More Self-Help?

“It is the Spirit that gives life. The body is of no value for that. But the things I have told you are from the Spirit, so they give life.” John 6:63

There is no end to self-help aids. I can develop a muscled physique with one method, with another, I can eat like cave men. I can order books to enrich my marriage, to cure my neuroses, or have eye-popping sex. I can learn to talk to dogs, translate birdsongs to English, and create the most manicured garden in my neighborhood. Pay your subscription to Self-Help Magazine, read and take its articles seriously, and you will end up having the life you always dreamed of. You will have shapely calves, a full head of hair, close nearly every sale and buy houses for pennies on the dollar.

Hungry?

Hungry?

“’What sign then are You going to do so we may see and believe You?’ they asked. ‘What are You going to perform?’” John 6:30

If there was ever a time for Jesus to become frustrated in His earthly ministry, this was it! Consider this: between chapters two and six of the gospel of John, Jesus has performed five miraculous signs. He had turned water into wine, healed the son of a royal official, healed a man who had been lame for 38 years, fed 5,000 people with only five barley loaves and two fish, and had walked on the water, stilling the storm and calming the disciples, three miles from land.

Glimpses

Glimpses

(“Their eyes were opened and they recognized him, but he disappeared from their sight.” Luke 24:31)

Straight toward the light, reflections that pierced my eyes,
glittering arrows rode each ripple of the barely disturbed river.
I drove the muddy road, red clay and silver sage, to the butte where
we had planned to meet.

I wish I had kept the appointment more often; it happened in my wishes
more often than in my shoes. I wish I had ignored the sign in the winter
the barred the way up the trail to motor vehicles. I wish I had walked,
though winded,
and kept the appointment on a sunny January noon.

The Missouri bends a little south from Williston to Bismarck,
and through Fort. Berthold and New Town. It knifes a line between
Parshall and Twin Buttes; families only fifteen miles away as the crow flies
travel two hours across the bridge best viewed from Crow Flies High Butte.
(Happily in winter, during the best and deep freezes, grandmothers drive
the ice beneath the bird’s straightline map in the sky.

I caught glimpses, mostly in summer, of nearly Montana, alone
with the wind. My intentions were good, to fill my ears with Your songs,
fill my eyes with Your diorama, fill my nose with Your sharp spices
and aromatic weeds. I would meet You there.

Every time I looked East up the river, every time the sun blanketed my face,
I hoped to see You, have a moment with You, break the bread with You,
pack my sleeping bag and hunt the Northern Lights until I knew You
had kept the appointment as well.

I caught glimpses; and glimpses would be enough if I had paid more attention
to the invitations tucked away but never written down.

I do not need to reconstruct a single moment; glimpses can be enough
when the glimpse overflows with love caromed from one end of
history to the other.

Insert Your Name

Insert Your Name

(“Since you have been raised to new life with Christ, set your sights on the realities of heaven, where Christ sits in the place of honor at God’s right hand.” Colossians 3:1)

I no longer go hunting (daylight or dark) for instant remedies,
medicinal teas, flights of fancy or transactions of applause.
My hope is no longer in live oaks that decay, or additional deciduous
fallen and blocking the way. They will eventually crumble away.

I haven’t altered my consciousness in who knows how long,
though I have collected my thoughts and attempted to keep them
dry on the days I cry over one more phone call cut short,
email unanswered, leaving lasting words (the very last words)
ricocheting off the walls leaving indelible patterns and
interior redecoration.

I would tell him, I’m sure, love is secure, the ear arcane.
I would hug her, I would, if she found me with her eyes again.

I have fewer days around friends’ tables,
less hours at coffee and patter,
pain has robbed my easy informality
and turned a dollar of time into mere pennies.

Please believe, and insert your name within the margins of this writing.
What I have missed I would giftwrap and pass on to you.
From my storehouse of hiking trails and lunches at
Denny’s with a high school buddy, I would share every
hour with you that made each breath a treasure. I would
grab your hand (you feel the warm grasp already) and
interlock it with the friendship you think has crumbled
across the trail. You started the walk in the summer morning,
sun on your back, abreast on the hike, and always got home later
than you ever intended.

Let me grab your hand (you can feel the freedom already) and
place it so you face friend and the day, eye to eye, tear to tear,
and let the aroma of heaven erase the last words you spoke and
begin a brand new conversation.

I hunt no longer, dreams are less frequent,
but longings are deeper for the glimpse my soul has seen.

Of Two Kingdoms

Of Two Kingdoms

(“God has freed us from the power of darkness, and he brought us into the kingdom of his dear Son.” Colossians 1:13)

And we dance at dark, choosing partners we barely know;
and we dance at dark, chasing music we barely see.
And we make up words to songs we’ve never learned;
and we dance at dark and scurry away at dawn.

Come the light of day faces we knew in the shadows
have disappeared. Once the music ends, we hear our own
words again,
and search the riverbanks for forgotten conversations we
thought we enjoyed
dancing at dark.

