Craig Nash

Ten...

2010-06-30T14:30:00.003-05:00

When you go looking for community, be careful. It may find you. -- Bill Leonard

On July 1, 2000 I packed my little red car with all my belongings and drove from Marshall, TX to Waco, TX, passing through most of the East Texas towns that I had become familiar with over the previous 25 years. The thing I remember most about that day is that it was hot. An interesting thing about Texans is that we rarely pretend it isn't hot when it is. Go to Alaska when it is 20 degrees outside and the Alaskans will try to convince you that it is not really that cold. Go to Texas in 100 degree heat and we will tell you-- It is hot.

On that day, it was hot.

I suppose I had no reason to believe a move to Waco would be any different than the moves I had made during the previous years. After college I made it a habit to move to a new place about once a year, with every intention of that new place becoming a permanent home. But none of them ever stuck, so I moved on to "greener pastures."

After a few short weeks in Waco I had the distinct impression that I would continue to be on the move. People here were strange. The job I was in was vastly different than the exact same position I held previously at another place. Friends who had come here at the same time, but for different reasons, began to separate and make lives for themselves in their respective corners of this medium-sized city. That summer was more than just hot. It was miserable.

Then in August of that year things were put into motion that would prove to be watershed moments in my life. A friend found a particular church and told me about it. I remember the moment he brought a sheet of paper with the church's values and mission statement on it to my apartment to show me. He said he really thought I should check it out. So I did, and I am glad I did. Later that week I met the pastor of the church who quickly became one of my closest friends.

This city, however, remained strange. I bounced around between jobs and seminary and short-but-excruciating stints of unemployment. Were it not for my burgeoning love for, and involvement in, that church over on Dutton Avenue, I probably would have bolted. But I stayed. The gravitational pull of this place pulled me in and held me close. The odd things about this city ceased to be odd to me. Or perhaps the oddness began to seep into my pores until I no longer saw it as odd. Quirky became normal.

Of course there was an elderly black man who may or may not think he is the president who walks down the street waving at everyone he sees.

Of course North means East and South means West.

Of course there are Mexican/Chinese restaurants, as well as dives called "Health Camp" that have absolutely nothing healthy on their menu.

Duh.

I ended up at a job that was sometimes meaningful, even joyful, other times a living-hell. Yet all the time it was a hub of the city that brought people from all geographic, social, and economic corners of Waco to one place, around books. I met JoAnn, who probably lived life a little too fully in the 1960's, and Dorothy, the widow of a missionary from Japan who expected me to hug her when she expressed anger at her husband leaving so early. I became good friends with Rodeo Steve, so named because of his past as a cowboy. Steve is approaching 70 and doesn't look a day over 45, and is deeply in love with Mickey. I was the officiant at their wedding. Then there was the cranky old lawyer who had an insatiable appetite for very specific types of erotica, as well as the old Baylor professor who died of lung cancer and would break out into poetry whenever she pleased. The broken people who fill the pages of Chekhov and O'Connor began to fill the pages of my own life.

These people became my home.

Then those of us who had come here together, yet had grown apart, began to find each other again. It was as if we had been separated, on our own journeys of discovery, and had returned to tell about what we had found, and also about how much we missed each other.

And that church continued to wedge its way into my life as I wedged my way into it. Life was lived, energy was created, and tragedy hit, leaving us without the pastor and friend who I had become so close to years before. But we continued to find each other in many ways-- through conflict, tears, beer, the Bible, and the general passing of time.

I returned to school and began to feel young again. New possibilities emerged. New friendships developed. A sense of calm slowly returned after years of grieving the loss of my friend. The hole was still there, but it became less raw, easier to navigate around. What seemed inevitable was that my time in this city I had grown to love was slowly coming to an end, as it isn't wise to spend time and money on a seminary degree if you aren't prepared to explore your calling wherever it may lead.

But the calling was closer than I suspected. That church that I had walked alongside for years asked me to be with them a little longer, and I accepted. And I sit here now, on the eve of my tenth year in this place, thankful. It's really all I can be. Ten years is a long time, and yet I still feel so young. There are corners of this city, people in these neighborhoods, who are yet to be discovered. I've got time.

When you go looking for community, be careful. It may find you.

The Five Dollar Blog...

2010-01-31T22:15:00.003-06:00

I will be blogging a lot in February, but not at my old blog, nor at Facebook, but here at The Five Dollar Blog. Check it out.

The Trouble with your Merry Christmas...

2009-12-13T15:02:00.003-06:00

They are not wearing uniforms, but if you look close enough you can spot the guerrilla soldiers in the supposed "Christmas Wars" from a great distance. They are lurking in lines at retail outlets, municipal offices, and educational institutions at this very moment. Some wait for the evil "Happy Holidays" to be uttered by the person behind the desk. Others execute a sneak attack and confidently get their "Merry CHRIStmas" out before the poor souls waiting to help them even knew what hit them. Although the tactics may differ, their mission is singular: Save the baby Jesus from liberal, politically correct commies who want to destroy Christmas once and for all.

This afternoon I ran into an old acquaintance at the grocery store. It seems we run into each other about once a year, usually around Christmas. She and I were students at Truett during my first attempt to return to school a few years ago. She is now a pastor out in Crawford and things are going extremely well for both her and her family. Our interaction was brief, but I was rejuvenated by the constant gentleness that seems to always be flowing out of her. That is "Merry Christmas."

This week I have been trying to rest. I just finished a difficult semester. Stepping down from working full time has been quite a change, and I have loved my new position, even if it can be frightening at times. At the end of the semester I got to show off my adopted home town and family of rag-tags to the author of one of my favorite books and, in the process, made new friends. That week was capped off with a party of old friends that revealed the clichéd truth that we were all made to be with each other. That is “Merry Christmas.”

A couple of weeks ago after church, in my friend and pastor Josh's office, there was a crowd of people. Bennett Gamel, the new baby we had been praying for since his complicated birth a few months prior revealed that he suffers from Cystic Fibrosis, had made it to the first church service of his young, fragile life. Everyone wanted to get a peak and to hug the proud parents. In the service that day we dedicated three more babies—Aiden, Walter, and RC. The whole Sunday was one of those special once-in-a-while moments where you get a small glimpse of what that baby in a manger meant: Heaven had met Earth and somehow we were given the gift of witnessing it. For a moment Josh and I caught each other's glance and we shared a smile of recognition that needed no verbalization. That is “Merry Christmas.”

So to all of you warriors for Christmas, do us all a favor. Relax. If a cashier at a national retail chain obeys instructions that are meant to welcome people who do not celebrate Christmas and perkily wishes you a “Happy Holidays,” does this destroy Christmas? (I won’t even mention what should be obvious to everyone about the meaning of the word “Holiday…) And do you think Jesus needs a display of his birth on taxpayer funded land in order to do what he has been doing for over two thousand years, captivating the hearts of humanity and changing lives and societies?

Your obnoxious “Merry Christmas” is not a Merry Christmas at all. It is a hand grenade thrown across an imaginary battle line. That does nothing to further the message of that silent night so long ago. So if your Merry Christmas is not heartfelt, try a genuine "Happy Holidays" instead. It may do you some good.

Advent Day Three...

2009-12-01T22:31:00.002-06:00

This has been one of the busiest days in one of the busiest weeks of my year. Yet, strangely, it has not felt that way. I had plenty of time to feed my new addiction-- computer chess, play with my dog and marvel at how quirky she has become, and even get work done and make a few people laugh along the way. It's been a good day.

Plus, in researching for a talk I am giving tomorrow, I ran across a million great advent quotes. Here is one...

"Luke's Gospel account of the Christmas event is full of activity…And yet, in the middle of the frenetic action, here is this woman wrapped in mystical silence…She demonstrates the necessity of a quiet place within ourselves at Christmastime—that place where we are most ourselves in relation to God.

"It is a place of silence, not because it is untouched by all the activity of our lives, but because it is capable of wonder. Every prayer begins with silent wonder before it turns to words. Our first response to God is dumbstruck awe at who he is and what he has done for us."

Advent Day Two...

2009-11-30T23:58:00.001-06:00

It's easy to wait when your days are full.
Not really waiting at all.
Just letting the days come at will.

Advent, Day 1...

2009-11-29T21:34:00.003-06:00

I spent yesterday doing work around the house. The yard was mowed, back porch cleaned up a bit, front bushes were clipped and the Christmas lights went up. When darkness was near, the last strand was put in place. It isn't much, but it is something. Plugging in the final product, I looked at my poor, eclectic and sometimes dangerous little street and I had this thought-- I'm glad the holidays in my neighborhood look more like A Charlie Brown Christmas than Christmas in Rockefeller Center. As I went into the house chuckling at the meagerness of my outdoor decorating ability one of the young kids from next door yelled out, "Hey Mister. It looks perfect!"

When you drive by here, you will quickly realize it is most definitely not perfect. It isn't really even that good.

I just arrived home from church. It is the Sunday after Thanksgiving, which means we meet at night to give travelers time to get back to Waco from their visits home. It is also the first Sunday of Advent, which means we begin to think about hope and expectancy. About waiting. Waiting for something better. Waiting for something new and different and more invigorating than the lives we have found ourselves stuck in.

In the service there were babies crying, technical malfunctions, and, if you ask me, a slight hint of healthy melancholy mixed in with the joy we knew we should all be feeling at that moment. It was much more Charlie Brown than Rockefeller Center which, to me, looked just about perfect.

For Ann (Or, They Are Weak, But He is Strong)...

2009-11-04T19:56:00.005-06:00

Many of you know that one of the books I've read in the past few years that really resonated with my life is Wendell Berry's Jayber Crow. Recommended by my friend Josh, I knew it would probably be good, but I had not idea how much it would remain with me and linger in my thoughts. Maybe it was the quiet way Jayber lived his life. A bachelor, without a family to belong to, but somehow belonging to everyone in the community. Maybe it was the idealistic simplicity of a time gone by. For whatever reason, this work of literature captured my heart and read my life in ways few other books ever had.

Jayber was a barber, a gravedigger, and for many years a church janitor. He experienced the life of the church from a distance, but somehow felt existentially connected to it through his work taking care of the yard and cleaning the sanctuary. Over time, he belonged.

Jayber Crow has occupied my mind today, and this is why:

For me, there is something strangely holy about Saturday evenings. I can't explain it. As a child growing up in Chandler, and before I was old enough to drive, the only thing to do in that small town was to play with friends and walk home before it got too dark. This was, of course, a time when it was no big deal for eight year old children to walk across town without Child Protective Services getting involved.

As the day wore on, and it became clear that it was time to head home, I would walk. Occasionally I would take meandering paths to get home, walking away from my house before I walked back toward it. As dusk approached the autumn sky turned myriad shades of purple and gold. The sound of crickets was simultaneously deafening and relaxing. As I approached that little church building (which I have written about before,) I could hear the buzz of a lawn mower. As I walked down the hill, the one by the neighboring Methodist church that was fun to ride your bike down, I never doubted who would be walking behind the lawn mower. For as long as I can remember, Ann Crawley was our Jayber Crow.

Her children were both slightly older and slightly younger than me, so I don't have a wealth of stories to tell, and maybe that is good. We all need steady people at the periphery of our lives who can model for us how to live, but at a safe distance. Otherwise me may never know to look for the lessons these people have to offer.

She lived around the corner in my neighborhood and is one of those people who I can never remember not knowing. She taught Sunday School, brought food to our potluck dinners, and she mowed the lawn of our church. On those Saturday afternoons I would wave and she would wave back, and we never had to ask if we would see each other's face in church the next morning. We knew each other too well,the same way that all of us in that community knew each other-- in a way that afforded and accepted understatement.

Tonight she lies in hospice care with her family surrounding her. As of last night they removed all nutrition and are making things as comfortable as they can for her. I learned a few hours ago, from her daughter-in-law's facebook status, that one of her grandsons got to sing her the song that she no doubt sang to (and with) me and that rag-tag group of friends of mine many times-- Jesus Loves Me.

After years of mowing that church lawn and keeping it's pews dusted and clean, Jayber Crow finally belonged in the same way that Ann Crawley belongs. And the moment of his belonging went something like this...

One day when I went up [to the church] to work, sleepiness overcame me and I lay down on the floor behind the back pew to take a nap. Waking or sleeping (I couldn't tell which), I saw all the people gathered there who had ever been there. I saw them as I had seen them (from the back pew) on the Sunday before. I saw them in all the times past and to come, all somehow there in their own time and in all time and in no time: the cheerfully working and singing women, the men quiet or reluctant or shy, the weary, the troubled in spirit, the sick, the lame, the desperate, the dying, the little children tucked into the pews beside their elders, the young married couples full of visions, the old men with their dreams, the parents proud of their children, the grandparents with tears in their eyes, the pairs of young lovers attentive only to each other on the edge of the world, the grieving widows and widowers, the mothers and fathers of children newly dead, the proud, the humble, the attentive, the distracted–I saw them all. I saw the creases crisscrossed on the backs of the men’s necks, their work-thickened hands, the Sunday dresses faded with washing. They were just there. They said nothing, and I said nothing. I seemed to love them all with a love that was mine merely because it included me.

When I came to myself again, my face was wet with tears

Someday soon, all of our faces will be wet with tears. Tears for a life well lived. For years of faithful service, for performing the monotonous tasks with care and joy, and not just perfect attendance, but perfect presence as well.

Coming Together...

2009-10-23T09:05:00.000-05:00

I discovered this morning that the center of political discourse on the earth resides neither in Washington, New York, London, nor in any of the other usual suspected places, but rather at the McDonalds near Baylor University on I-35.

The restaurant was full, and Fox News was on the big screen. You could feel the tension in the room as about half the people were visibly annoyed, the other visibly enjoyed. Finally, someone tipped their hat and made some comment about something one of the anchors said, which set off a brief heated argument about something or the other.

But a realization of decor set in and each elderly combatant retreated back to his coffee and Egg McMuffin.

Then the news turned to news of the election in Afghanistan. At the mention of Karzai's runoff opponent, Abdullah Abdullah, the entire place came together in uproarious laughter.

"Abdullah Abdullah! Now THAT'S FUNNY!"

I'm glad we can find common ground in something.

A Story...

2009-08-30T22:50:00.002-05:00

Before the news of last week fades into the roar of more pressing matters, I should probably share this story...

In 1997 two of my fellow interns and I entered the elevator of the Russell Office building on our way up to the third floor. Already on that elevator was a grey haired man reading the newspaper while a younger guy, presumably his assistant, was standing next to him. In Washington you are always aware because there is always someone of consequence very near. Which is why we were all surprised that we didn't notice the old guy standing with us until he lowered his papers and inquired with a booming voice "How are you young 'uns today?" We looked over at Senator Kennedy and our jaws dropped. Each of us managed a stuttered "Good." He asked who we were interning for. (If our youth didn't give us away, our intern badges did.) When we said Senator Hutchison, he responded, "She is a fine colleague," exhibiting what most people don't know actually goes on daily in Washington, once the cameras are turned off-- civility even to those with whom you disagree.

