behind, taps me on the shoulder and grabs me by the mask of my helmet. He stands ready for me to join Him, one eye on the action, the other on me and my apparent ability to make a difference for the team. He uses the coming season of anticipation to cajole, because, let's face it, the proverbial ball is being advanced down the field, towards a goal, even while I (and perhaps you) daydream on the bench.

And this daydreaming on the bench, well, it's actually a big problem. If our idleness rages as a battle within us, then, what if we’ve made our gatherings, our community, our church nothing more than a reflection of our ennui? Have we become men and women with an eye toward spiritual leisure and an improvement of our view, where we take comfort in the masses? Have we become an exodus of countless others, who trudge and toil so that ultimately we can sit and rest in a building on Saturday or Sunday or Wednesday night?

Are we a church that knows only summer as a goal?

Of course, because it just makes sense to be on the inside, where the prize has become, somehow, that more will join us within walls of our own creation.

If this is our only goal, then maybe we're all daydreaming on benches.

But there's a new season awaiting, one that I think draws us uniquely together. It is the beginning, my favorite part, where coaches will whistle and that distant marching drumbeat will call us into the game; the very way of a Kingdom. Don't be mistaken. This is a game of consequence where the ball is being advanced down open fields all around us, fields that are ripe with the downtrodden and the underprivileged. They are in my town and yours -- the hungry, the poor, the refugee, the sick, the naked, and the prisoners.

At times, this Bride we are has been stalled, halted, stunted. Why? Because our abilities to make a difference on the outside (where the action is), have been thwarted by cascading urgings to look inward; to pacify this gnawing, geographical pull toward a building -- a circling of wagons and SUV's and minivans galore.

This is a seasonal laziness that we’re mimicking and then calling it church.

So, then, what it is the answer?

I'm learning as I go, but from what I can tell, church must be viewed as a lifelong rhythm, not just a building with seats to occupy. Certainly worship and wise teaching and leadership are crucial elements for our nourishment, but those who want the adventure must realize that it doesn’t make sense to just stay inside.

If our imagination has taught us anything over the past months, it's that this Jesus we serve and follow, well, he's out there, on the edge, practicing love and sacrifice for no other reason than because it’s right and received by the unlovely, the unsuspecting, the unwelcome, the underdog. It’s a new life with a new purpose and yes, it’s out in the elements where it's rough and it’s dirty.

And it’s really not safe at all.

But, this is actually the primary goal! The one that was set so long ago; and if we pay close attention, we'll all realize that deep within our wiring, we were programmed to embody Jesus in and out of the places where he would go, just as if he were here today. To practice little gestures of love and caring and dignity that will bring justice and healing, and together we'll move the ball with a momentum that cannot be denied.

And so, this new church experiment in the making finds its parishioners, you and I, twenty strong or more, leaning forward, on the edge of our seats, peering toward a glowing screen of commonality. We are a church without borders, and we live in and out of states and countries and continents all around the world.

This is the call to return to something of consequence; this is the season to pull ourselves up by the boot straps, to saddle up and get back to it. What do you say we get our act together?

Chapter 4 A Muse of Some Sort

2005-08-01T16:29:00.000-05:00

I am just a poor boy, though my story's seldom told;
I have squandered my resistance for a pocketful of mumbles,
Such are promises.
All lies and jest; still a man hears what he wants to hear,
And disregards the rest.

When I left my home and my family, I was no more than a boy;
In the company of strangers,
In the quiet of the railway station, runnin' scared, laying low;
Seeking out the poorer quarters, where the ragged people go,
Looking for the places only they would know.

Li la li...

(The Boxer - Simon and Garfunkel)

You’ve heard me describe, in preceding pages, that my children wave their hands in unison to Simon and Garfunkel. But, truth be told, they do it mostly to one song; specifically, The Boxer. Their tiny arms sway with the most beautiful motion and accord during the “li la li’s”.

And I get choked up, more often than I care to admit, when I look back and see all of them in their car seats, their fingertips in the air, moving silently to the rhythm as the orchestration reaches a crescendo. All of the lyrics are haunting and compelling and sad, but I tend to lose it at the climactic end, where there’s a whole gaggle of li la li’s. There they are, eight arms in the air, attached to little people with faces that smile in sweet unison. Music has calmed the beasts of childhood, with all of its infantile disagreements and squabbles over minutia and imaginary lines.

It is an incredible picture, a point of inspiration, where everything is in harmony (if only for a moment) and it overwhelms me as I fight back tears. I struggle to even describe it adequately.

