Renaissance Park

Up the green hill we walk
His four steps
My one
My finger in his grip
My hand holds
Cardboard
That will carry us down
Sliding and
Laughing
Faster there’s no controlling
Rolling rolling
Over
Blue heaven and sunshine
Smile down smile up
Again
Up the green hill we walk
His four steps
My one

Too Educated

I was talking with a fellow church member--a really nice guy I would like to know better, but don’t yet know that well. He sings in the choir, and before long the topic of church music came up.

He told me he previously attended a church in another state where it was common to sing southern gospel. He said he misses it, and wishes that, just every now and then, the choir could do a little Southern gospel music.

For those of you who didn’t grow up with The Stamps, The Blackwood Brothers or The Happy Goodman Family on your record player, let me explain.

First of all, records were these flat black plastic disks that had a good song on the A side and mediocre song on the B side, and you played them on a contraption that had a spindle, turntable, arm and a needle. You can look records up on Wikipedia.

Southern gospel music was a variation of early rock n’ roll, country and bluegrass. It was like that sinful music, but because the lyrics were about Jesus and getting saved, it could be sung in church and tent revivals. In the days of my youth, southern gospel was performed usually by quartets (if male) or trios (if female), or any number if you happened to all be part of the same family tree. The music was usually up-tempo, often a capella, and with a big emphasis on harmony.

In a men’s quartet there was always a deep-deep bass and a high-pitched tenor. They all four dressed alike, except maybe the front man who did the talking between the songs. If most of the group wore baby blue suits with white shirts and ties, then the front man wore a white suit with baby blue shirt and tie. You get the picture.

The bass was tall and skinny. The tenor was usually as round as a Moon Pie. Finding matching clothes that ranged from a 32 x-tra long to a 54 short meant they shopped in stores and catalogs that really weren’t that stylish. That’s why The Oak Ridge Boys switched from southern gospel to country—to get clothes with sequins. Those of you old enough to know The Oak Ridge Boys will get that humor. And the rest of you--Wikipedia.

In a ladies’ trio there was a soprano, an alto and another songbird to fill in the gaps. What I remember about trios is that they always had terrific posture, big hair, and so much tremolo in their voices they could warble any sinner into submission and rouse a stone-faced deacon to shout ‘MERCY!’

Of course, evangelism and praise are what Southern gospel is all about. You can’t experience Southern gospel for more than few minutes without affect. For many it starts with tapping your toes, then before long you are smiling, then clapping your hands, then maybe moving your hips and shoulders a little. A Southern gospel concert will make you either run for the altar or run for the door, depending on your threshold for joy or pain.

Whether this form of music brings joy or inflicts pain is probably influenced by one of two factors—where you grew up, and how sophisticated you are. If you grew up in the south, then there is a good chance you have an affinity, or at least a tolerance for, good old southern gospel.

That is, unless you happen to be southern, but also sophisticated. If you are sophisticated, then you have no patience at all for southern quartets or trios, unless they happen to be playing violas or woodwinds.

My new friend from the choir knows this is true. When I offered that maybe, just maybe, our new minister of music would serve up some southern gospel from time to time, my friend dashed my attempt at encouragement with, “No, we’re too educated for that.”

He said it with a palpable sigh, which is ok because it is a sad thought. In fact, it is a two-word condemnation of what goes on between the ears of too many of us on a Sunday morning.

The words bounced around in my head for days afterward. Too educated. Too educated to sing that way. Too educated to listen. Too educated to worship the way those people do.

The idea that we are too smart, too sophisticated, too old, too comfortable or too much in love with tradition that we close ourselves off from any experience we don’t already know is at the heart of the worship tensions many churches struggle with, even split over.

Many churches today are programming like multiplex cinemas. In one room starting at 8:15 you’ve got your drums and guitars and the preacher wears a cool tee shirt. In another room at 9:45 you’ve got the piano and hand bells, a choir and a pastor who always reads from the KJV. In room three at 11 there is a praise team, words on a screen and the pastor sits on a stool and relates like Seinfeld.

As churches cluster around affinity groups, coagulate to reach a particular demographic, or congeal around a certain preferred style, how long until we just thicken, harden and die?