This was the end of my brush with greatness.

(Incidentally, my fellow interns, both attractive females, got several more follow up questions beyond the "How are you" that I was limited to.)

Back...

2009-08-26T20:43:00.002-05:00

The world has changed since I stopped blogging regularly. My world, your world, the world.

My days are no longer spent trying to reason with irrational customers who complain that Barnes and Noble censors conservative authors while standing in front of displays packed tight with Glenn Beck and Bill O'Reilly books. Instead, I go to classes and spend the rest of my time trying to "be present" to a campus full of a diverse range of students.

There are new friends along with the old group of stalwarts who keep my life anchored and full of purpose-- if only the purpose of making it to the weekend to sit around a table and laugh until we cry as the babies are playing all around us. The new friends keep me interested, always keeping me in check, reminding me that as soon as you think you've got people figured out, a curve ball will always be thrown.

As for you, gone are the days when you have the thought to check my blog for a funny story or surprising update. In fact, if it weren't for the "Facebook Import" option, these words would probably go largely unnoticed. You have kids, jobs, and a sneaky suspicion that tectonic plates have shifted in my life to such a point that writing has become a long lost dream. Perhaps this is true.

This earth is still spinning, relatively oblivious to the affairs that make up the tempest of our lives. But the more things stay the same, the more they change. There are new stories to write, new personalities to examine, even new values to be had.

So I will try to return, ever aware that the pain of loss that made writing so easy, and so cathartic has faded away into a (somewhat) distant memory. I will speak truth as I see it, share love as I experience it, and throw words together in as messy of a manner as I can, in the hopes that some of them will land in a meaningful and life-giving order.

One Book One Waco...

2009-06-27T09:28:00.002-05:00

The Waco Tribune Herald this morning ran a guest editorial I wrote for Little Chapel on the River. Below is the original article I wrote, before edits...
______________________________

In 2005 Waco lost one of its beloved pastors to a tragic accident. In the weeks and months after Kyle Lake passed away those of us who were close to him needed a lot of things, but mostly we just needed to be near each other. We gathered at homes, parks, restaurants, coffee shops and bars to laugh, cry, and share stories. This was a time for regrouping. It was a time for solace. Surprisingly, though, it was also a time of discovery.

What many of us discovered is usually spoke of in theoretical terms but seems to become much more tangible, and necessary, in the midst of tragedy. We discovered community. And in the midst of discovering community, we discovered Waco. Many local establishments became safe places for us that provided comfort and a sense of the sacred that exists when people share life together.

In 2001, after the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center drove her out of her neighborhood, Gwendolyn Bounds found herself in a similar situation. In the midst of her displacement she discovered what seemed to be a buried treasure of history, a place that compelled her to slow down, listen, and to become a participant in the community that was being revealed right before her eyes. In the Hudson River Valley, just across the water from West Point, sat Guinan's, an Irish pub and general store that was ground zero of the life of Garrison, NY for many decades.

I am honored to announce that Bounds' book chronicling the life of this special place is the summer 2009 One Book One Waco selection. Little Chapel on the River is equal parts biography and social commentary. It tells the story of a place that infused vitality and meaning into the lives of the people who entered its doors. In many ways it is also a lament for a way of life that is quickly fading away in our country. Mostly, though, it is a celebration of what happens when people make a conscious choice to be near each other.

The theme for One Book One Waco is "Unity in the Community." It should be noted that unity and uniformity are not the same. In reading Little Chapel on the River you are likely to encounter characters with vastly different lives, values, and beliefs as your own. On the barstools at Guinan’s sat Democrats next to Republicans, pacifists next to soldiers, and Christians next to agnostics. Places like Guinan’s, and the numerous “Little Chapels” that exist in our own city, teach us that while our differences matter, they should never be deal breakers in our search for community.

We already exist in close proximity to each other. We may as well make the most of it by gathering together for a choice beverage, a good meal, and a conversation about a wonderful book.

For Everett, Boone, Lillian, Emmy and Miller...

2009-05-17T19:42:00.004-05:00

Several months ago eight year old Avery Lake told me she remembered being in her mom's belly. Intrigued, I asked "You do? What was that like?" Without skipping a beat she replied "VERY bloody."

My memory is not quite as long as Avery alleges hers to be, but there are some remnants from my late-babyhood that linger. The Buddy Holly Greatest Hits 8-Track that my family listened to in that red Ford Mercury. Walking along the sidewalk of Tuckers General Store during the Chandler Centennial celebration, where Ernest Tubb performed on the trailer down by the train tracks and several years before the downtown buildings burned down and were demolished. But the most vivid and numerous of these memories are from the inside of the little tan brick building on 3rd Street that held the congregation of First Baptist Church.

In that place we were free to roam. Of course we had to be in our classes when they began and in church on time, but in the in-between times, the building was ours. This was a different time and place, of course, where all parents assumed that every adult in the church was keeping an eye on the children and would keep them from harm and discipline them if they saw fit. It took a village, if you will.

But back to memories. It's strange the things you remember. What I remember most from those early years in church are the patterns on all the surfaces. The cheap linoleum in the nursery was cream colored with precise puzzle-piece type sections that probably originated from an early 70's drug induced creative streak of some floor manufacturer. The tile on the ceiling were perfect squares, suitable for counting when the church service became boring. The upholstery in the pews was solid red and had minuscule diamond patterns that would embed in your hands if you sat on them long enough.

These memories are random, but they are mine. They tell the story of a kid that always had a home aside from the one where he laid his head at night.

In conversation with someone a couple of weeks ago, a younger person who has many friends at UBC, I came to an epiphany-- No one at UBC, my church, ever feels like they really ever completely belong. Some of us who mostly sit on the side, us "older folk," can feel alienated from the language and emphases that are zeroed in like a missile on the life of a college student. Those in the center, though, see the way the older people walk the halls with confidence, familiarity, and a sense of permanence, can feel that, since they are transient and we are not, then the church belongs to us.

Though at home, we all can feel like exiles.

This morning we dedicated five babies. It was beautiful. The parents promised to raise their child after the way of Christ, said a personalized prayer, and then the church promised also to be family to these babies and to model Christian love in their lives. When that part of the service was over and the parents took their children back to the nursery, a little smile began to slowly form on my face as the realization formed-- Some people in the building today felt they completely belonged. Of course, and I guess this is the irony, they can't articulate all that this entails. They aren't in conversation with each other about the direction or lack thereof with the church. It really doesn't matter to them who is preaching and none of them are there because of who sings on Sunday morning. (Well, I guess technically Emmy Parker is.)

All they know is that sometime in the course of the morning they will be fed, played with, passed around by scores of people patiently waiting their turns, and may even sneak a nap in when they feel like it. Later they will hear songs that tell of God's extravagant love and the ancient stories of sin, sacrifice and redemption that reverberate into the narratives of our lives.

They will also notice the surfaces. The grainy-colored carpet they play on in the nursery. The corrugated tin that lines the hallways. Standing on stage, if they looked up, they could see the painting of the Last Supper.

As adults they will tell stories of that place. The surfaces, the people, the stories. And hopefully, they will say that there has never been a time when they didn't belong. To this church, yes, but also to the God that became a baby so we could all become children again.

River...

2009-05-14T13:35:00.000-05:00

A little over a year ago I began to consider returning to seminary. I had figured out that moving forward in my current career would require me becoming a person I wasn't willing to become. Before that point I assumed that if I was ever going to do vocational ministry it would come from stumbling into it in nontraditional ways. When I realized that wasn't going to happen, I decided to heed the gentle nudging of the Holy Spirit that came from passing comments of several close friends. Returning to Truett felt right, if a little scary. I was well past the point of asking my parents for financial help, so I spent the past year working and going to shcool full time.

Punching in and out of work, studying for Greek, writing papers, all while balancing a new set of friends with my Waco friends has been equal parts exhilarating and exhausting. It ended for the summer with my final class on Monday. Yesterday me and some of my new friends took a "Daycation" down to south-central Texas. The biggest chunk of the day was spent floating in tubes down the Guadalupe River. This is the week when some Texas universities are in final exams and some have just finished, so there was a decent smattering of people in the water, but not enough to make it miserable. The weather was perfect and the sun shining.

On the water I was in and out of brief moments of sleep. Occasionally I would wake up near a cluster of frat guys engaging in some of the most vulgar talk I've ever witnessed. I found it quite amusing. I'll spare you the specific language used, but it involved names of girls the guys had been with as freshman and how they wish they could be with them again after four years of practice.

Another conversation ending in this sentence-- "I can't stand that chick. She not only divided our pledge class, but the entire fraternity as well!"

It was everything I could not to snicker. Instead I paddled away into less crowded territory.

I woke up again startled. There was no one near me. I looked up disoriented because I couldn't figure out where I was. I asked my friends if I was ahead of them or if they were ahead of me. It was the latter, so I paddled with my arms some more.

Several times I woke up in still water and decided not to work my way out.

There were rapids over low rocks. This was a pain because it required a decision-- Do I stand up and walk over the rocks (a prospect that was sure to cause humorous stumbling both because of the uneven surfaces and the decent amount of beer in my system at the time,) do I struggle with my arms and feet to push myself out, or do I just sit there like the beached whale I felt like at the time, hoping a swift enough current would pull me where I needed to be. I honestly couldn't tell you which one I chose, but I guess it was a hybrid of all three because I eventually found my way out.

Toward the end of the three hour adventure, Jake and I were the only ones left in the water. Chris and Josh were about fifty yards ahead of us, at the end. I tried to make the experience last. Closing my eyes I thought back through the past year. I've made new friends, learned new things, and in small ways become a new person. Yet I'm still essentially me, with the same hang-ups, virtues, vices, and general trajectory of life.

Opening my eyes to the fractured sunbeams coming through the tall cypress trees, I realized why the river has been such a powerful tool used by poets and novelists alike-- It contains everything and, in some strange way, goes to everything. I considered how the last three hours was what it is like to follow God in the way of Christ. It all begins by simply being in the water and ends on that distant shore. In between, though, is the stuff of life. Much of the trip requires hard paddling that will make your arms sore the next day. There are rocks that come along that require a little creativity, decision making, and luck. Discerning God's will for your life sometimes requires you to be shot in directions you don't want to be shot in. Other times, however, you have to be willing to be stuck for what can seem like an eternity. This is what is hard for many people.

Today I bear the scars of the rocks, the soreness from the paddling, and the color from the sun. But mostly I bear the smiles that come from the people in my life willing to float alongside me, and the God of the great river that is taking me home.

So let His people sing, sing, sing...

2009-04-05T22:19:00.005-05:00

I think I can trace the day I became a grumpy old man spiritually back to about ten years ago. I was a part of the planning for some sort of orientation at ETBU, the alma mater where I had returned to work for a year. We were sorting out the schedule and there was a block of time that we couldn't quite figure out what to do with. Someone made the comment that we could have a time of worship. I don't know what it was that brought such vitriolic reaction in me, but I turned my head annoyed and asked "Why does everyone around here think we need to fill every waking moment with a guitar and praise songs?" A faint audible gasp filled the room and I realized I had overstepped a boundary. And honestly, I was just as shocked at the words that came out of my mouth as anyone else. Up to that point I would have jumped at any opportunity to do a little praise-and-worshippin' with those around me. But I guess I had had enough of that, and have been on (somewhat) facetious crusade against planned-spontaneous worship ever since.

This morning we had what I think was our third outdoor Palm Sunday-Baptism service out at Indian Spring Park.* Before the service some of us were having breakfast when a friend mentioned some new emergent-type thing that was going on in town. In response I somewhat reflexively made the comment that I don't really have a desire to check this out because "I already have a church." I fully realize what an arrogant thing this was to say, because embedded within my sarcasm was the not-so-subtle suggestion that those who attended this particular event were aimlessly searching for the Next Cool Christian Thing, whereas I have found joy in the simplicity of the local church. (Yes, I can be quite the asshole sometimes.)

It was slightly more chilly at the service than it had been before, although the sun was shining bright. I made it a point when walking down the hill to receive communion to look around at the people around me. I've tried to do this more often lately, for if UBC baptism services have done anything, it is to make me try and memorize the moments I have with these people that I love.

Few people have bitched about this place as much as I have, but none of that maters in moments like this. It is all peripheral.

Later Josh and I were hanging out for a brief moment while Britt took three-year-old Roy down to see the river. The girls were behind us mingling. I recently commented to Josh that one of the things that makes me smile is thinking about how Britt and Roy interact, and watching them head down the hill toward the water, sun blaring down on all of us, made me think that once more.

There were dogs around. Most belonged to somebody, but one didn't seem to have an owner. Andrew brought his and Katie's new puppy over and baby Lillian reached out to grab it. Fearless, she put her face right in front of the dog's nose and got a face full of puppy tongue.

Did I mention the sun was shining?

I looked around. The Gunvordals were there with their beautiful Collie. I see only see those people once a week for a few minutes. That's about all it takes to realize what top-shelf people they are.

To the left and down the hill a bit some college guys were wrestling while Kelly was going around making a birthday video for Larissa, who is in Kenya. The Crowder Band was loading their gear and Miller was snotting on his dad's sweater.

I realized Tom and Beth weren't there, and neither were the Brownings. And I missed all of them. I also thought of Avery, Sutton, Jude, and Jen and how much I miss them as well. I thought of Kyle and realized how my grief has long ago given way to gratefulness for having been blessed with such a great friend for so long.

Ben and Jamie gave me a ride back to Cafe Cappuccino where I had parked. I had them drop me off around the corner so they didn't have to go out of their way. Walking to my car, the warm sun beating down while the cold wind blew around, I thought back to my comment earlier in the day-- "I already have a church." And again, it was an arrogant thing to say. People should not be disparaged for trying to find a sense of Christian community in places outside the bounds of a church. I just happened to have been lucky enough to find it inside those bounds.

So to all of you wanting to fill the empty moments with guitars and singing, sing away. Be caught up in the emotion caused by our risen redeemer. To those questioning their faith and reaching out to new forms of expression, question and express away. I think God is honored and pleased with what you are doing.

Never mind me when I roll my eyes. Remember, I'm just a grumpy old man. But one who has found his place for at least a bit longer.
________________________

* (I've written about the previous two outdoor services HERE and HERE.)

Giving Up...

2009-02-26T20:20:00.002-06:00

I have heard it said that you shouldn't tell other people what you are giving up for Lent. I'm guessing the reasoning is tied in to the part in the Sermon on the Mount where Jesus continually warns against doing your spiritual acts in public. He says this is what the hypocrites do, and they have received their reward in full.