We do not destroy because we are wicked; we are sinners, sick
and gray. We harm the very ones who would hold us, but we
deny we lost anything along the way. We explode with invectives,
we spit shrapnel and curse each other with body parts. The beauty
of reproduction is a schoolyard cuss-word. We cannot stand
the intimacy so turn it on its head

Wait for the next moonless night to grab the fastfood imitation.

One time

Let the night pass slowly, like genuine maple syrup on
the biggest stack of pancakes; butter dribbling in rivulets
and the breakfast aroma filling the house. Let the night
pass quietly, like a midnight meadow when the stars’
glimmers are the only sounds.

Let the morning rise warmly, like summer days
and crepe myrtles. Let the full light dawn and
without a single word, crass or creative, do one simple thing:

Stare at a face, any face, fully lit; let the light and shadow
dance across each beauty mark and each imperfection. Stay!
Do not turn away. Memorize the face and be memorized;
and think about a kingdom filled with light unafraid of
the dark.

Let's Get Over Ourselves

“…being eager to keep the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace. Ephesians 4:3”

Somewhere in late November or early December the first snowflakes of the season fell upon the slopes of the Cascades. Over the winter, flake upon flake pile up, eventually carpeting the bare ground with several inches of white powder. Barring an unusual thaw, the first flake that touched ground will stay frozen, connected in crystal formation to all the subsequent bits of snow. Each snowflake can range from less than a millimeter in diameter to nearly two or three inches. Even the largest, by itself, would produce little of value.

Robin Williams and God's Kingdom

“Jesus said, `I tell you the truth. No person can see God's kingdom if he is not born again.'” John 3:3

William Barclay said, "There are two great days in a person's life - the day we are born and the day we discover why." I think Jesus was saying something similar when he told Nicodemus, one of the Sanhedrin, that no one could see God’s kingdom unless he is born again. I am certain Nicodemus was a bit shocked; after all, he was part of the Sanhedrin, the 71-member Jewish judiciary council.

Nicodemus hasn’t even asked Jesus a question yet. He simply acknowledges that no one could do the great works Jesus had done unless God was with him. I happen to believe Nicodemus was sincere. He came at night, either because he didn’t want to be seen, or because he wanted a private interview with Jesus. Either one suggest that this wasn’t an effort to trap Jesus, but rather an honest inquiry into what Jesus was all about.

I am writing this just one day after the talented actor and comedian Robin Williams took his own life. He had one of the quickest comic minds, spinning off characters in non-stop monologues. At the same time, under the guidance of expert direction, he was able to deliver intimate and stirring dramatic portrayals in many of his films. By all reports he was an extremely generous man. His neighbors in Tiburon, Ca report he acted more like a neighbor than a celebrity.

Colossal talent, a huge heart and comedic genius all blended to present to the world a man with inestimable who you hoped could be your best friend. Though he may not have measured up to evangelical standards for faith, he had his spiritual side. He famously quipped, "I don't understand the whole fundamentalist thing; you see, I'm an Episcopal; that's Catholic Light. Same religion, half the guilt!”

So, we find his death hard to accept on two fronts. We have trouble accepting that behind the laughter and smiles was someone dealing with intense pain and suffering. And, for some, suicide is the unpardonable sin. They draw the conclusion that if a person was truly close to God, they would never take their own life.

Early in my Christian life I remember discussions about whether or not someone who committed suicide could go to heaven. I cringe to think I ever thought I had the right to judge such a thing. Now, experiencing more of life, walking through my own valleys of darkness, and understanding the grace of God in Christ to a greater degree, the question of the eternal destination of someone who has completed a suicide is the last one on my mind.

Think about how much love is being poured out for this wonderful man. Read the interviews of his closest friends. Listen to the depth of compassion from the family mourning his loss. This was a man deeply beloved. So, how, we ask, could he do such a thing? How selfish, we say, forgetting our own moments of darkness when love seemed to have evaporated away like puddles on desert dunes.

It is easy to say that “If he had been ‘born again’, he would never have done such a thing.” Such thinking angers me. It might have only fired a theological discussion in my younger days. But now I have seen the pain in the hearts of people who are deeply loved by nearly everyone in their lives, but for one reason or another, they do not sense it.

If I am anything, I am a “born again” Christian. Not because I’m a fundamentalist, not because I’m an evangelical, not because I support right-wing causes. Even as a youngster and teen I longed for God. I was a church kid. Even better, I was a preacher’s kid! I knew the rules, I talked the talk, I memorized the books of the Bible and earned the God and Country Award as a Boy Scout. But, I was still glued, brain, soul and body, to this material world.

The short story is that, at 17, I told Jesus, “If You are real, You can have control of my life.” He took me seriously, and there has been no turning back since that December day in 1972. I learned a great deal about God, the Gospel and walking with Jesus. I also learned a lot about evangelical culture, and until a dozen years or so ago, I had difficulty telling the difference between the two.