One of my favorite Psalms is 33, which says to:

Sing for joy.
Give thanks to the Lord with the lyre.
Sing praises to Him with a harp of ten strings.
Sing a new song.
Play skillfully with a shout of joy.

That psalm says to me that worship is enhanced by variety, by enthusiasm, by skillful artistry, by crudely shouting out and by trying something new or unfamiliar. What we need in our churches is not more segmentation that separates people based on tastes and expectations, but more variety that engages people from all walks of life, expands our shared experiences, and draws us together.

The very essence of education and developing an intellect is a healthy curiosity and an openness to try things that are unfamiliar. The truth is that we are not too educated for any particular style of music, we are too ignorant even to know what we are missing.

I would not want a steady diet of southern gospel at church, but I would love some of it. And I would also love some classical, some bluegrass, some jazzy horns, some Christian rock, some poetry, some dance, some children’s voices and some voices that crack with age.

Wouldn’t it be neat if the only things we were too educated for were complaining, criticism and insisting on our own way?

Little Pieces Of Me

My desk is a mess. There are Post-It Notes everywhere, loose change, reading glass cases with no reading glasses. Pens and paper. Dust.

Scripture says I am but dust. This desk is littered with little pieces of me.

There are times in life when you are filled with hope and promise and the glory of a day not yet lived. Those are the rich days—days of anticipation with no dread. They are treasure, but you are so busy enjoying them you never notice them slipping away.

Then there are days when you just feel . . . nothing. Those days pass at two speeds. In one sense they move like stale air. At a less than fully conscious level they are fast and chaotic, and when they are over you remember almost nothing about them. No lessons learned. No pilgrim’s progress. Just a faint recollection that something happened, and it turned out to be nothing, except maybe a little more dust.

Sometimes I think about the possibility of my sweet wife cleaning out my clutter when I am gone. The unfinished stories and poems, the calls I never answered, the cards I couldn’t throw away.

All these little pieces of me will have to be cleaned up someday, if not by my wife, then by my children or someone. I wonder—what will she think of this? Will it bring a smile or a tear? Will this embarrass? Anger? Rekindle old frustrations?

This week two old, prominent Americans passed away, and they left some big pieces of themselves behind. Eunice Kennedy Shriver founded the Special Olympics and helped bring the mentally and physically disadvantaged out from behind closed doors and institutional gates. Les Paul invented the solid body electric guitar, pioneered modern recording technologies, and made some great music along the way. I’m sure they leave behind some dust, too, but they will be remembered for great things.

I look across my desk and I see no great things expect my wife, children and grandchild, captured in pictures. Little pieces of me cling to the frames and the glass, stealing some of their brightness.

Lately I’ve been reading the Book of Job, which is probably a bad idea when one is depressed. Job lost everything, and then sat in the dirt and grieved. His friends did not help. Time did not heal. Job just spent each excruciating day asking God for an answer.

I have questions for God too, but He’s already given me the answer, I think. It is similar to the one He gave Job. "Get off your butt. Quit thinking about yourself. I am God and you are not.”

Job said it correctly, “The fear of the Lord, that is wisdom.” God gave me this life. It is a sin to tear it into little pieces.

It’s time to clean the desk. It’s time to dust.

So Much To Do

While thinking about the difficulty of parenting and some of the self-imposed burdens parents endure, I had a little brainstorm. With apologies to C.S. Lewis, here it is.

The Scene:

Satan is hosting a brainstorming session—doing some long range strategic planning with his executive team. It’s 1960, and he’s planning ahead on how he will attack the first generation of children to grow up in the new millennium—after the year 2000.

Burden, Satan’s Minister of Material Excess is speaking:


“So, we’ll continue to use our old friend television to consume the time and influence the thinking of parents. I believe over 40 years we can totally reorient their thinking. Realign their moral compasses.

“The beauty of television is that we can also make them want lots of stuff. Everything they watch will make their lives seem dreary by comparison, make them dissatisfied with their lives, their jobs, their spouses, their children.

“We’ve got some teams working on new ideas called HGTV and Martha Stewart. Our plan is to make it so that even when they are resting at home, they won’t feel any peace.