I'm not quite sure this logic holds, though. For if one decides to give something up and makes it known this person is, in effect, announcing a source of weakness. Or, at the very least, making it known that there is at least something preventing that person from devoting their life fully to God.

Here I am, weak and out of control. Or, perhaps, taking too much control of my life instead of allowing God to guide. I'll spare you the Jesus Take the Wheel speech, but you get the drift.

I have given up coffee. Which, I am discovering, can be quite a bitch to give up. There is no other vice I have that tells my body how much I have grown dependent on it once it has been given up.

I am also trying to be more intentional about getting work done. Thus, the abrubt ending to this post...

Ash Wednesday...

2009-02-25T22:12:00.002-06:00

Remember, from dust you came, to dust you will return.

I went to school early today. When I saw my new friend Jake had the cross of ashes on his forhead, I made the comment that I saw he had already been to an Ash Wednesday service? For a moment he looked slightly puzzled as to why I knew this, then the recollection of his mark came back to him. No doubt this happened many times today all over the globe.

And this, I think, is an irony of Ash Wednesday. On most days I walk the earth very conscious of my sin, of the ways I have fallen out of step with God's rhythm, of the fact that I am nothing more than the dirt I once was and the dirt I will someday return to. But I can carry myself in such a way to make others oblivious to this fact.

On this day, however, Christians make a public declaration. In having the black stuff on our forhead as a sign of repentance, we are telling the world that on the times we forget who we are, we want you to at least be able to see it. Living in community does not provide for private acknowledgement of our sin. It requires that it is out in the open.

So know that I am so much more than the way I make you laugh or can find a book for you or can make a poignant, witty statement. I came from dust, and to dust I will return.

A Lenten Journey, Fat Tuesday. Or, This is Where We Begin to Die...

2009-02-24T22:23:00.003-06:00

This will not be the first time the body of believers over on Dutton Avenue has observed Lent. But for this part of that body, it is the first time I have felt the weight and significance of the journey ahead. I began the trek with those closest to me this evening at a Fat Tuesday feast. The necessity of this part of Lent should not be overlooked. A walk into the lonely desert is made slightly more bearable when you know there are those you love heading there with you.

I think Lent is a reminder that, as Ann Lamott says, you can't heal your own sick mind with your own sick mind. It is an acknowledgement that there are too many things clouding our vision, prohibiting us from seeing God. But mostly, it is making a statement to ourselves that we can never hope to have a Resurrection without a very real death...A death that hurts, that picks at the scab of our hearts and lets the blood flow. It is painful, in the same way that Jesus' time in the desert, and his whole life for that matter, was painful-- Walking towards death so that New Life may spring forth.

I hope you will join me in this death.
I hope you will join me in this life.

Preface...

2009-02-15T20:43:00.003-06:00

For several years I have tried to write a book about growing up in church. This is one of those start and stop projects that may never get finished. I never get past the preface. When I start over after a year or so of not writing, I begin a new preface. I have about a half dozen prefaces just waiting to be tacked onto a yet to be written book. Since I have no time to write non-school related things, I thought I'd share the last preface I wrote. Tonight at our church Love Feast I got to sit back and watch things happen. I was joking with a couple of friends about the way people angle to try to get to hold all the kids running around. When I thought about the children in my church, I was reminded of writing this about a year and a half ago...

_____________________________________

The church building that contained thousands of my childhood hours sits in the shadow of a newer, cavernous tin structure that has become commonplace among the small towns along Highway 31, which runs northeast from Waco, my current home, until it ends in Longview, the area where my parents grew up. The older building is made of a tan brick that is porous enough to hold the stories, secrets, milestones and memories of generations of people trying to discover how their lives, individual and corporate, fit in with the plans of a God who created the pine and oak that tower above the countryside surrounding them. The newer building was erected with an eye toward efficiency. Inexpensive and expansive, were it not for its size and cross perched atop a center column of red brick pointing to the sky, it would be indistinguishable from the numerous “dollar stores” that every small East Texas town apparently needs these days. It cost next to nothing, and remembers about as much.

As a young child I was held in that old sanctuary by the wooden pews with red-lined seat covers. The words coming from the mouths of preachers swirled around me and seeped into my soul as I learned the language of faith the same way any child learns any language— effortlessly and with little deliberate intention. I devoted my energies instead to discovering how long it took for me to sit on my hands before the miniscule diamond patterns of the upholstery would temporarily be imprinted on my flesh, and trying to count the amount of square ceiling tiles above my head. Eventually times would arrive when sitting through an entire church service would be laborious and excruciating, but I remember these early years as being a period of comfort, where even in a scary and uncertain world there would always be waiting for me a place where I felt secure, and where I was welcome to take a nap in the laps of numerous people who loved me as their own.

The sheet metal of the new building seems to me a little too contrived and sterile to hold the memories of the past, but if you get down on your knees and place your ears to the ground it sits on, you will hear the stories of a community of people fractured by animosity, incapable of breaking out of the human condition of brokenness and confusion, struggling to find an identity in those middle places between poor and rich, town and country, saint and sinner, yet clinging as hard as they are capable to God and God’s people. And in those stories you will find the preface and introduction to my life story, a story spent in the pews and chairs of around a half-dozen Baptist churches scattered in places as disparate as an old Safeway building in Waco, TX to an aging and dingy house of worship in a former Soviet Republic.

What you Will...

2009-02-11T23:21:00.002-06:00

"Don't you ever doubt it?" Davy asked?

And in fact I have. And perhaps will again. But here is what happens. I look out the window at the red farm-- for here we live, Sara and I, in a new house across the meadow, a house built by capable arms and open lungs and joyous sweat. Maybe I see our daughter, home from school, picking plums or apples for Roxanna; maybe one of our sons, reading on the grass or painting an upended canoe. Or maybe Sara comes into the room-- my darling Sara-- with Mr. Cassidy's beloved rolls on a steaming plate. Then I breathe deeply, and certainty enters into me like light, like a piece of science, and curious music seems to hum inside my fingers.
Is there a single person on whom I can press belief?
No sir.
All I can do is say, Here's how it went. Here's what I saw...
Make of it what you will.

-- From Leif Enger's Peace Like a River

________

A few years ago a customer asked me for a book that had true ghost stories in them. I took her to the section where such books were and asked if she had any more questions. She pressed her point. "So these are TRUE ghost stories? You know, that REALLY happened?" I took the opportunity to try and educate her, telling her that some would say they are true, while others would express doubt. I walked away feeling quite smug and satisfied with myself.

Today a lady asked me for books on UFO's. I took her to the section and helped her look. I told her about a popular book on the subject. As I found it and began to grab it, she asked the million dollar question. "So are these things that really happened?" By the time she finished her sentence I had the book in my hand. Looking at the subtitle that read True Stories, I replied "Apparently so," and was shocked at the lack of cynicism in my voice.

This is where I am with God. There are times when I know. These times generally occur in the presence of others and include laughter, unspoken sentiment, shared stories. Toddlers joyfully thrown in the air, drinks consumed, the worlds problems solved over good food. This is when I know. It is during such times that if you ask me about God's work in the world, about Jesus and his death and resurrection, about the Spirit that breathes life into all living things, and if you end your question with "Is all this real?," then I will tell you of course it is real.

But there are other times like today. Cynicism, exhaustion, and a (perhaps unreasonable) feeling of alienation all serve to cast sufficient doubt on what I claim to believe. But even in these, there is the seed of belief. Last night I watched Jesus Camp for the first time. The portrayal of children involved in a pentecostal/evangelical ministry with militant overtones served its purpose of weirding me out. The absolute certainty instilled in such young minds is frankly quite scary. But there were also moments that made me hopeful for these children, and they were moments of doubt. Every now and then, in the middle of the screaming and the induced tears and the sharing of the gospel, a look of doubt would be cast over the faces of these children. Doubt that I know all too well. There was even a moment when one of the children expressed how hard it is to believe sometimes. It was during these moments of doubt that I saw possibility, for doubt clears the fields and provides ample space for God to dance, "proving," if you will, that he is still in the neighborhood.

Do you remember the question the preachers used to ask us? "Do you know that you know that you know that you know?" Of course I don't. I have had doubts and, like Enger's character in Peace Like a River, I will probably have doubts again. But I'm comforted in the fact that I'm not called to certainty, I'm called to proclaim that which I have found to be true.

Make of that what you will.

Letter...

2009-02-06T12:33:00.003-06:00

I occasionally write letters to the editor of the Waco Tribune Herald, but never get them in the print edition. But my latest made the cut. it was in response to THIS GUEST EDITORIAL.

Here is the (I must humbly admit) very witty letter I sent that was printed...

No booing allowed (This was an editorial addition that I'm quite disappointed with. It made me look like a whining child. But oh well, maybe I am.)

In his guest column, Mark Osler [“Carried by loving mob,” Jan. 24] commented that those really being inaugurated Jan. 20 were the large crowd assembled on the mall in Washington D.C. If this is the case, I would like to suggest a resolution of censure be passed for their unpatriotic disrespect to an outgoing president.

This “loving mob” rightly cheered President Barack Obama’s encouragement that our country put childish ways behind us, then engaged in behavior befitting children by booing President Bush.

If you ask me, this is not a good starting point for the millions “inaugurated” that day.

Craig Nash

Waco

A Real Conversation on the Phone with a Customer This Morning...

2009-02-03T15:33:00.002-06:00

Me: Thanks for calling Barnes and Noble, this is Craig. How can I help you?

Lady Caller: Yeah, is there any kind of book that has stuff about Paula Deen's life in it, not just recipes?

Me: I'm not sure, let me look in the computer. I know several of her cookbooks have little sections with biographical information in them.

Caller: Well, I don't want any of that biographical information stuff. I just want stuff about her life.

Me: Oh, ok. Well some of her cookbooks have stuff about her life along with the biographical tidbits.

Caller: Great, I'll take one of those.

The Interesection of What is and What Should Be...

2009-01-24T23:15:00.003-06:00

A scene that gives the name to one of my all time favorite movies: Melvin Udall, a man enslaved by his inability to experience human touch and interaction leaves his therapist's office in a fit of rage. In the waiting room he discovers others waiting to be rid of their demons and ailments that keep their lives from being healthy and satisfying. He asks a question that causes some to gasp in fear at the possible answer-- What if this is as good as it gets?

Tonight I found myself in a room full of people. A few I knew, many I didn't. We were celebrating Nathan's successful completion of his Ph.D. My blood was sufficiently saturated with Dr. Duncan's homebrew and as I sat down I looked around in that perfect counterintuitive balance of buzzed trance and clarity of thought. I saw Josh talking to Grant and Desiree while Britt played with an almost two year old Roy with water bottles. Others mingled, laughing and telling stories.

And then somehow Melvin Udall's question invaded my attention. What if this is as good as it gets? Such a question requires a quick assessment of things.

I'm working a lot at a job I've been at for what seems like an eternity. Things aren't bad there. My personal expectations were lowered enough in 2007 to make anything seem bearable.

Inertia, a need to feel and breathe something new, or perhaps (hopefully) God himself has led me to seminary. I'm reading great things, beginning the beginnings of new friendships, and in small ways remembering what it's like to feel vital again.

There are people I've lost. Neglect, distance, and even death itself have all, in equal measure, removed me from those who once provided a frame for my being, a reason to laugh and to think about tomorrow.

Yet there are others very near that I cling tightly to , as if my life were at stake. They know who they are. These people get me. In our absences they think about me, and I think about them. They are who I naturally move toward.

Roy was laughing, and you could tell it was hurting him as he ever so slightly assuaged the pain by bouncing to the music. U2's City of Blinding Lights was on the stereo. "The more you see the less you know/ The less you find out as you go./ I knew much more then/ Than I do now." And this is true. I know much less than I used to know.

But I know enough. I know enough to believe this isn't as good as it gets. My faith in God setting all this right, making the crooked paths straight, doesn't allow me to assume this is the best there is. But for now, it will do. The smiles and the laughs and the goodbyes and the planning for tomorrow are nothing more than the intersection of this time where good enough has to be good enough and that time, where things will be more than just good enough.

Quote...

2008-11-23T21:43:00.002-06:00

I've had this simple quote in my head for several days and have tried to develop a post around it. But I have no time to be creative these days, so I'll just share it with you. It's from the opening note of Wendy Bounds' Little Chapel on the River: A Pub, a Town, and the Search for what Matters Most. It makes me think of my friends, old and new, and that wonderful sacred space that occupies the air between us.

To anyone who has ever known a spot like this, a spot that makes you feel more at home sometimes than home itself, I'd just like to add, go there if you still can. Be there. And don't wait for tomorrow. Go today.

Friends...

2008-11-20T18:52:00.002-06:00

Dear Friends,

On Tuesday I attended the funeral of someone who was one of my best childhood friends. It seems I am destined to become a pro at this sort of thing much earlier than I would like.

This was not like Kyle. That death ripped a whole out of my life and forced me to reorder, rethink. To lay in the ashes until the tears refused to come anymore.

The death of Kevin has caused me great sadness. But we had been functionally removed from each others life for many years, save the once every few months email and once every few years lunch. The sadness I feel is less acute, more bearable, but also more fearful, shameful. Things should not happen this way. When you care about someone, you stay in touch. You let the moments linger, clock be damned.

Several years ago, in pondering how the disciples of Jesus could have left to prepare for the Sabbath after his death, I posted these thoughts...

How could they do this? How could they be so committed to these rituals that they would leave the body of the man who was their life for the previous three years, just so they could get ready for Sabbath.

I ponder this and I realize, they didn't know.

When Kyle died we became many things and one of them is this: We became a lingering people. In the emergency room and at the memorial service, at the funeral and at the grave site, we all lingered around for long periods of time. Part of this was to be with each other and part of it was to find out information but I can't help but believe that part of the reason we lingered is this: At the very core of who we are as a people, as the global and local people of The Way, is the knowledge of resurrection.

That first group of Jesus' followers left because they thought that was all there is, so they may as well just return to life as usual. We know different and when someone we love dies we are in on the secret.

We should all linger around each other a little longer...

Silly Me...

2008-11-11T16:59:00.003-06:00

Today I was standing at the information desk at work, thinking that one of my coworkers was standing behind me. I was preparing to express my slight amount of shock at the fact that Freakonomics isn't out in paperback yet. (These are the important things that occupy my mind.) So I began my sentence "Can you believe Freakonomics..." In mid sentence I started turning around to look at the recepient of my feigned tirade and noticed whoever was there before was no longer standing there, and I was all alone. Here is how the complete sentence came out... "Can you believe Freakonomics... oh look, there's no one here to listen to me talk."