But this very struggle gets me to wondering. This new kind of church begs for something similar -- a muse of some sort -- that would collectively inspire a sustained moment of mere simplicity where, despite sad lyrics, our arms could sway, childlike, in beautiful accord, cajoling this present Bride into unison beyond the customs of our own design.

Could it be that something or maybe even a Someone might be able to motivate and thrust this church above the realm of the ordinary? Could it possibly be that this Harley riding Jesus would rouse us from our slumber?

If so, well, then this could get dicey. And dangerous. To actually envision a church where even the gravest of skeptics associate the members of it with the Rider alone; where perceptions of pious pulpits and the people who fill them are removed, those good intentioned souls who step gingerly onto pedestals; yes, even those pedestals that slowly evolve, mysteriously, into wholly righteous platforms.

Over time, it seems that you and me, this enclave of a church that was, well, perhaps we’ve squandered our resistance for a pocketful of mumbles. And we’ve believed it of course, this notion that even though Jesus walked with the poor and marginalized of ancient days, for contemporary believers such as us, he only came to punch our ticket for Heaven. Such are promises.

All lies and jest, it’s not so hard to see how a man could hear what he wants to hear and disregard the rest.

And so, now well into my 39th year, I just have to ask the question: Why would any church who claims to follow him not lead others to do what he did on a regular basis? If I’m not mistaken, he was known for laying low and for seeking out the poorer quarters, where the ragged people go.

Yes, it might just be that simple, because he could usually be found looking for the places only they would know.

We must learn, in fact we must train ourselves to accept with grace our mission to do just that. Maybe even simply that. The church building where we receive nourishment is not the destination. It is instead a launching pad where we are fed and fueled for the moments of unparalleled wonder that stumble headlong into days of adventure. Not inside, mind you, but right out there where Harley riding brothers and sisters find incarnation at the street level. If it helps you, than imagine it so.

Imagine not a long train on the Bride’s dress, laid nicely and quite perfectly on the scarlet runway by prim and proper bridesmaids who purse their lips and shush away latecomers as they close the door. Envision instead the billowing of a gown that swells and fills with the breeze off the back of that low ride, where the Bride has one arm strapped around the Groom's waist, and with the other, she throws the lacey veil and her bouquet to the wind, beckoning all to come to a celebration.

And right there on the edge of a very special something, a moment of incredible consequence, everything will start to come into focus. To be sure, the lyrics of life are sad and haunting at times but this is a place where the music of mission has calmed the beasts of infantile disagreements and squabbles over minutia. The orchestration of the saints will cross imaginary lines and reach a crescendo deep within the simplicity of swaying arms that strive in unison to serve a dying world.

That, my friends, is a new kind of church.

Li la li, La La La Li Li Li...

Chapter 3 One of the Ports in Her Storm

2005-07-27T10:52:00.000-05:00

The night started off badly for her. She began vomiting shortly after going to bed and so I watched as everything from a seemingly healthy day started to come out of her three year old body. I pulled back her long wisps of whitish blonde hair as she wretched and it was enough to break my heart because she’s so tiny and fragile.

And so it went, on and on, as my wife and I took turns with her throughout the night.

After purging her system, with amazing regularity, it became abundantly clear that there wasn’t much left in there. I held her little frame as she dry-heaved, and it felt as if she might break. The sounds coming from her were as excruciating for me as they were for her. Oddly enough, it was a stormy night, and claps of thunder seemed to mimic her as she lurched uncontrollably.

As she finished each bout, I would softly wipe her face with a cool cloth. Eventually, as the night carried on, I gave up my side of the bed so she could be near her mother and be held as she struggled through the dark and early morning hours. Towels surrounded her and each whimper was met with compassion because she is so loved, so precious, so weak.

When the sun finally came to rescue all of us, I went in to shower and get ready for a bleary eyed day. I periodically checked on her to make sure she was sleeping and not on the verge of another spell.

And then, as I was ready to leave for work, I rounded the corner one last time and there she was, just standing by the bed. The morning light was streaming into the room and I was so struck by her beauty that I literally stumbled back a bit -- some out of surprise -- but mostly because something miraculous had happened and there was a certain angelic glow about her. She ran to me with her arms wide open and said with a raspy voice:

“I’m not sick anymore!”

She looked a little emaciated but I hugged her tight and could feel her ribcage. I believed her, because this was not the same girl that I carried through the night. I had been a witness to it all.

In fact, I think she held me a little longer in that moment, perhaps a little more tightly than usual because I had been one of the ports in her storm.