“The bottom line is, the more they want, the more they’ll buy. We’ll make them spend more than they make . . . so that both parents have to work all the time. Lot’s of stress. Lot’s of overtime. Second jobs . . .not much time for the kids. When they come home they will be so tired they’ll just want to CRASH . . . . And where will they crash--are you ready for this?--in front of the TV!”

A particularly pale demon with huge dark circles under his eyes spoke up. “The technology division is working on this thing called the Internet. We think it’s going to be huge.

“The Internet will be a little like TV, but they’ll be able to interact with it—look at anything they want, buy anything they want with the click of a button! They won’t even need money—just a credit card number.” He nods to the Minister of Material Excess. “They will buy a lot of stuff on credit. And the opportunities for Theft and Fraud are just a bonus.”

“But won’t the enemy be able to use the Internet too? You know, to spread the Bad News?” The interruption came from Cynicism, one of the oldest.

“Of course, of course . . . they always try. But that will be a drop in the bucket compared to the avalanche of sleaze we will be able to run through it.”

“Oooo! Oooo!” A young member of the Communications Legion seemed about to burst. “We can use technology like that to create waves and waves of entertainment. Movies, videos, on-demand TV. Instead just good old ABC, NBC and CBS, they will have thousands of options to fill up their time. They’ll be able to access anything their weak little hearts want to watch.”

“The best part,” said Burden, “is that all this new entertainment, the new technology, wlll cost them more and more. They think they will have to have it, so they’ll work more and more. TV, the Internet, entertainment—these will be the primary sources of guidance for the children. Just imagine it . . . parents supplanted by content. And, of course, we know who will generate most of the content.”

Some in the group clapped enthusiastically, but most held back, knowing the boss was not one to waste time or energy.

“How’s our Guilt Initiative coming along? “ Satan asked.

Whittle, the project leader spoke nervously, talking very fast. “Oh, it’s going very well. As parents are more and more distracted, they always compensate by giving their children more and more stuff. And when they see other parents buying their kids stuff, they will have to get even more stuff. Which of course will guarantee they will get deeper in debt, and have to work even more, and then grow more guilty . . . it’s what the guys down in marketing call a “’delicious cycle.’”

“It sounds like a competition!” one called out.

“Oh it will be,“ said Whittle. “Parents will feel so much pressure just to keep up, just to put on the good show, it will consume a lot of them.”

Fated, who was observing his 3500th anniversary as Director of Intended Consequences had an idea. “You know what we need to go along with that? Kid’s sports. Lot’s of them—baseball, soccer, basketball, football, swimming, cheerleading—we can make it a year-round thing. We’ll fill their lives with it. When they’re not working, they will be at some field somewhere, focusing what energy they have left cheering at games. It worked in Rome.”

Fester, a junior member of Fated’s team, was eager for the boss to notice him. “So instead of parents actually spending time with their kids, they’ll encourage their kids to spend time with virtual strangers? That’s brilliant, sir!”

“We’ll actually make them feel guilty if they don’t!” Whittle added. “I like it.”

“There’s more,” Fated continued. “We can add—drum roll please—all-stars and select teams to burn up even more family time and fuel that competitive pride.” Fated paused and struck a pose that only a demon of his stature would dare in the presence of the great master, “I can envision parents buying outrageously expensive baseball bats--using their credit cards, of course, Burden--and expensive uniforms, and painting their kids names all over their mini-vans.”

“Huh . . . what’s a mini-van?” said Ignorance, who was always a little slow.

“I’ll explain later,” said Fated. “It’s something our Exxon division is working on.”

Estima, from the Pride Consortium weighed in. “I’ll see to it that some of those kids will get so full of themselves that by the time they’re teenagers they will be absolutely insufferable”

“That’s perfectly devilish! “ said Fated.

“Why, thank you!”

Gilded, the Vice President of Religious Development, rose on his six feet and raised his five hands to quiet the room. Although Gilded never really had an idea of his own, but just adapts the idea of others and takes them as his own. He waited for stillness. Gilded always expected complete attention when he spoke.

“These are fine ideas, brothers, but what we need is to undermine the churches. I think we need to bring into the churches the over-commitment of time, the expectations of a good show--anything that will add to the stress. We must keep people working on priorities that keeps them so busy, but do not really change anything.

“And competition. We will bring the competition thing into the church as well, so that some people feel they are better than others, and some feel they will never fit in.