But there was a customer around the corner. After she picked herself off the ground from laughing she let me know I could talk to her. So me and a complete stranger had a discussion about how crazy it is that Freakonomics isn't out in paperback yet.

It was funny to me...

Thoughts...

2008-11-02T17:00:00.002-06:00

Today is the last day of a relatively long vacation from work. It has been good to be able to devote some more time to school, both the learning part and the social part. Tomorrow I go back to the craziness that is full time work and full time school. Amidst the flurry of activity, this will probably be my last chance to share my election thoughts. (I know you've all been holding your breath...)

My prediction: It will be a landslide for Obama and it will be called very early in the night. The media is trying to create a story that McCain is closing in, but they have to do that in order to get people to tune in on Tuesday night. It's better for their pocketbooks than if people think the election is a done deal. Oh, and also, it'll be called early, probably by 10:00p.m. All it will take is for either Virginia or Florida to go Obama's way. After that happens, then McCain will have to win several states that Bush lost in '04 in order to make up for the losses.

Now, for my (perhaps surprising) analysis...

When Wednesday comes, it will be a great moment for America. I really believe that. Though our historic demons of racism will always be with us in some form, they will have been relegated to the shed out back where we put things to collect dust. A large part of our reputation that has been squandered over the past eight years will be restored and the leaders of the most rogue countries of the earth will have a harder time convincing their people that the United States is as evil as they had once thought. I truly believe an Obama administration will help foster a higher level of political discourse that makes it more possible for things to get done.

Oh, yeah... When Tuesday comes, I will cast my vote for John McCain. I am one of those ubiquitous single issue voters that get derisive looks and snickers wherever we go. Those who look down on us believe it asinine to quarantine a single issue and to make it the deciding factor. Those of us who do this see it as a no-brainer. Especially when it's the issue of abortion. It's ok to call me silly, but only if you think it is silly to believe that life begins at (or sometime very soon after) conception. If you think life begins only after the child exits the womb and begins breathing (and there are many intelligent people who believe this,) then I think you are morally obligated to consider me a buffoon for picking this issue to be my trump card. But if have similar views about life as me, then please save your ire for something more worthy. I'm often baffled at those who say they believe abortion to be murder, but that it's stupid for that to be the only issue you use when deciding who to vote for. Really? If someone runs on the platform that we should not judge or prevent people who want to point a gun and shoot Craig Nash, please, for the love of God, make it the only issue you vote for.

Wow, I didn't plan on writing that much. But there you have it.

That's all I've got. But if your itching for more, you should read THIS ARTICLE about Sarah Palin. It's written by Eugene Robinson, a very smart guy that I rarely agree with, but who always has insightful things to say.

Great Essay...

2008-10-29T20:41:00.003-05:00

One of my favorite features of Newsweek is a column they carry titled My Turn, which gives non-journalists an opportunity to write an opinion piece. This week's is very thoughtful. After reading it I was reminded how comedic presidential campaigns can get in the candidate's attempts to say all the soothing words the public is begging to hear.

The article can be found here.

Update...

2008-10-27T20:42:00.003-05:00

Thought I'd share a little bulleted update...

-- For those of you who don't keep up with me via facebook, the great information distributor, you probably haven't heard that I was robbed. I returned home from work one night wondering why the breeze was blowing through the window in my living room, since I never have even attempted to open said window. Then I wondered why I could see to the breeze blowing through the curtains, since my television occupied the space where the curtains were blowing. I then realized there was a break in. They got everything I had that was worth anything, which wasn't much, but enough to cramp my style-- television, computer, a new cell phone I had just opened that day, and worst of all a digital camera that was given to me as a gift. Last week was rough dealing with all that ensues from a break in. As for now, I'll be spending a lot of time in the library rather than going in debt any further to purchase a new computer. The television, I have learned, I can do without.

-- Coming at just the right time, however, was my trip to California this past week to see Jen and the Lake kids. It was a great trip, and I'm pretty sure I saw Yoko Ono.

-- I'm on vacation the rest of the week and will be spending it doing school stuff. I am managing school/work slightly sub par. I'm finding the most frustrating thing about working full time while taking classes is the lack of ability to actually process through what I am learning both intellectually and through social interactions.

-- Here's something I was thinking on the plane ride home today... I think it's funny how four years ago, when Bush won a second term, Christians who were more left-leaning in their politics loved to state that their hope is not in this world. I'm finding these same people are not saying this as much, as it seems their chosen candidate is likely to win. But I AM hearing it among more conservative Christians. I guess the moral of the story is that our hope is not in this world, except when it is.

-- On Friday we attended a fall festival on the Fuller campus. Jude obtained from someone a balloon tied to a rubber band that he spent the weekend playing with. Every morning, however, he realized the balloon was getting smaller. Last night he came to the conclusion that the balloon was just going to keep diminishing until it is a functional balloon no longer. In an adorable, but completely pitiful display, he stuck his lip out and held back a cry saying "I guess I'm just not going to get to play with this balloon anymore." Sometimes I feel like my life is that balloon.

-- Ok, to save this post from being a downer closing, I'll share a better story. Sutton, whose favorite thing being right, told me he already knew something. I asked him if there was anything in the whole world that he didn't know. After thinking for a bit he called me over and whispered in my ear... "When I was a baby, I didn't know brown people existed."

Great Interview...

2008-10-14T06:24:00.002-05:00

Although MSNBC has become the Fox of the left, I am still loyal to it as my news of choice. Rachel Maddow has a new show that I enjoy watching, even though it drives me batty. Using satire and sarcasm, she demeans the conservative side of the political aisle. Finally, though, someone has called a liberal out on their pronouncements to "elevate the tone" while effectively lowering the bar. I looked up from my homework and my jaw dropped when I heard what was going on. Enjoy and discuss...

Ramblings...

2008-10-12T20:10:00.002-05:00

"You're still in America in the monastery, and in Hope Church-- these absurd and holy places-- you're still in the modern world. But these places demand that you give up any notion of dominance or control. In these places you wait, and the places mold you." -- Kathleen Norris describing her church, Hope Church, in Dakota: A Spiritual Geography.

"Dakota is a painful reminder of human limits, just as cities and shopping malls are attempts to deny them." -- Also from Dakota.

The concrete and steel that is under our feet and over our heads have brought us together. They make it possible for someone like me to live in a place where my neighbors are most assuredly not like me. On most days these elements serve as catalysts for an economy that provides enough to survive, if not thrive.

But the ease of life created by cities has removed us from the desperation that has driven many over time into the arms of God. So we turn inward and find the struggle there. And at the end of that struggle, the one with demons of pride, lust, and gluttony, we may find ourselves needing God. But it all seems a little cheap in the end compared to people whose very existences are literally at stake.

Being in school is invigorating in many ways, but it has its drawbacks. Most notably is the sense that everybody is just passing through. Add that to the fact that I'm a part of a church whose life revolves those just passing through, and it is no wonder that despair can sometimes set in.

This is why I live for the times I get to sit around a table with my friends who live in this place. Though we may not have a lot of ground to plow and the weather patterns don't necessarily thrust us into reliance on God, we recognize that there is dirt inside us that needs cultivated in order for this long conversion toward being God's people to spring forth. And although we may not be here forever, we are more than just passing through.

Of course there is nothing wrong with just passing through. There have been nomads from the beginning of time. In fact, the tendency to roam may, as a survival instinct, be more wired into our DNA than the tendency to stay. But I've often felt that the desire of some to always be looking to the next thing can be more of a refusal to admit that one day they will die.

Today, in the middle of this city of steel, concrete, and of people just passing through, we spoke out loud. We spoke words from Paul that rumble beneath the ground not just during the Easter season, but during seasons of loss and despair. We spoke them out of the depths. Together, those transient and those with feet planted on the ground, we spoke those words to each other, into the dry and dusty places waiting to be sanctified... "Where, oh death is your victory? Where, oh death is your sting?"

Do you think?...

2008-10-10T14:43:00.001-05:00

This is bound to be controversial, but haven't we all been thinking the same thing for the last decade or so?

I Often Do Not Heart Customers...

2008-10-01T00:39:00.003-05:00

Somewhere along the way I became a smart ass. I suppose this is the lot of anyone working retail for an extended season of their life. Just when I get tired of belaboring the point of rudeness and immaturity, someone ups and does something that just elicits a hearty "Wow!"

Sometime in the a.m., in the kids section.

Can I help you with something m'am?

Yes, my brother bought these magazines for me yesterday and the guy up front says I can't return them.

Yes m'am. I'm sorry, but we have a strict return policy on magazines. We technically aren't allowed to return them at all, but especially if it's not on the same day of purchase.

Well, it's been less than 24 hours.

I understand and I apologize, but its not within the same calendar day.

This really disappoints me.

I really am terribly sorry. Is there something I can help you find?

No, not really.

Ok, well just let me know if there's something else I can do.

(Halfway between the children's department and the door, throwing the bag of magazines up at a velocity that it hits the high ceiling...) You can keep your damn magazines!

(In a state of disbelief...) Wow. M'am, thanks for responding with so much maturity.

I'm going to remember this!

Well, we hate to lose your business.

You can kiss my ass!

(Continued state of disbelief, only without words.)

(As the lady exits the door, approaches entering customer) Don't by anything from them, they won't take it back!

____________________________________________

I have no pretensions that my zingers were especially funny. In fact, like George Costanza I have since come up with numerous comebacks that would have been much more devastating. But alas, you only have the moment and you can't go back.

Here...

2008-09-29T17:54:00.002-05:00

Ok, I'm back to low-expectation blogging. After a season where I began trying to write like a writer and people read my blog like readers, I came to a point where I was afraid the next post could never live up to the past. But I'm done with that and ready to share things about my day without any pretension of profundity.

I have had the day off. I spent some time this morning at the Laundrymat on Waco Drive to wash clothes. I am getting closer to my goal of of reaching the high score on Mrs. Pac Man there by the end of the year. Only 70,000 more points to go.

The rest of the day has been spent studying, watching the economic collapse, and trying to figure out what is going on with Jane. She used to have no problem going outside for a few hours at a time, but now I chase her around the house and have to force her out. Not quite sure what's going on there.

I'm about to head up to Truett for the preaching convocation sponsored by the Kyle Lake Foundation.

Interesting Article...

2008-09-07T22:21:00.004-05:00

Terri Jo Ryan had a good article in this morning's Trib. You can read it HERE.

The print edition of the story had two statements with two boxes beside it. The first statement read (loosely): Be next in line to the most powerful position in the world. The box next to it was checked. The next statement read: Lead a local congregation. The box next to it was X'ed out.

I understand there were some straw men (or straw women?) in the article, but it's good fodder for discussion.

On Palin...

2008-09-04T16:00:00.005-05:00

I went in to this political season with a soft resolution to refrain from talking much about the presidential race on my blog. The longer I continue updating this site, the more embarrassed I get at things I said years ago and I didn't want to make any ridiculous uninformed statements that I would look back on years from now with regret. But the Sarah Palin event is too compelling for me to resist. So here goes, one of my first hesitant postings of the election.

I really like the lady. Has there been another political figure in recent memory that is more literally a "person of the people" than Sarah Palin? She is someone I can imagine running into at H-E-B and having a real conversation with about her kids, local news, or sports. I heard Joe Biden today say that in her entire speech she never said the words "middle class." I think this is humorous and proves out out of touch he actually is with the middle class. Her very story screams middle class. I think it is possible the Democrats could greatly underestimate the connection someone like Palin can make with certain blue collar voters that would never consider voting Republican.

What I really loved about her speech is that it took the gloves off of the McCain campaign where it came to questioning Obama. I think because of the obvious historic nature of his candidacy, no one really knew if they could treat him like a normal person who wants to be president. Palin's attacks on Obama actually marks, in my opinion, at least as great a stride in race relations as the possibility of him being president does. It means that we are finally not only not considering race as a barrier for upward mobility, but also that we are no longer afraid to criticize someone of color that we disagree with on principles. My gut feeling is that this is something Obama appreciates as well. The greatest attack line (which is really all the VP in an election is good for) was the making fun of "community organizers." This is honestly a job that I had never heard of until Obama's story became a part of our national consciousness. I thought I was the only one, but I guess I wasn't.

Okay, enough of the praise. There is a huge concern with Palin I have that could possibly make me rethink voting for McCain. I am actually shocked that the liberal media (and I'm increasingly believing the truth of that) has not jumped on. Did anyone else notice Palin's lapel pin? It was incredibly small, but it appeared to me to be the Israeli flag. Now, I have no problem with Israel and believe them to be a valuable ally of the United States in the Middle East. But I have run in evangelical circles enough recognize that her wearing that pin wasn't simply a mark of solidarity with one of our friends. If it were she would also be wearing flags of Britain, Australia, and of all the East European countries. But the Israeli flag pin alone reveals something disturbing to me-- it is an obvious wink to those who believe our alliance with Israel is a divinely ordained one, and one that allows us to see our military as an arm in the arsenal of God. These people, led by guys like John Hagee and Rod Parsley, are anticipating Armageddon and have no problem using our military (and our nuclear weapons) to speed up the process.

I hope I am overreaching in my assessment. It'll be interesting to see if the media makes anything of this. I think it is probably something that is on their radar, but fear of appearing anti-semitic is likely keeping them from bringing it up as an issue.

So, that's a lot of rambling. I'd love to hear your thoughts. I'm open to being reproved...
____________________________________
Edit: After posting this I did a little further research on the lapel pin. There are some saying that it was a pin worn by family members of those in the military who are in harms way-- which makes sense because of her oldest son. I stand corrected-- but it still looks like the Israeli flag to me.

Catching Up...

2008-09-01T21:46:00.002-05:00

In all likelihood, my blog will probably return to being more like what it was in the early days-- a place for me to catch everyone up on what's going on in my life. The essay-type posts will diminish some as I focus on studying. I really hate this, but time is what it is, and I have less of it.

I stuck around through some rough times at work over the past couple of years just to get the extra week of vacation that comes with having five years behind my belt. An it is proving useful. I am taking one of those weeks right now so I can hit the ground running with school, and I am thankful I did. I have needed this time to get my mind back into the mode of thinking necessary for "structured learning."

Ten years after gaining a Bachelor of Arts in Religion, I am taking my first Greek class. And my head is swimming. My other classes will require a good deal of hard work for me to do well. Greek will require a good deal of hard work and substantial doses of divine intervention. I am open to any free advice you veterans have for me.

Today I went to see Step Brothers in order to reward myself for the hours of work I put into Greek this morning. It wasn't much of a reward. But being at the movies got me to thinking how excited I am about the release of The Road coming out this fall. If you haven't read the book yet, I highly recommend it before the movie comes out.