I also discovered a great deal about myself. When a boy makes a life-decision at 17 he may not realize how that plays out for a 35 year-old man with a wife and three children. What I did discover is, I had a terrible time feeling loved. I was scared stiff of failing or not being accepted. Every sin or mistake buried me beneath a hole of my own self-loathing.

I figured the key was being a better follower of Jesus. So, when my anxieties wouldn’t let me sleep, I got up, went out to the living room, knelt at our couch and poured my heart out in prayer and weeping. Sometimes only for a few minutes, sometimes maybe an hour. But, when I was done (drum roll please) I felt worse that when I had begun. (You didn’t expect the sentence to end that way, did you?) It wasn’t until into my 40s that I understood that I was afflicted with clinical depression.

From my own experience, and from conversations with fellow-sufferers, I can say without a shadow of a doubt, the level of depression has nothing to do with the level of one’s faith, or with their spiritual maturity. It just doesn’t! We would do well to listen to medicine when it comes to these things. The darkness I regularly wrestle with is not the result of a poor prayer life. It is not about demons attacking me. It is not about some sort of generational spirit. You can’t lay hands on it and make it go away. (Though, yes, I believe God can and does heal. But that is an act of His grace, not a measure of the sufferer’s spirituality).

Robin Williams has made me think a lot about my friends who suffer. I know, though they “should” realize I love them, they need to be shown over and over. They need my hugs. They are not whiners because of it; they have a real disease. I would not withhold insulin from a diabetic just because he needs it every day.

From what I’ve read, Williams was going back into a 12-step program to do some addiction fine-tuning. I do not think we can even imagine the pressures of a life lived in front of the entire world. Once, when an interviewer commented on Williams’ Oscar-worthy performances, he replied, “The Academy Award lasts a few moments. Then, I walk out on the street and someone yells out, “Nanu-nanu.”

Me? I’m going to try to let people in, to be more transparent. I’ll be 60 next year, I have nothing left to prove. If anything, being “born again” means I have an entirely different family. It means I have a family that understands unearthly love that doesn’t measure worth based on performance or emotional fortitude. I’m pretty sure Robin Williams is experiencing the love of God right now in a way he always longed to on earth. 

At Night

At Night

(“He came to Jesus at night and said, ‘Teacher, we know You have come from God to teach us. No one can do these powerful works You do unless God is with Him.’” John 3:2)

We search beneath the curtained sky, moonless nights,
shortened “whys”. We ask with whispered lips, shaky limbs,
tripping tongues.

We sat up straight from morning till noon,
took a lunch, and loped through the afternoon.
The phones rang and we answered. The questions lobbed

and we prepared our quotations. Our pace was certain,
though we misread the destination.

The mud was still warm, the tree limbs exhaled their
humid breath, and we found the steps to the ancient well
where we did our best thinking. The leftovers of the day
radiated from the darkening stones to our face wrinkled
more by inquisitive lines than age.

On the right day of the month we pick up our checks,
a reward for hours or completed projects, and yet,
it never fairly represents our work. We wish for more,
we deserve less. Nevertheless digits measure our worth
for better or worse.

The aquifer has fed the well for more generations than
present habitants can count. The water absorbs the
workday heat from our brow as we lean into the black
circle and smell life and moss; distant frogs and songs.

The place we do our best thinking is a puzzle of creation,
a mystery, a rebus that quenches our thirst for grace.

We wake in the morning to earn our living again,
sun up, doors creak, cashiers call; buy, trade, sell,
alone, afraid, a bonus, a pink slip, time spent without
knowing names.

The well remains.

All is Level

All is Level

(“Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. In Christ, God has given us every spiritual blessing in heaven.” Ephesians 1:3)

All is level where the water settles, the rugged hidden,
the deeps and shallows forgotten; an alpine lake embraces
the sky, sharing and azure canvas and creating diamond flashes
just above the surface.

A doe, eyes dim, but ears taking in each change of air, stands
at the white-rock shore and dips her head to drink the offering
from the skies. The arcs from her tongue’s disturbance are
fresh strokes upon the animate display. Her young will come
within weeks behind her.

A quarry, they say it was, though I do not know from observation.

II.

Hot day, some play, we say: let’s escape.
Hard job, hopscotch, some stop at the coffee shop.

Never a day with fewer seconds,
never a minute with more ticks,
never a movement less intense,
never a meaning with more intent.

We are wrong to take it so personally,
we are right to hollow our answers into larger containers
than when we were young.

More pain, tear stains, full grain; start again.
Grown old, tales told, less bold; uncontrolled.

But we like it better that way; the big skies
without true and false answers for each question.
We stumble upon rivulets and streams while we looked for
the answers in the back of the book.

Just like meeting a doe eye to eye,
we leave our porches and are startled by life.