“And the guilt thing—we want people to feel guilty all the time, so that even when they’re worshiping the Enemy, they won’t feel good about it. They’ll grow to detest church. By 2010 I see families staying away from churches in droves.”

Satan, who had been listening thoughtfully, said “Gentle creatures, this is excellent work. Great thinking, all of you.”

Then Doubt said something timidly. “But . . . but doesn’t the Bible warn them about all of this? Doesn’t it teach them to be aware of these things and live differently?

Satan replied, “I wouldn’t worry too much about that. We’ll have them so busy, so stressed out, so distracted, so en-ter-tained they won’t have time to read the Bible very much.”

With that Satan stood up to go. “I hate to break this up, but it is the 60’s after all and I’ve got a lot to do. I’ve got my sexual revolution task force at 9 . . . and the My Body My Choice team is stopping by at 10.”

Satan pulled out his iPhone and scrolled the calendar. “The remedial racism class is at 11:00.”

Turning to his assistant Satan said, “We need to push that nuclear propagation meeting so I can have lunch with the AIDS team from research and development . . . . And the World Poverty and Ignorance Sustainability Conference will be here before we know it.

“So much to do. So much to do.”

In Spite Of Myself

My son Whit got married last weekend. He married a lovely woman named Sarah. The ceremony was very meaningful and beautiful. The reception was a blast, but it ended far too quickly. I was Best Man--a titular honor only.

All of the people I love the most were a part of the wedding. In addition to Whit and Sarah, there was the lovely Janice, my wife, as well as my daughter Lesley and her husband Daniel, who were both part of the wedding party. And then there was Sam, too young to be a ring bearer, but a ring bearer nonetheless.

Sam's big moment, as far as I'm concerned, is when he and I got to dance together at the reception. That's one of the pictures I'm showing here--me and Sam dancing. What a good time.

Then on Sunday it was Father's Day, and I have to say it was one of the best Father's Days of my life. I didn't see my son, of course. And I only talked to my daughter a moment. But I had time on that day after the wedding to think about all the blessings God has allowed me to know. He is the provider of all good gifts, and this past weekend, with the great loves of my life all around me, was a most precious gift. I don't deserve it . . . I never will, but the Lord blessed me in spite of myself.

My prayer for my son and for my son in law is that they will get to experience the rich joy I felt this past weekend. It doesn't last long. If you don't pause and clue in you miss it. Thank you, Lord Jesus, that I did not miss it.

Tunnels of Babel

Scripture tells us about a sophisticated culture that decided to show off its accomplishments by building a tower to reach the heavens. God humbled them by tearing down the tower and complicating their efforts to communicate.

I keep wondering when a God-sized dose of humility is going to crash down on our current culture. We are so skilled, so accomplished, so confident in our abilities that we believe we can do anything.

We’re so confident, in fact, that we no longer need to build a tower to God—we’ve considered the divine, and determined that it must be us.

The problem with replacing God with ourselves is, the minute we begin to think we can do anything, it is a short jump to thinking we should—even must—push the envelope of the human experience. We owe it to ourselves, owe it to the human race, to explore every discipline and indulgence, whether they ennoble or debase us.

You can see this in the debate over experimentation with embryonic stem cells. We must allow this scientific inquiry because we can, and it will surely lead to longer and better lives for some of us. This is, we believe, the elevation and advancement of the human race.

At the same time we say we will draw the line at human cloning, genetic engineering, designer children and growing life simply for the harvesting of fresh organs. We say we will stop short of these fantastic, horrendous ideas—and President Obama gave this assurance--but we will not. Eventually, if God does not intervene to stop it, humans will do all these things. Why? Because we can, so we should--in fact we must.

We see this human escalator theory in play all over the place, although there are applications where the moving staircase is undeniably travelling down.

We build more effective, destructive weapons of war, precisely targeted to kill selected humans, so other humans are free to keep on moving onward and upward. We can, so we should . . . we must!

Of course, those being targeted develop their own weapons and targeting strategies. They can, they should, they must.

We see it in our culture’s orgiastic preoccupation with sex. Sex is human, therefore it is god-like. If it is god-like, it can do anything it wants. Any time, Anywhere. With anyone. With anything. There are no limits to the human sexual experience. It’s all good.