That's about it for now. I need my sleep now more than ever.

No Fear...

2008-08-30T20:21:00.005-05:00

Lately my life has taken on a good kind of quiet. This dispensation began over a month ago when, in a tear filled moment in the parking lot of Ninfa's, I said goodbye to the three little people who made my days dance with the soundtrack of vitality. It was in the car driving home that I came to grips with the axiom that everyone else except for me had seemed to master-- Change happens. I'm a good learner, but I'm a slow learner. I grappled with the lesson of change for years, clinging to the words of people from Garrison Keillor to Kathleen Norris, writers who celebrate lives of repetition and extol the virtues of ritual and the expected. But they had become my crutch, an excuse to never look forward.

But now I'm looking forward and backward, and I'm also looking all around me. And I am seeing things again. Things that would have passed me by in my dispensation of grief. Wonderful things. Things that do not get much airplay. Things such as this...

Yesterday as I was driving on Lake Air, approaching Bosque, I noticed an elderly man had fallen on the sidewalk and a group of people were gathered around him. Not knowing if any help had been called, I pulled over into the next parking lot and walked over to see what I could do. A young black man dressed in urban attire (read: bling) was pacing back and forth. I asked him what happened. He said that the man was walking along and fell down, almost into the street. The younger guy was terrified because he had almost hit him. The elderly gentleman, obviously suffering from dementia of some kind, was being tended to by a rather large white lady adorned from head to toe in tatoos and a middle aged hispanic man wearing a uniform and who appeared to be on his way home from work. A cop showed up and took charge of the situation, at which point the rest of us began to walk away, so as to not be a distraction.

As I was walking away I heard the younger guy thank the other two for stopping. He saw what happened and panicked, not knowing what to do. The lady responded that it was know big deal, she just wanted to be a good neighbor.

Now I know this sounds like it is straight out of one of those insurance commercials about how every day people do the right thing and when other people see this they start doing the right thing. Maybe this is true. Who knows? But as I drove away this verse from the Bible somehow popped into my head-- "There is no fear in love, but perfect love drives out fear." I'm not sure what that had to do with anything that had just happened other than to cause me to realize how much of our lives are determined by fear. Fear of the future, fear of the past catching up with us, fear of our neighbor and fear of the unknown. It seems as if fear is all around us. It is the main instrument used by both (yes, both) political parties to shore up votes. It lurks around our corners and controls many of our lives.

But for three people yesterday, fear didn't divide, it brought together. And in the middle of this city, with police and ambulance sirens descending on the scene of the event, there was a sense of quiet. I got into my car, closed the door and pulled out of the parking lot on my way home. Over my speakers were the words from a Crowder Band song... "All the love in the world is right here among us, and hatred too...and so we must choose what our hands will do." Silence in the midst of chaos. I thought of the people I have said goodbye to, the people I have recently met from beginning school, and those I love that are still close. And for the first time in a really long time, I was not afraid.

Adventures in returning to school...

2008-08-18T21:24:00.003-05:00

This is either a post about how old I am, or how quickly things change. Probably both.

I had the day off and mentally dedicated the entire morning to standing in line at Baylor. I had a simple form to turn in to the cashiers office and assumed university life the week before classes begin hadn't changed much since I was an undergrad. So I walked to the end of the line and mentally went into zombie state. Less than five minutes later I hear the receptionist say "Next." I looked up to see that I was at the front of the line. The lady apologized for making me wait so long. I informed her that that was one of the shortest lines I've ever stood in.

Walking out of the building I remembered fifteen years before, registering for classes at TJC. There was a huge open room filled with professors and advisers sitting at tables. Each particular course had it's own spot. You actually STOOD IN LINE just to sign up for a class. It wasn't unusual for you to wait in line for over an hour for a particular class, only to get to the table and find out the class had just filled up. It was a grueling process of delay and disappointment.

Now, though, things are done on those internets thingies. Apparently I have already done everything I need to do to begin school. Everything online tells me I'm "all clear," but I still have this great fear that I will walk into class the first day only to be told the class is full and I can't take it. I'm crossing my fingers...

___________________
Edit: I wrote this post last night. When I woke up this morning CNN.COM had printed THIS annual story.

Answering Aaron...

2008-08-10T20:39:00.002-05:00

Aaron, in a comment on one of my recent posts, asked me to review a post of his from a few years back and to think about whether or not I am in a place of agreement with it. His post can be found HERE. I honestly don't remember the post, but I notice from the date that it was written during a time of my life when I wasn't too concerned with much of anything other than making it through a moment with enough oxygen to survive. It appears that there was a good conversation going on between Aaron, Cory, and Jason.

Aaron's basic question is if I agree with his tenet that emergent voices(mainly McLaren) could had initially used a little more humility in their writings concerning what they describe as a new way of thinking about and experiencing faith. And my basic answer is, after a little more life perspective-- Absolutely. I look back on my measly writings and see that although I sought to convey a sense of gentleness and humility, the content of what was being said ("post" this and "post" that) was, by its very nature, quite pretentious. In essence, the continual use of the prefix "post" revealed that many of us believed we could make extremely grand statements about our present that previously were reserved for historians.

But I will say this-- The way emerging thinkers wrestle with postmodern ideas makes it more likely that they will have an inordinate amount of sinful pride as it relates to their relationship with the larger evangelical world. But it also gives them an ability to recognize this pride much quicker than those who place such a high premium on an absolute belief of traditional theological doctrines (i.e. Calvinism- Arminianism.) I've always understood that a Christian dialogue with postmodern thought should not lead to uncertainty, as many believe, but to humility. I don't deny absolute truth. I do, however, question whether or not there is any tool available to humanity to objectively discover what absolute truth is. This "hunch" of mine should not lead to despair, but to hope. It should not lead to a belief that I am above history and not bound to the centuries of struggle great people of the faith have had, but rather to a confession that I am just as inadequate at understanding as the next guy, and that what I know now should not be held so tightly that I cannot be taught differently.

So, that's a lot of words to answer a question in the affirmative.

Newbie...

2008-08-06T16:39:00.001-05:00

Head over to JOSH'S BLOG to take a look at our newest friend.

Just something...

2008-08-05T22:20:00.002-05:00

I saw a bumper sticker today for a certain church in town that read "God is still in charge, and it is all important."

While I'm sure I there are significant differences in how I and this church interpret the words "in charge," I still hold to the belief that this world belongs to God and that God has the first and the last word concerning all its affairs. And no other statement describes how I want to live in this world than the phrase "...and it is all important."

Going back...

2008-08-02T20:20:00.004-05:00

Several weeks ago I mentioned that this fall I would be returning to Truett seminary. Shortly thereafter I received a few comments and emails from people wanting me to talk through that a bit more.

First, a little clarification. Most acquaintances I've spoken with think that I have a significant amount of the requirements to complete a seminary degree, but I actually only attended Truett for a semester in the fall of 2002. So I'm still practically at the beginning. I left for one reason-- I was broke. Today I live with meager financial resources, but back then I was so deep in the hole it made no sense for me not to be working full time.

But it was a good time for me to put the brakes on a graduate degree for other reasons. Highest among them is the fact that I was not in a place where I was ready to learn. This was in the days shortly after we had all finished reading A New Kind of Christian and we "knew." We felt McLaren had pulled the veil back on hundreds of years of church history and we were ready to ride the tide of revolution. (This was, of course, before McLaren proved to be not much more that what many of his critics charged him with, and that we, in our McLaren hysteria, denied vehemently-- A repackaging of a 60's political-theological liberal) In the midst of all the "above the line" talk, I was not prepared to stand on the line that the saints of the past had wrestled hard with, and had found God on. I was only ready to preach the emergent gospel of communal bliss. (I was slow to grab on to the "justice" side of that gospel coin.) I cast a knowing eye on the college-sophomore phenomenon of being a smart-ass-know-it-all, but I was not so different myself.

I'm sure there are similar things I am blind to now, but hopefully I'm in a more humble place, ready and open.

The reasons I am returning are twofold. One is that a few people that I love and respect dearly have been gently nudging me in this direction for a few years. They have confirmed things about me that they felt were some of my gifts. Always a sucker for the good things people have to say about me, I began to take these compliments to heart and slowly came to a realization that I needed to go ahead and get it out of the way.

The second, and perhaps more authentic reason for heading back to Truett is that I am beginning to get tired of a life that is simply one more damn thing after another. For years I have preached the gospel of the mundane-- the good new that God is alive and well in the routines and boring moments of people living hardscrabble lives in the normal day-to-day. I still preach that gospel and believe it fully. But I'm also ready for the other side, the side that says God is also alive and well in new things, in the adventure of lives that seek out challenges.

So, that's that. Hopefully there will be seminary update blogs as the years go on.

Return...

2008-07-31T21:09:00.002-05:00

It has been a different kind of summer and, as my previous post suggests, one that has provided little in the way of motivation to sit down and write. I have discovered that writers block is a weight on your brain that gets exponentially heavier the longer you go without actually taking the time to put words to the page (or screen.)

So here I am, trying to get rid of some of that debilitating weight.

Things are changing. If you know me well, you know how difficult this is for me. Always one for the predictable, I become irritable and sluggish when I realize that my world is moving in a new direction. But I'm growing older and, like the slow learner I can sometimes be, have realized that the tomorrows will often look vastly different than the yesterdays. I don't have to like it, but I'm coming to a place where I get it.

So that's it. You probably wish my return to blogging was longer and contained some funny or poignant story. But this is all you get. I'm taking baby steps back into the world.

...

2008-07-27T20:57:00.002-05:00

Can't...seem...to...gather...the...energy...to...write.

Man, that was exhausting.

Untitled...

2008-07-06T21:21:00.005-05:00

For almost eight years now I have been able count on at least one constant. Regardless of how tragic, joyful, busy, or boring my life has been at any given moment, there has always been a Lake kid around to give it meaning and color. I've shared this many times before, but the day after Kyle and I met, Avery was born. And in ways that had yet to be seen, I was as well. Two years after that, in the early morning hours of a hot July day, Sutton and Jude arrived and breathed the cool wind of chaos into my life and the life of our community. The best description of these three kids are that when they are in the room, there is force-- a palpable awareness that the tectonic plates of the immediate vicinity could shift at any time, releasing joy, pain, despair or silliness, sometimes simultaneously.

If you've read my blog for any amount of time, you know they are the source of my best stories and the reason I have had to keep moving, one step at a time. It is because of this that my upcoming week will be one of the hardest I've had to endure for quite some time. Jen and the kids are leaving the sacred grounds of Waco for the sunny skies of California. I am being honest when I say that, for numerous reasons, this is a good move for them, giving them the opportunity to be together in a new place with new faces and the fresh balm of adventure to help further heal their souls. It's almost enough reason to make the emptiness I feel somewhat bearable.

In my dresser drawer is a small collection of things that have ended up in my pockets over the years-- A feather Sutton found outside of school one day; A beat up Indianopolis Colts matchbox car Jude picked up in Cameron Park; A purple hair clip of Avery's. In each case I was asked to put it away for safekeeping until they got home, and in each case I was promised to swear that I wouldn't lose it. Well I have kept the promise not to lose these things, but I'll keep them with me until I am asked to return them. Of course until they learn to read blogs I doubt they will remember these things they handed to me months ago. In the meantime I'll continue to keep them safe and will hold them as artifacts, holy reminders that a large chunk of my life has been filled with nothing less than the Breath of God.

4rth...

2008-07-04T09:49:00.003-05:00

Happy Fourth of July everybody. If you have some free time today, you should read THIS ARTICLE, which was the cover story for Time Magazine this week. I found it quite insightful.

A Chase...

2008-07-02T22:58:00.003-05:00

This afternoon I brought my dog Jane from my house to Tom and Beth's, which I am staying at while they are gone on vacation. As I opened the gate to the back yard Jane spotted a squirrel.

Jane has always dreamed of catching a squirrel, but up until that moment it was a statistical improbability for her, since I normally have her on a leash. In the split moment after the door was opened she looked at me, I at her, and we both realized, to my fear and her joy, that there was no leash attaching us. Like a thoroughbred straight out the gates, she quickly created distance between herself and me and aimed her snout like a heat seeking missile toward her intended target.

I assumed the squirrel would run to the fence, climb up it, and the chase would be over as quick as it started. It made it to the fence, but didn't run up it. I quickly saw that the squirrel was small, probably young, and was just getting it's running legs, not quite sure of it's climbing abilities. It turned around, her possible killer a split second behind her, then ran UNDERNEATH Jane, causing my dog to jump so high and awkwardly that she tumbled over.

Quickly regaining her footing, Jane repositioned herself and picked up speed again. At this point the squirrel was heading in my direction. There was a tree between me and the squirrel, so (again) I assumed it would scale the tree. No such luck. As it passed the tree, there was only one thing in between it and a small opening at the bottom of the fence-- Me.

In that small moment I had a couple of thoughts. One was about all the series of rabies shots in my stomach I would soon be forced to endure. The other was a question of whether or not I wanted Jane to catch the squirrel. I began weighing the options. (Yes, all this happened within a small window of time) If she caught it before it reached me, then I'd be safe from rabies (and the subsequent rabies shots.) It would also be good for her self image to accomplish something that is in her blood to do, which is to catch and kill something.

Then I thought about the blood. I would have to clean up the blood. And, my dog would know what blood tasted like, which could turn her into Cujo.

I then realized that I have to stop thinking of nonsense, because there is a squirrel just five feet away from me, and it began eying me like I was a tree. A tree that is manageable.

The rest is a blur to me. All I remember is being air born, trying to create vertical space between me and the rodent. It made it to safety.

As we walked up to the house I looked at my dog. It appeared as if she had a look of satisfaction. I didn't catch that thing, she seemed to be saying, but DAMN that was fun.

Stuff...

2008-07-02T00:00:00.003-05:00

Things have been relatively quiet in my world lately. As far as summers go, this one has been uneventful. Here's some random stuff I've enjoyed lately...

-- I've been loving the new country group Lady Antebellum. You should check out their songs Love Don't Live Here and Things People Say.

-- I spent much of the first part of the summer trying to read the Bible more. I read the book of Acts and then moved on to I and II Samuel. There's some crazy stuff in the Samuels, such as the use of a Sylvia Browne-type character to call up the spirit of Samuel. I had not clue. Crazy, crazy.

-- There's a great article in this week's Time Magazine about patriotism. It explains the differences between how conservatives and liberals view what it means to be patriotic, and then shows how both side needs to embrace a little of the other in order to have a more complete, and humble, patriotic fervor. It includes thoughtful articles by both McCain and Obama.

-- I've been watching Nashville Star. I'm pulling for Melissa and Gabe.

-- It's been hard to get into books lately, but I'm excited because Kathleen Norris has a new one coming out in September.