We held hands and went downstairs where she greeted her puppy and her brothers. She was quite literally on her way out of a long nightmare, some of which, I’m not even sure she remembered.

And so this new kind of church of which I speak may not be too different from my all-nighter with Chloe.

Somehow we must realize that our calling is to pull back the hair of the weak and the fragile through dark hours as they wretch and as their body purges a sickness, with heart wrenching noises emanating from the depths of empty souls as they cry for help. It will be messy and towels should probably be laid down, but our hearts must still fill with love and compassion and we must not leave. At times we might even need to give up our familiar bed of comfort just so they can be warm and secure.

And held.

The struggle that the least of these face is often well beyond our comprehension. It is a sickness that we've been providentially spared from during our seemingly healthy days. And if we're willing to accept these truths and heed the call for help, it's important to realize that the night will almost always start off badly. There’s not much to do in the way of preparation unless we're first willing to quietly kneel by a vomiting body and gently offer a cool cloth, and simply bear witness to it all throughout the dark and early morning hours.

It may be more than a hunch to assume that the thunder which oddly mimics their agony and their pain isn't really thunder at all, but rather the echo of a certain Someone who circles, low to the ground, on a ride without much of a muffler. He is there, watching over the loved, the precious, the weak, with amazing regularity and purpose throughout storms of life; always with a bent toward rescue and freedom; justice and dignity.

And maybe, just maybe, those who are called to this emergence of a different sort will round a corner some day and we’ll all lose our balance and stumble back a bit because a very special someone in our lives will be standing there. With open arms they'll come to us and we'll be embraced tightly because at some point, we were a very special port in a storm. And then they'll say, with miraculous glow and beauty:

“I’m not sick anymore!”

And we’ll call it church.

Chapter 2 This Church of the Open Road

2005-07-24T14:50:00.000-05:00

And so, with a colorful splash of sun expanding the sky and warming the skin, that distant thunder is indeed intensifying and it’s increasingly at odds with this hopeful horizon. This is a pressing and uneasy feeling, for it intuitively speaks of a gathering; a swelling assembly of some type that has the audacity to fill a quiet and secure and altogether sacred moment with uncertainty and longing.

And danger.

Dishes and mugs on their trees start to rattle as birds of a feather flock nervously on a nearby perch. Certainly, this can’t be a storm of typical proportion; in fact, now it’s beginning to feel like an earthquake of some significance.

Running outside, it must be experienced, whatever it is, because oddly enough, the air on the inside is what's stifling and heavy and overbearing now.

So, with heart racing and breath halted, the corners of shadowing walls are rounded and heavy restrictive doors are thrown open. Bushes and scaling vines that blind and confuse are cleared, and up and over the crest of that hill, the vibrato of the rumbling reaches a fever pitch.

And then, suddenly, just like that -- there they are! -- a congregation of Harley riding radicals and rebels. The ground is undeniably shaking and their low wave is flying in unison as they pass. All of the colors of that brilliant sunrise are reflecting off of metal and mufflers and shiny parts.

Their number is simply too large to count.

It is an amazing picture of unity and array. They have organized, seemingly with a communal destination in mind. They ride together, side by side as apparent followers by no other name. Could it be that they’ve chosen to heed the call of the One -- just as he beckoned them to, but obviously devoid of typical borders, by-laws and banality? Could they possibly make up a new kind of church without walls, doors, ceilings or pews?

Perhaps this is indeed an emerging church, if only one of a different sort, like the sunrise that precedes them; an explosion really, out into the open air -- a parade of the ransomed where the participants collectively straddle their legs over leather and liberation.

And with each passing rider, imagination careens toward full tilt and vision is veering near the crystal clear. Despite the thunder of the moment, it matters not if a literal Harley is beneath them, for their clarion cause is justice; their mandate, dignity. Their eye is more attentive to the downtrodden and the underdog and they find themselves drawn to anonymous service and unfettered love. They're not just admirers or spiritual spectators from safe distances anymore because the beat of the Rider has begun to throb in their heart and his rhythm is slowly finding its syncopation. They long to be a part of something that is altogether gritty, entirely hazardous, and unconditionally true.

They realize that this is the adventure they’ve been waiting for.

Perhaps, those who are beckoned to become a part of this church don’t even realize it yet, but for the fact that they strain their neck every so often when they hear a familiar rumble down the back streets and alleyways of their town; out of curiosity they tilt their head just so, for this contemporary cornucopia of a man (who is somehow contained in a body) can now be visualized; his mere personhood erupting into new meaning and multiplying and mushrooming out into the masses -- for this is a man at home on the street. Into dark corners and shadowy places he brings light, for he embodies action; yes, a mission, a calling, a purpose.