Since we think we look at god in the mirror every day, there’s no need to build towers to reach him. There is really no need to build anything at all. We just need to explore. Explore what? Explore ourselves.

We don’t erect towers to explore ourselves--we dig tunnels instead. We need only dig deeper inward. Within--that is where reality, truth, the way, must ultimately be found.

Probably the greatest evidence that we are not really gods is that when we look in the mirror, we are often bored or disappointed with what we see. Eventually we come to the knowledge that no matter how wonderful we were, no matter how creative, how powerful, how happy, how fulfilled, how in control we once believed ourselves to be, we are really falling apart and are powerless to do anything about it.

That’s when the urge comes to dig more tunnels, and dig them deeper. If knowledge once made us feel god-like, then its time to buy some more self-help books. If youth made us feel invincible, then it is time to visit the cosmetic surgeon. If sex made us feel divine, then we need to pursue new sex, new experiences, new partners. If we drew our strength once from money and possessions, then we just need more.

These are tunnels that leave our souls increasingly weaker and emptier, and ultimately they bring us down. We dig deeper and deeper into the darkness, and further and further from the light of real truth and the life.

I’ve been wondering when and how God might humble us. It occurs to us He is doing it now, our own desperate shovels the tools of our destruction.

Unity

Something very moving happened at our church recently. The congregation voted on a new pastor—a secret written ballot—and when the votes were tabulated the result was unanimous. 509 to 0. Not one dissenting vote.

Some might say—to quote one of the more memorable Dick Cheney lines—"So?" But to me it seems something to celebrate.

I’ve been going to this Baptist church for almost 30 years, and I remember when 20% of the congregation voted against a previous pastor because he had a beard, wore cowboy boots and like to wear a wooden cross around his neck. That man never overcame his one-fifth of opposition, and the church was in turmoil for years.

Our previous pastor was a great guy—dynamic preacher and strong leader with a spotless track record of ministry. But almost 10 percent of the congregation found some reason to vote against him.

This new pastor, the one we called 509 to zero, grew up in a Catholic home. He only became a Christian six years ago when God called him out of a drug-addicted lifestyle. He had an Apostle Paul like encounter with Jesus Christ, left his old life behind and began preparing himself to preach. He read the Bible, chose to become a Baptist. enrolled in seminary and assumed a pastorate of a church of 70. He is now 32 years old.

Let’s check the scoreboard--this man who generated no dissention in a Baptist church is a former Catholic, drug addict, Christian only six years, new seminary graduate, age 32, with experience leading only a small church (which grew to more than 300 while he was there).

Some might call this unimportant. Some might call it interesting. I call it a miracle—tangible evidence of God working in our lives.

Unity is such a rare thing. We live in a red state-blue state culture. We are divided in so many ways. We clash with our neighbors on abortion, gay marriage, immigration and war.

Even when there appears to be consensus, deep division remains. Should either Barack Obama or John McCain win the presidency in an electoral “landslide” a few weeks from now, at least 40% of the nation will remain bitterly opposed to the winner’s leadership. We’ve lowered the bar on unity, measuring it in approval ratings and confidence levels, which change week by week. E Pluribus Unum—Out of Many, One--is a great slogan that is very rarely true.

With unity so hard to find in our government and our culture, wouldn’t it be wonderful if it were dominant in our churches and in our Christian families? When a weary world, tired of bitterness and division looks for some alternative, wouldn’t be wonderful if they found singularity and peace among the followers of Jesus?

Jesus said, “By this all men will know you are my disciples—that you love one another.” The Apostle Paul encouraged the early Christians to be of “one mind” and to “encourage one another.” These should be the marks of all true followers of Christ.

But often when the world looks at the Church it sees more the same. We Christians can fight over interpretations of scripture, music, worship styles, the roles of women, who should lead, who’s not following and who is a real Christian. Christian unity does not mean that we agree on every thing every time, but it does mean that we agree on the most important things, and we never let the less important divide us.

Whether the spirit of unity surrounding the confirmation of our new pastor remains at our church is uncertain, of course. Continuing in one mind can be difficult. Within the body of the church there are so many individual minds that can be turned by preference, self-interest and pride.

But for the moment, unity prevails. It sure feels right.