That's all for now. I'm going to bed.

Church...

2008-06-26T20:05:00.003-05:00

It's summer, the time when church youth groups on their way to and from camps and mission trips stop by our church to experience the music of The David Crowder Band. In my attitude, and I believe in the attitudes of others who have remained at UBC for several years, I have seen a progression of reactions to this phenomenon. The beginning stage consists of acting surprised that anyone would want to go out of their way to visit a church because of who leads the musical part of our worship. It is here in conversation where we pull out our respective stories of where we were when we "found out" the DCB was a "big deal." This usually consisted of us overhearing someone enthusiastically reaping praise upon the band and then feigning surprise that anyone knew who they were. The purpose of this approach was to exhibit a sophisticated detachment from any mindset that may suggest we go to UBC just for the music.

The next stage is anger. I think most of the time this begins as pretend anger (more detachment,) and occasionally evolves into genuine indignation. Here is where we say something about boundaries and how we feel like zoo animals being watched by paying customers.

Eventually we settle into an acceptance that we are what we are-- A Destination Church. I suspect Destination Churches are a relatively new phenomenon, probably nonexistent before television. I can't imagine my grandparents, devout as they were, wondering what it may be like to visit a church outside of their home town. That, to them, would be insanity. But for me, raised in the age of celebrity, I cannot act surprised when people actually like something, in this case a worship band, that is not immediately in front of them every Sunday. Because I have my own Christian celebrities I wouldn't mind seeing every now and then as well.

Not sure where that is going, except that I have three stories about my church to share with you.

Story 1.
Several days ago at work I noticed, from a distance, someone pick up a book by a relatively popular author who is part of the Emerging Church Movement. I could see a negative reaction appear on this person's face. My natural instinct was to try and engage in a little conversation, but I chose instead to file it away for another time. Either I have shown remarkable growth in this area, or I'm just tired of talking. But the conversation eventually came to me. I was asked by the person whether or not I went to church. After a fruitless attempt at lying, I said that yes, I did go to church. I was then asked where, to which I told the truth, and added the caveat that if this person wanted to be critical of Emerging Church thought, then I'd probably be a safe person to speak to. I suppose it was my invitation to honesty that empowered this person to be so blunt in saying, "I'd be interested in knowing why you'd want to go THERE." I shared the reasons why I arrived there, acknowledged that some of her concerns with our type of church are valid and true most of the time, and then confessed that the reason I'm still there is because it's easier to stay than to leave and that I'd just be trading one set of problems for another.

Story 2.

Several weeks ago I ran into an old friend who asked what I have been up to. After hearing where I lived I was then asked where I went to church. Upon hearing the answer my old friend replied reverently, as a child talks about Disneyworld, "Oh, that is SUCH a great church." I told this person that they were correct, it IS such a great church. My inner demeanor changed, though, when I asked when my friend had visited my church and the answer was "Never, I've just heard a lot about it." If I were in a more contrarian mood, I would have clarified that what I meant by being a "great church" and what my friend meant were two totally different things. I've got lines on my face, bags under my eyes, and a collection of restless nights to prove that a great church community rarely means a life of bliss.

Story 3.

The youth group this past Sunday took up most of the center seats, those vacated by students away for the summer. It was an expressive group, as far as hand placement was concerned, much like the first few Sundays of the fall semester. When the sermon was finished and the ushers called for offering, the band began to play. Our visitors had obviously not received the memo that this is the time to pray, think about lunch, or silently look around and judge your neighbor for praying or thinking about lunch. So they stood and they raised their hands and closed their eyes as tight as they possibly could. When this happened I realized something about myself. For the better part of my life, as far as my faith is concerned, I have been competitive person. In my younger years this competitiveness manifest itself in being more spiritual than anyone else. Later, once I realized the futility of that, I tried to be the most cynical person in the room. If I couldn't raise my hands as high or close my eyes as tight as you, then damn it, I'm going to secretly demean you better than anyone else can.

But this past week, when the middle section stood, raised their hands and closed their eyes, something inside me was able to say-- You know what? Good for them. I'm really happy they are having this experience.

So, there's that. Do with it what you will.

hereiamiamhere...

2008-06-02T10:06:00.002-05:00

this post will be truncated sentences. read not into change of style. i'm just lazy.

several weeks without television or internet. nice. nicer than originally anticipated. like a monastic retreat in the middle of my life, the silence and freedom is liberating.

something new-- i'm (re)beginning seminary in the fall. Truett. (I'm now too Waco to leave Waco.) the hardest thing about going back to school? all the damn passwords I have to remember. between work, school, personal stuff, there are literally dozens of passwords. this morning spent trying to remember Baylor passwords. exhausting.

another something new-- the new house is amazing. jane loves it as much as i. i now own a dining room table. officially an adult.

finally finished leif enger's new book. slightly disappointing, but good nonetheless.

an estimated 61.545% of my married friends are pregnant, and i am officially 100% happy about this fact.

i am currently reading-- 1. the acts of the apostles, 2. amazing grace: a vocabulary of faith by kathleen norris, 3. maximum city (forgot name of author,) about bombay india.

internet deprivation won't be permanent, so look for more regular posts (in complete, semi-well-formed sentences) mid-summer.

More Little Chapel...

2008-05-18T18:38:00.002-05:00

I somewhat sheepishly announced to people at lunch that I kind of feel like it was God who had me meet the couple I met after church today. And as you know, I'm (perhaps sinfully) hesitant to assign anything to God, even the glaring obvious things. If it was God, I'm not sure what the purpose was. Maybe just to bring a little more happiness to the past few days, which were already being good to me and bringing me out of my week and a half funk.

If you've been around me, or if you've read my blog, you've heard me mention on several occasions the book Little Chapel on the River by Wendy Bounds, and how it was one of the best pictures of what true community looks like. The book tells the story of Guinans, a general store and pub located in Garrison, New York, just across the Hudson River from West Point. People from all walks of life, governors and janitors, soldiers and peaceniks, had called Guinans their home away from home for over fifty years. One guy who moved away from Garrison but drove over fifty miles once a week just to hang out at Guinans dubbed the pub his church. Thus, The Little Chapel on the River. (I wrote about a note I received from the author in my year end post found HERE.)

Today after church as I was making my weekly post-service walk to the back restroom, I overheard an older couple, parents of a recent graduate, walking in the backside wondering amongst themselves if the church was an old store. Eavesdropping, and a tour guide at heart, I confirmed that it was and struck up a conversation-- Hello, how are you, where are you from, type thing. They said New York. Me, as if I am an expert at New York geography (I'm not) asked where in New York. They replied the Hudson Valley, just across the river from West Point. Imagine their pleasure when I shrieked like a kid, "Garrison?!"

It turned out that they were from Garrison. They were regulars at the Little Chapel for years and said their daughter practically grew up there. As we talked about the pub they would mention names of friends of theirs, people who I had recognized from the book. It was a great experience. And out of it, I received an open invitation to come stay with them anytime I'm in New York.

So the moral of the story is that it pays to read. Or maybe it just pays to have a bladder that instinctively needs emptying at the end of church.

"Time Keeps Moving From a Crawl to a Run..."

2008-05-16T20:45:00.005-05:00

Early in When It Don't Come Easy, Patty Griffin wonders four times if we'll ever get home tonight. If I had to assign words to the past week or so, those would be the ones. It hasn't come easy. Realization that my world is about to change in ways both revolutionary and minute has stunned me into a scrambling stupor to try and find some solace and direction. The thought that this great idea of "home" is the great North Star by which we find our bearings has bore down on me and I have tried to figure out what the next step will be, and where mine is.

The protagonist in Leif Enger's new book So Brave, Young, and Handsome, is an author who has struggled for years to match the success of his debut novel. He said that in his stories if he ever approached running out of material or needed to move them along to the next place, he just through a river in front of the characters and waited to see what they would do with it.

Tonight I had dinner with two of my closest friends and their son at a restaurant on the river. It was a perfect evening that topped off a not-so-perfect few days. During the silences I thought of that Patty Griffin song. I thought of the people who have driven out to find me as I broke down, and have stayed by me when it didn't come easy. I looked out over the Brazos, ducks heading where they needed to be and the water shimmering in the mid-evening early-summer sun. In the silences I wondered if I would ever get home.

I think I probably will.

YesNoMaybe...

2008-05-15T22:11:00.002-05:00

This is Jude.

This is a letter I wrote to Jude a little over four years ago.

This is a conversation I had with Jude yesterday when I picked the kids up from school--

Jude: Craig, what are we going to do today?
Me: I don't know, I was going to take you to the park, but it is very wet from the rain. So I think I'll take you to Chic-Fil-A to play on their playground.
Jude: Can we have Ice Cream?
Me (seriously contemplating the proposition): I don't know, maybe.
Jude, with excitement: Yay!!!!!
Me: I didn't say we would, I said MAYBE.
Jude: Yeah, but with you "Maybe" always means "Yes."

(later at Chic-Fil-A, the four of us nose deep into vanilla ice cream cones, Jude looking sideways at me with his silly eyes)

Jude: See, I told you. Maybe always means yes.

I love that Jude.

Tagged...

2008-05-09T19:41:00.003-05:00

So although I am offically "back," I have yet to drum up the energy to post anything. I mentioned to a friend today that although I'm pretty sure I've never been "clinically depressed," the fast few days have been the closest I've come to brushing shoulders with it. This has given me no energy to write. But alas, Danielle has tagged me, forcing me out of my self-pitying slumber. She has asked that I share six random things about either myself or my week, and then to tag someone else.

1. This week I found a great place to live when my lease here on Washingon expires at the end of the month.
2. In the past few hours I have had a conversation that will probably alter my future.
3. I used to want everyone to like me. Now I am indifferent to about 99% of the people I know, but have about a dozen people that I spend my life trying to win the comraderie and affection of.
4. Many people already know this about me, but I have a deformed right big-toe. It looks broken.
5. One time early in elementary school (like first or second grade) I was walking down the hall, by a row of coat hooks. I had this thought, "I wonder if I will remember this moment next year?" The next year I remembered that moment. Ever since then, I think about that moment about once a week.
6. I sometimes think of (and hope for) a day when I am cool, calm, and collected. When this comes I will be able to smile at whatever comes my way, and will have a calm, detached assurance that I will be ok, regardless of what I am going through.

I tag Josh.

Back...

2008-05-03T08:42:00.002-05:00

I'm back. After months of mooching off of Robin Howard's kindness, I have finally dropped the dollars to have my laptop fixed.

I'll return to blogging soon. A lot has happened in the past couple of weeks, so stay tuned.

Amen--ya...

2008-04-16T21:42:00.005-05:00

With the exception of the year I spent working in Dallas, I have been surrounded by students since I entered college fifteen years ago. There is something invigorating about this, but I've also tended to move toward a state of cynicism where young people are concerned. Their idealism can seem especially naive'. Because they know they only have a small amount of time in the stage of life they are in, they can come across as pushy and impatient, needing to impact people around them as quick and forcefully as they possibly can. It's hard for young people to take the long view of things.

Case in point: A couple of weeks ago someone recited at THIS SERVICE what I will call The Prayer Heard Around the World, (or, at least the prayer heard around the vicinity of I-35.) I was at the service, but I don't remember noticing anything strange about it, other than perhaps it was delivered with a certain amount of passion consistent with the personality of the guy praying. To be honest, I often take the prayer time as an opportunity to look around at people, or possibly contemplate where I'll eat lunch after church. Later in the week, however, I found out that everyone was talking about it because of it's politically-charged content. When told what was said, I immediately thought yeah, I have a problem with that.

But I believe I had a growing-up experience as well. I connected the person with the prayer and realized that some people, like this guy who I consider a cordial acquaintance, by virtue of their service and compassion for people, get more free passes from me than others. As long as there is enough people in a community who serve as a balance by standing up and bitching about what they consider uninformed youthful zeal (and assuming there are leaders who are not threatened by this,) does it hurt to have someone say a prayer that is slightly misguided, but that at least makes us think and may nudge us out of our comfortable existences?

Earlier this afternoon I was listening to that Rob Thomas song Little Wonders from some kids movie that I have yet to see. It's one of those songs that tries to remind you the things that are really important. As I was listening, I found THIS STORY on the Waco Trib's website about a woman who was killed in a traffic accident at an intersection that I cross several times a week. I was stricken and finally realized that maybe taking the long view of things IS the uninformed way to live. What if there is no long view? Our lives are made in the twist and turns of fate, in the small hours, not in decades but in moments.

I think it was Ann Lamott that said we have to all make up our minds-- Is life too short to be minding shit, or is it too short to be taking it? Well, I've yet to decide which it is for me, but I do believe life is short regardless of what you pray for. So understand that things will be made more clear as time rolls along, but don't let fear stop you from praying with passion out of the depths of your right now.

The only John Waynes left in this town...

2008-04-12T20:23:00.004-05:00

After work I took Jane on our fairly regular Saturday afternoon stroll down Austin to the Suspension Bridge and along the river. As we passed Heritage Square and rounded the Convention Center, with all the dressed up prom and wedding revelers of a typical spring weekend in Waco, I noticed the sound of music. Approaching University Parks Drive I remembered Britt telling me about Smoke on the River, an annual event put on by the Junior Chamber of Commerce to raise money for Habitat for Humanity.

It was near the end of the day and almost everyone had gone home. (Assuming anyone had been there to start with.) The band playing on the street was a relatively decent oldies and country group, singing a range of tunes from Elvis to Johnny Cash, Josh Turner to Don Williams. The day was beautiful and I assumed there would be a good crowd. As I got close I realized it was not. Other than the people walking their dogs and riding bikes around the river, there were eight people in the vicinity of the band. Eight, and one of them was the sound guy.

I thought about why the band chose to go on. Kyle and I used to joke that the only thing worse than no people showing up for a group meeting was just one or two people showing up. It's easier to just go home than to try to pretend that you aren't disappointed that more people didn't show. But this band kept on playing, and I think I know why.

I sat down on the curb to listen. The sun was bright, air cool. I was sitting on a curb in the middle of the city with my dog next to me, licking my face. Ashamed that I have never owned any alcohol-themed apparel, I have recently purchased a Miller Lite ball cap, which I was wearing this afternoon. I was feeling quite badass.

Then an elderly couple, probably in their early 70's, took the street to dance, diminishing the crowd of onlookers to just under a half-dozen. As they were sitting on their lawn chairs they seemed fragile, ready to break and just happy to be out of the house. But arm in arm, swinging and spinning to the music, they were as vibrant and alive as the teenagers in the Convention Center next door, horning it up to the loud beats of a washed-up D.J. It was this couple, in fact, who were the true badasses, taking to the dance floor of an empty street being inhabited by the music of a handful of middle aged band members who were playing just because they had the stage.