All the same, his is an easy and graceful manner. He approaches with a calming smile, some grime from the road and a tattoo that says I am love; and it is this love that forms the foundation of a revolution that must begin, here and now -- a reclamation and a regaining of lost ground for the very lives that have been caught in the struggle. The red sky of this new chapter does heed a battle warning of a different sort, for now is the time to reap the sown study of Sundays gone by; now is the time for the courageous and the resolute.

So come and join the sanctuary of the ones who have been saved from the depths of the too far gone, where founding members congregate not as conquering heroes on white horses of privilege but as unassuming brothers and sisters who ride low to the ground. Come and know enough of the true Rider to be forever at odds with the ones who are more prepared than they are willing. Leave behind pews of indifference and altars of apathy. Bid farewell to men and women with agendas who revel with clean hands and distant hearts behind closed doors.

Instead, come and lean with humility against dusty street corners and join in worship as the alleys echo with rapping evangelists of song. Come watch as all cultures, color and creed rise up and multiply while their pulpits are filled by merely the rescued and the redeemed.

Come and join this Church of the open road.

~~~

And so it is, that this day is certainly disturbed; this storm is not for another part of town or an outlying area. The stillness and comfort of previous days must forever be shaken, for now is the time that we live the rhythm -- the grace filled, unshockable rhythm that is embodied in the One we’ve given our lives to follow after.

We are a new kind of Church, an Antioch for a new generation of lovers.

What you’ll get is the Holy Spirit. And when the Holy Spirit comes on you, you will be able to be my witnesses in Jerusalem, all over Judea and Samaria, even to the ends of the world. (Acts 1:8 The Message)

Chapter 1 And Certainly Comfortable

2005-07-20T12:10:00.000-05:00

And so it is, in the still of this early moment, that all is peaceful and undisturbed and certainly comfortable. It is quiet, but for a distant thunder, which makes sense, for this is the season of raging and plentiful storms.

The air outside is heavy, especially for the morning. It's stifling and overbearing at times, so much so that even a whisper of an opposing front will cause quite the havoc in this present atmosphere.

The rumbling fades in and out, right there on the brink of today. It is curiously comforting as it lunges with perfect pitch and rhythm. Even so, this is likely just a storm for another part of town; an outlying area.

And so it is quickly forgotten.

Inside, the coffee is brewing, the air is conditioned and the pause in this pre-dawn is pregnant with noble and conventional expectations. The adventure that has cascaded and thrilled through previous chapters is merely incidental now, but yet, oh so worthy of further reflection.

So, this will be a safe day like the others, filled with introspection and inner growth and, perhaps, even periodic (but entirely sincere) risk management of the religious sort. In the fullness of this day, the cocoon that’s slowly formed as a friend will conceal and nurture and cajole the quiet development of that very special something, that mystical but oft repeated spiritual growth. Right there in its perceived core, in the holiest recesses of the soul, a beautiful array of colors will ensign the dull -- yes, deep within proliferating and protective borders.

Day after day after day, the maturity is nearly palpable, the knowledge, expansive.

Yet, strangely enough on this calm morning, in concert with the obvious progression of all things wise and beautiful, the color of the room begins to change. The darkness that was there, so soothing just before, gives way to a compelling tint that is spilling over the ledge of a nearby window.

And so the blinds must be pulled back to reveal it.

There is hesitation, of course, because it's much more comfortable to simply sit and lose oneself in more study and contemplation, just like the countless days before. But today -- something about today -- it is just too hard to resist.

The hand reaches slowly for the cord that will change the direction of the Levolor. A drum roll cracks and claps from the recesses of nature and it seems eerily well timed -- and then, with a deep breath and a flick of the wrist:

There it is!

It is the most stunning sunrise to break the horizon in some time!

The sky is overwhelmed with brilliant oranges and purples and pinks and vivid blues. There’s a familiar explosion of color and its pigments bleed into the outline of burgeoning clouds. Behind them lies the outline and dimension of darkness; of fleeing shadows.

And all of a sudden that far-off thunder seems to be rolling with more authority now. It is escalating and reverberating, almost as a crescendo to this symphony of hues.

But the threat of a storm makes no sense. Surely this sky speaks of all things promising.

Maybe, just maybe, this day will not be like the others.