When the music ended, I clapped. I was the only one, but it didn't matter. It would be blasphemy not to recognize the genius that was occurring before my eyes.

Meeting David Wilson...

2008-04-11T23:11:00.002-05:00

I just spent my Friday night watching Meeting David Wilson, which turned out to be an extremely moving documentary. I have nothing more to say, other than that I recommend it highly. It aired on MSNBC, a network that has a tendency to put repeats in heavy rotation, so if you see it rerunning, record it. It will be well worth your time.

www.meetingdavidwilson.com

And they're always glad you came...

2008-04-10T22:06:00.005-05:00

Everyone should have a place to go that they can never remember a time when they didn't go there. For me there are a few places that fit the bill, most notably the Brownsboro football stadium that hugs Hwy. 31 and deposits kicked field goals into oncoming traffic. The Lake kids have several, but my favorite to take them to is Mr. Snow on New Road in Waco. I can remember Kyle and Jen bringing the kids when Avery was barely two and Jude and Sutton were in baby carriers. The twins would be set up on a stool while Avery made her rounds, sampling everyone's flavors.

Today was the first day of the year I've had a chance to bring them. And I have pictures...

My Weekend...

2008-04-07T21:22:00.006-05:00

"For no greater treasure could there be under any lock and key/ Than to be a beggar fully freed/ Poor in Paradise with Thee..."-- Margaret Becker.

I think it was the weather that did me in. I walked outside after a rough day at work on Saturday and stopped. Right there in the middle of the parking lot, I stopped. Seven in the evening, middle of spring, the air a perfect mixture of the remembrance of cool breezes and the anticipation of sun on the back of my neck, I said thanks, but no thanks.

A promotion that has passed me by several times is available again. I've wanted it, contemplated how much better it would be if I had it, and have become bitter every time I was denied it. For what? A few extra bucks and six-day workweeks during the holidays?

Hell no. I can eat bean soup for a few years longer.

The next day I found myself at Indian Spring park sitting on the grass, looking up. After taking communion toward the end of UBC's outdoor service, I sat next to Roy Carney, sound asleep in his stroller, as his parents went up receive communion themselves. In the sky were two small birds flying in random patterns, as if in play. I marveled at how HIGH they were, and then wondered why this surprised me. Birds fly high. Of all the things I should have learned by now, that is definitely one of them.

I'm not sure what significance that little bird story has, other than to let you know that there are things, very holy things, that I stopped noticing far too long ago.

Earlier, after a song was sung and we were sitting down, Keely Browning, nearly-three year old daughter of Blair and Jordan, decided that no, this song is most definitely NOT over. So she kept singing. Later, as we were milling around and with music playing over the speakers down by the river, Keely decided that whatever song was playing needed to be jumped to. So she jumped, and some of us joined in.

Sometimes I think the memory of Kyle is now like a ship finally out of reach. It is still fully visible, yet acceptance has set in that even the strongest swimmer will not be able to reach it. It moves out further by the day. We've all successfully (to varying degrees) reordered our lives without him in them. This has long since become, more or less, ok.

But occasionally we stop, turn around, and face the water. We see the waves lapping against the rocks on the banks of the Brazos and without actually saying it, we know Kyle would be laughing right now. Maybe, in some strange way, this is his laughter-- Taking communion to actively remember, with each other, the only One who truly gives life. Refusing to cease our singing even when the music has stopped, and jumping up and down when the music just simply requires it. Taking naps in the middle of full sunlight and eating lunch around the people who make your heart drive along just a little faster, ignoring the professional and social hoops that so many people think you should be jumping through in order to be "successful."

We stood, facing the water, and recited the words that I think have burrowed themselves deep into our being-- As we approach this week, may we Love God, Embrace Beauty, and Live Life to the Fullest. And who among us didn't believe that we were doing just that in those moments?

2008-04-05T00:33:00.002-05:00

So here's something.

Last night I was hanging out at the Dancing Bear because I'm cool and me and all the gang hang out there pretty much every night. Actually, this is not true, but I would love to be young and energetic enough to be a regular at this new treasure of a pub over by Baylor. But alas, this is not about the pub, which only serves as the setting for my neurosis.

We were there to celebrate Brian's birthday. (Brian, by the way, is young and energetic enough and I think he spends his life at this place.) We could have had a UBC community group right there, for all flow of parishioners who were walking in through the doors. So it was me and church people and other acquaintances that I have picked up through the years and the guys from Dutton, those up-and-coming future Christian Worship Superstars, of which Brian is one.

I, being one of the oldest people in the place by quite a few years, decided I need to get home, so I ask for the check. Logan, frontman for aforementioned up-and-coming future Christian Worship Superstars, asked if he could have a ride home. I said yes and then my first thought was "Oh. Shit. What do I have in my CD player?" I honestly couldn't remember and was terrified that it would be something unacceptable and honestly thought for a split second of telling Logan that I changed my mind, he in fact could not catch a ride with me because I did not feel we were far enough along in our friendship for that.

So that was seriously the funniest story that came out of an otherwise dreary weak.

Oh, and for the record: Keith Urban's Love, Pain, and the Whole Crazy Thing, which received the Dutton seal of approval.

2008-04-02T21:51:00.002-05:00

About once a year I get the opportunity to make some of my fellow book-loving friends jealous because of my position as a bookseller. The catalyst for this is the fact that publishers occasionally send Advanced Reader copies of a book several weeks before it comes out. Usually the book is junk, but every now and then something will come in that I really want to read. I've been waiting for four years for this...

U.S. Highway 64...

2008-03-30T20:01:00.003-05:00

The stretch of Highway 64 that connects Tyler to Henderson is probably only thought of for two things by those who do not reside near it. Texas History buffs will know it because of its proximity to New London, which was the location of the worst school catastrophe in U.S. history when a gas leak caused an explosion that killed almost 300 students. On a lighter note, fans of Miranda Lambert will recognize one of the highway's numerous small municipalities, Turnertown. In her song "Famous in a Small Town," she puts off going to Nashville because of her being the first one to shoot a buck during deer season. It was such an event she made the front page of the Turnertown Gazette. (I haven't done any extensive research, but I'm quite sure this is a fictional newspaper. Turnertown is the home of a gas station, antique store, an old dilapidated garage, and not much else.)

For me, U.S. Highway 64 will always be about this man:

I've been riding or driving along this stretch of road for my entire life. My grandparents lived in Carthage, which required a trip down 64 before you were deposited onto U.S. 79. Much of the East Texas of my childhood has changed. The downtown buildings in Chandler have been destroyed and all around town sterile metal buildings housing Dollar Stores and Wash-a-terias are popping up. Tyler and the other towns are hardly recognizable. But this bit of highway has been largely untouched.

Wendy Bounds, in the book Little Chapel on the River that I have raved about for the better part of a year stated that it seemed as if Corporate Society began knocking on the door of Garrison (home to the Little Chapel,) and Garrison said very politely "Thanks, but no thanks."

As I was driving the backroads last week I saw this man plowing the fields. I imagined living his life, going to and fro on that machine for probably over half a century. He was oblivious that some punk wanting to recapture a (perhaps largely fictional) past was taking his picture.

I probably couldn't handle his way of life, and he would most likely say "Thanks, but no thanks" to mine. And yes, I hear all the naysayers screaming that I'm romanticizing a Rockwellian society that probably never existed. I largely agree. But something about standing there, thinking about how this man may go to bed worried about the future, the upcoming Texas summer and his inability to make as good a return on his work than what he once did. But how at the end of all that, he at least knew that he left it all on the table and that there is no shame in being where you are-- That made me appreciate Highway 64 just a bit more.

Time Off..

2008-03-29T20:19:00.002-05:00

I decided to jot down some thoughts while I was on vacation. I wrote them in word so it would all be one thing when I posted it. Because of the cut/paste thing, some of the formatting may be screwed a bit. Forgive me. Oh, and I didn't proof it either.

Thanks to everyone this past week who fed me, provided a bed, and shared your time. But most of all, thank you for your love. I don't know anyone luckier than me to be cared for and loved by the greatest people on earth.

________________________________________________________

Sunday March 23, 2008—Easter
2:41 p.m.

We call it vacation, the Europeans call in holiday. While I’ll openly mock and laugh out loud at any American who calls time off from work “holiday,” I have to say that there is something special about that designation. Vacation is so empty. Vacate. Vacating the premises. Nothing more than absence from a particular place.

But holiday has magic surrounding it. It implies that every minute away from work is a minute present with some holiness that is “out there,” just waiting to be caught and bathed in.

I’m about to vacate the premises of this town I love so much, for a short while. I’ve deserved it. Around two of the roughest years of my life were spent staying in a job just so I can make it to the five-year mark and earn an extra week of vacation. And damn it, I’m taking it.

I just got back from Easter lunch with UBC family. I’m about to hit the road to Tyler to hang out with my friends the Herrings and will worship with them and the folks over at Soma. Then the road will lead further northeast, then back to Dallas.

May the moments be filled with the presence of God. May laughter surround me, tears be a fleeting reminder that the needle on the compass is always leading me home, and the music in my ears an echo of that other place, where all those I love are awaiting my return.

Monday March 24, 2008
10:55 a.m.

Last night I rolled into Tyler just in time to worship with the people at Soma. They are in a new building and it was something of a next step for them. I had a great time.

Marvin was there and I got to visit with him a bit. Hoping to catch up later in the week when I’m in Dallas. Marvin is the director of Lifewalk Discipleship School in Grand Prairie. I also ran into Kenny who is Marvin’s age and who, along with his wife, heads up a nonprofit dedicated to eliminating child trafficking around the world. It’s hard to believe that these kids I taught from 7th grade are now leading ministries of their own.

I stayed with Tony and Melissa and their boys after church. I’m so happy that over the past couple of years the Herrings have moved beyond being my “Christmas friends,” to friends I see much more often. These people know what life is about and I always feel a little more awake when I’m around them.

Now I head further east. Carthage is my first destination. I try to make it there about once a year to visit the gravesite of my grandparents. From there, I’ll head to Atlanta to see Robert.
On the road my music has been U2’s Joshua Tree and Gary Allan’s Living Hard.

Tuesday March 25, 2008
4:41p.m.

I left Atlanta early this afternoon and made a deliberate decision to stay on the backroads as much as possible. The green in East Texas right now is a green that will jump out at you.

On one stretch of road it was just me, rolling hills, and cattle for miles. Not familiar with the road, I didn’t know how long it would be until a place to stop. Needing to relieve myself, I pulled over, walked to the barbed wire, and did my business. I will not lie to you—there are few things in the world more liberating than taking a whiz on a sunny spring day on a lonely stretch of East Texas highway.

I am now in Greenville and will be visiting with my old friends Tracey and Greg Fields and Jason Sturgeon. I am anticipating much laughter.

Wednesday March 26, 2008
11:46a.m.

I’m finally in a sit-still place. The rest of my week will be here in the DFW. I’m working on coordinating meals and visits interspersed with some rest and relaxation.

Last night with the Fields and Sturgeons was a wonderful time. It’s always good to renew friendships that time has been walled up due to time. I wish everyone who is a part of my life could meet Greg and Tracey. They have the grace of noise, humor, peace, and care floating in and out of their lives and I am always blessed to be in their presence, regardless of how long the distance is between visits.

It’s been way over ten years since I’ve seen Jason Sturgeon, and, as I expected, he made me laugh as hard now as he did then.

I’m staying with Jason and Christy, who are at work right now. I’m at the Lincoln Park Barnes and Noble catching up on email and just trying to relax a bit. I think I’m going to see a movie this afternoon.

Thursday March 27, 2008
11:58p.m.

Had dinner with a great group of people who work with Jason and Christy. It was a good way to begin wrapping up the week. Earlier I went to Grand Prairie to visit Marvin and see where he works.

I’m tired, but this trip has been worth it. A veritable parade of many of the people who have helped shape my life in profound ways.

Tomorrow Casey is coming into Waco for her yearly visit with friends. We have lunch plans.

Friday March 28, 2008
8:10a.m.

I threw last nights entry in just to get something down before the day ended. When I went to bed I realized I left out the time I got to spent with Brent, who is the friend I have been close to the longest of any in my life. Over 17 years. I have more to say about that later.

About to head out and have breakfast with Jason before I make my way back to Waco.

Tonight I’ll have dinner with the Duke’s and the Carney’s.

Saturday March 29, 2008

Today has been my decompression day. I have seen so many people over so many days. And I could have seen more. After sending out a message that I would be in towns, I received a flood of calls and emails wanting to meet up. Unfortunately timing required me to shuffle things around and some people I really wanted to get together with got pushed to the side. I hate that.

Regardless, the week off has been great.

If the sitcom Friends had any contribution to social commentary it’s this—That we create family out of those who, by accident of birth and circumstance, just happen to be around. And somehow by learning to interact and share and love these people, in the process we discover who we are.

I’ve been thinking about the great time over beer I had with Brent. Our friendship is the longest I’ve ever been a part. In many ways I believe it has survived against all odds. I have learned that the people we were close to when we were younger often bear the brunt of all that is bad about our having to learn how to be friends. Our teenage friendships are like the training wheels of life. They help us get our bearings, our confidence, and show us (by much trial and error) what balance is all about. But they also often get beat up and discarded and we only pull them back out when we want to take a trip of nostalgia. I have been blessed to have a friend in Brent that has weathered all that (thanks to much forgiveness on his part) and has come out on the adult side of life a vintage model of the past—but that still works.

I came home to the love of a strange city known mostly for it’s association with a big fire over a decade ago. Most of us in this place have no connection to that incident, but we often find ourselves warmed in the presence of those who know how to take the rusted scraps lying in waste and make them something beautiful. Last night I arrived just in time for a meal with the people who have strangely become my people. We hovered over strong margaritas and good food, our laughter a subtle reminder of the buoyancy of shared lives. I love these times, if for no other reason than that Roy Carney gets passed around like a hot potato and gets to breathe the sweet smells of love that is chosen.

I also made it home yesterday in time for lunch with Casey O’Dell, a friend from college who is a part of the gang of people at ETBU that I speak of often. Casey lives in the Netherlands with her husband Jerome. She comes back to Texas about once a year and I always am happy to have seen her.

I always rely on my time off to give me a sense of calm in the midst of the busy-ness of life in corporate America. It always does, for a moment. I'm hoping the shalom lasts a bit longer this time around.

Tomorrow I will work on cleaning up around here, getting ready to return to real life. These have been holy days.

Quote...

2008-03-24T10:50:00.003-05:00

I got an email from a friend at a church in Waco this morning, and loved this quote. I've never considered dragging Easter on like we drag out Christmas. I'm hoping to do that this week...to linger on Easter.

Easter happens every day. Easter happens each time those who mourn rise up again to honor those they've lost by loving life more dearly. Easter happens every time we stand in solidarity with those who've lost all hope and say, "Hold on, we're at your side." And Easter happens every time, in spite of woe and death, in spite of the multitude of ways we've turned away, in spite of our failures and denials, we say "yes" to life." -- Rob Ellers Isaac

Craig Supertramp...

2008-03-13T16:13:00.002-05:00

It's my day off, and I just spent a few hours of it watching Into the Wild while having a Marie Callender's pot pie and some Ben&Jerry's Birthday Cake Ice Cream. I enjoyed the movie much more than I had planned. I think if I had seen the movie while younger, I may have become a wanderer. Oh, you know I'm kidding. I would have left civilization only after gathering the addresses and phone numbers of my two hundred closest friends and promising that I'd call every night. Then after a couple of miles of walking (again, hyperbole-- would probably have been about a couple of hundred yards,) I would begin to miss everyone and would show back up for dinner.

But I do believe in going Into the Wild to find yourself. As a matter of fact, I'm about to do this myself. After tackling the mountain of dishes waiting to be washed in my sink, I will take Jane for a long walk down Austin Avenue, past the Austin Arms apartments, in the shadow of the crosses of a half-dozen churches and inner-city missions (it really is a half-dozen...I counted them last week,) I will then cross over the treacherous Brazos (via the suspension bridge) and head back home. Maybe I will have found myself when I return. Or maybe I'll just get a good tan on my rapidly expanding forehead.

Election Day...

2008-03-04T13:09:00.003-06:00

This morning I was Barack-ing the Vote with the very hot Kate "Addison Montgomery Sheperd" Walsh, of Grey's Anatomy and Private Practice fame.

Last night I was hanging out with a few hundred of my Republican brethren and sistren at a rally for John McCain.

You may think this is unbecoming. Perhaps, in your mind, I care more about celebrity than the state of our country. Sure, you say, we should change the tone in politics, but we can't be supporting one candidate one evening and another the next morning just because we have been in love with one of his supporters since the moment she walked into Seattle Grace and proclaimed to Meredith "And I'm guessing you're the one who's been screwing my husband."

My only response to this is a very loud and resounding... Yes We Can.

Yes...We...Can...

Oh...My...God...

2008-03-03T12:05:00.003-06:00

After WHAT I JUST READ, I feel like a teenager again.

And guess where the Obama headquarters are located? Right behind my house.

Like, Whoa...

2008-03-02T21:55:00.003-06:00

I don't agree with the assertions of the Clinton camp, (and the future, as yet to be articulated assertions of the McCain camp) that Obama's charismatic style means he has no substance. This is a convenient argument that is probably meant to give middle-aged and elderly voters enough reason not to vote for him.

With that aside, I do appreciate THIS ARTICLE by Kathleen Parker on the religious fervor of the Obamaniacs. I think I've always been an old soul, which explains my cynicism toward youthful fervor. I'm not saying it's a virtue, just that it's there.

Southpaw...

2008-02-26T23:53:00.003-06:00

Of all the historic things about this election, the one thing that I noticed about tonight's Democratic debate was at the end. When Obama and Clinton were signing autographs I realized that Barack is left-handed. This excited me as I, too, am a part of the blessed few who know about ink stained pinky fingers and the injustices of where rings and spirals are placed on notebooks.

My intrigue caused me to do a little research. What I found was astounding. Of all the presidents who have been in office during my lifetime-- Ford, Carter, Reagan, Bush, Clinton, and Bush-- only two were NOT left handed. The two you ask? Carter and W. Bush, considered by many to be the two worst, if not the two most unpopular during their terms.

The moral? While many factors are in play, you should always lean toward the lefty.

Oh, by the way... John McCain is left-handed as well:)

Come Home...

2008-02-25T22:04:00.002-06:00

We stand among those who look an awful lot like ourselves. The wind is gusting heavily in that country cemetary surrounded by towering pines and overlooking rolling hills, but we all linger a bit longer. The funeral has ended and we are left with just ourselves.

Most of my cousins, living in relative nearness to each other, have stories and feuds to be resolved and inside jokes. I envy them for this. They will say goodbye and it will be something different than when I say goodbye. I try to make up for years of being on the margins of my family by striking up conversations and telling people to visit me when they are down my way.

Our mothers and fathers were each one of nine siblings. The oldest brother has just passed away, leaving six still alive.

Joe, who along with myself is among the youngest of all the 27 first cousins, in his lilting East Texas accent asks a question that takes me by surprise. "Do you think you'll ever come back?" He could mean anything, but I know what he means. And he is the only family outside my parents who ever actually broaches the subject.

My mind goes in several places at the same time, and I think you know where this is going.

Is home about the heart or about the hat?

In the moment of the question I realize that I could come back. I can always come back.

I also realize that this will be something that follows me throughout my life, whether I stay or leave. At the end of my journey there will always be at least one or two other places where I imagine how things would have turned out if I would have been there instead of where I ended up.

I am here and I am there. I am in a chair on Washington Avenue in a city in the middle of Texas. I am standing on the football field in a nerdy band uniform at the end of a performance, and I think this is as good as it will ever get. I sit across from Kyle and we are laughing at the fact that he is enjoying a happy hour margarita just minutes before a meeting at church. In an old church house on Kreutzwaldi street in Tartu, for the first time I stand in a new world, a wholly different place. In an apartment on a campus I am laughing with a new group of friends who are strategizing to change the world. I'm even standing in a cemetary surrounded by towering pines overlooking rolling hills in the midst of gusting winds.

And in this moment, I am home.

The Avenue...

2008-02-21T22:50:00.003-06:00

I walk my dog Jane almost daily down Austin Avenue. Sometimes I go away from downtown so I can pass the old 28th street house and remember how cool it was living in that area. Usually though, I walk into downtown. I think I'm going to keep doing it because I've developed a good waving relationship with a lot of wonderful people. At least, I'm guessing they are wonderful. They definitely have great waves. I think they really like Jane. Most of the homeless people love her and are always telling me how beautiful she is. I tell them thank you and then realize how crazy that is, since I had nothing to do with how beautiful she ended up.

There's a million interesting things about downtown. You can learn a lot about a town based on the places where people no longer are, but where they are hoped to be soon. Did you know there is a law office in town run by a guy named Scott Peterson? Weird. I also found out from a campaign sign that the Sheriff in McLennan County is a man named Larry Lynch. Now, for a town so obviously struggling and trying to find redemption from it's racist pass, shouldn't we think twice before electing someone with that last name? I don't know, just thinking.

And here's my last little tidbit about downtown. One of the numerous antique stores has two life size cardboard cutout posters of Michael Jackson and Barbara Mandrell in its front window. Talk about random. Usually when I pass Mike and Barbs I pretend like I am saying hi to them, but I don't actually do it less anyone think I need help. I also imagine conversations they have with each other at night when the lights go out. One plays out in such a way that I can't share here because it would be the most innapropriate thing I've ever written. (It is a play off of one of her songs and certain allegations directed toward him.)

So anyway, since I've slowed down my blog activity, I thought I'd share some random downtown thoughts. Hope things are well with you all.

Viral Video...

2008-02-15T16:15:00.001-06:00

Jason sent this to me. Men, you'd better watch it and heed the words of the Lord.

More Jayber...

2008-01-31T08:45:00.002-06:00

Last night I spoke at a church about books. I was asked to share things that I'd been reading, things that have meant a lot to me, and lead an open ended discussion. I was happy to do it, not knowing how much I would thoroughly enjoy the experience. The church was one of a handful of moderate to left leaning Baptist churches in the area, and full of some extremely intelligent people. (I don't believe, as many, that the two always go together.)

I talked about Jayber Crow. After the meeting, a sweet middle aged woman came up to me and told me how much the book had meant to her husband. After a good two minute conversation she grabbed the book from me and found a quote and read it to me. I remember reading what she read, but felt as if she was reading this to me, in some sort of prophetic manner. (Creepy, I know.) Here's the passage, hope you enjoy it...

If you could do it, I suppos, it would be a good idea to live your life in a straight line-- starting, say, in the Dark Wood of Error, and proceeding by logical steps through Hell and Purgatory and into Heaven. Or you could take the King's Highway past appropriately named dangers, toils, and snares, and finally cross the River of Death and enter the Celestial City. But that is not hte way I have done it, so far. I am a pilgrim, but my pilgrimage has been wandering and unmarked. Often what has looked like a straight line to me has been a circle or a doubling back. I have been in the Dark Wood of Error any number of times. I have known something of Hell, Purgatory, and Heaven, but not always in that order. The names of many snares and dangers have been made known to me, but I have seen them only in looking back. Often I have not known where I was going until I was already there. I have had my share of desires and goals, but my life has come to me or I have gone to it mainly by way of mistakes and surprises. Often I have received better than I have deserved. Often my fairest hopes have rested on bad mistakes. I am an ignorant pilgrim, crossing a dark valley. And yet for a long time, looking back, I have been unable to shake off the feeling that I have been led--make of that what you will.

Warmed...

2008-01-24T22:55:00.000-06:00

I'm working on something but haven't had uninterrupted time to write it for several days.

In the meantime, I should go all Oprah on you and share with you one of my favorite things. On my way back from a day in Dallas hanging out with my friend Jason, I stopped off at the most holy of restaurants, the Waffle House. On the menu is a pie referred to simply as "Pecan Pie." However, if you know the secret workings of the Waffle House culture (as I have spent many years mastering,) then you know there is a method of preparing said pie that will bring you to the threshold of paradise. Simply ask for the pie to be warmed.

Warmed Pecan Pie at the Waffle House is not thrown in the microwave for twenty seconds and then thrown on a plate. Warmed isn't put in the oven or even just taken out of the refrigerator for an extended period of time. No, when the geniuses at the Waffle House warm pecan pie, they place it on the griddle. They then proceed to drop a few dollops of butter on top of the pie, then place a domed lid over it. And this is warmed. Pecan pie simmering in a sauna with pure butter-steam penetrating every pore.

Yes my friends, this is one of my favorite things.

Pictures...

2008-01-14T18:27:00.000-06:00

One of my close friends, who is about the best gift-giver there is, has made it possible for me to share pictures with you. I spent the afternoon getting the Lake kids ready for karate and gymnastics. I bribed them with letting them watch Nickelodeon, and spent the time taking their pictures...

Since he was a baby, Jude has always fidgeted his fingers around while they are held up near his chest. It's involuntary cuteness.

Avery gets stopped in public constantly by people telling her how much they like her glasses. Like a little lady she says "Thank you." One time when this happened and the person walked away, she looked at me and said "People ALWAYS say that."

Watching the Fairly Odd Parents, Sutton cannot be distracted. He is the ultimate thinker, always pondering what is right in front of him.

Tagged...

2008-01-11T19:30:00.000-06:00

I've been tagged by JOSH. Here are my answers...

1. One book that changed your life. (I'm going to cheat and go with two.)

The Holiness of God by R.C. Sproul and Traveling Mercies by Anne Lamott. I know, strange combination. I'm not a Calvinist like Sproul, nor am I near as liberal as Lamott. In my early 20's Sproul's book revealed to me in a meaningful way how far the distance is between me and God. In my late 20's Lamott's book helped me see how small that distance is. (I'd pay a few bucks to see Anne Lamott and R.C. Sproul hanging out together.)

2. One book that you have read more than once.

To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee. Of all the "classics" I've read, this is by far the best.

3. One book you would want on a desert island.

Crime and Punishment by Dostoevsky. Being on a desert island would probably be what it would take for me to finish this book I've read the first fifty pages of about half a dozen times.

4. Two books that made you laugh.

Holidays on Ice by David Sedaris and Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. Sedaris is about the funniest writer around.

5. One book that made you cry. (I'm going to cheat with two again.)

The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver and Peace Like a River by Leif Enger. If you've read them, you'll know what I'm talking about. The first one-- Ants. The second-- The next to the last chapter. (Runner up-- The Kite Runner.) (I cry a lot in books.)

6. One book you wish you'd written.

Blue Like Jazz by Donald Miller.

7. One book you wish had never been written.

I can't think of one for this.

8. Two books you are currently reading.

Fundamentalism and American Culture by George Marsden and Life of Pi by Yann Martel. (I've been reading the second one for years now. I can't get through the first third.)

9. One book you've been meaning to read.

Dreams of My Father by Barack Obama. Hey, I like the guy. Who doesn't?

10. Five people that I tag: Jessica W., Jason, Blake, Tracey F., Jeanne D.

This Year...

2008-01-07T20:26:00.001-06:00

Like many people, I've spent the past few days thinking about both the old and new years. Last year was not my best. In many ways it was worse than 2006, where I spent the majority of my time grieving the death of Kyle. I spent 2007 bitter. Circumstances and movements on at least two fronts of my life gave me the opportunity to respond with love and understanding. I refused, opting instead to harbor resentment and feel shafted. Not my best days.

This has aged me in ways good and bad. The gray hairs have sprouted like weeds, I'm not as healthy as I have been, and the amount of grumpy days are slowly catching up to the days of good moods and humor. But I've also lowered my expectations with people in such a way that has made me more able to see the work of God in their lives. In my youth, I always hoped for the best in people, which left me disappointed time and again. I'm trying to learn to give people some slack.

I'm not sure if you can call it a resolution, but I'm going to try to relax more in the coming year. I read an interview recently with Anne Lamott in which she was asked if she ever wished that there were more hours in the day. She said no. She lives her life with a liberal amount of margin. A few hours of her day is spent working. The rest of the time is spent just hanging out with her son, taking long walks with her dog, and spending a lot of time on the couch watching the news and reading gossip magazines. She says she has plenty of hours in the day to do all she needs to do, and there are still a lot left over. In this new year I'm going to try to create a similar situation.

There is one resolution I have made, and it scares me a little. I've spent the last several years obsessing over this blog. I have loved the way it gives me a forum to air my thoughts and in some cases reconnect with many of you from all over. I will continue to try to use it to improve my writing skills and to express my opinions. (It is an election year.) But sometime a few months ago Jen Alexandar left me a succinct little bit of advice on my comments section, and I have decided to heed it. She said I should write more and blog less. So keep checking in, but don't' be surprised if there are only one or two posts a week. In the meantime, I'm going to make my latest of many efforts in writing a book. There was a writing group I was involved in a couple of years ago that will be meeting again this spring, and I'm hoping it'll a good catalyst for me to get stuff done.

I hope you all have a great year. I'm going to do my best to try to get out of town and visit friends more this coming year.

Blessings...

2007...

2008-01-03T10:07:00.000-06:00

I usually give an end of the year post where I share my favorites over the past twelve months. 2007 is a blurr to me. I don't remember seeing many movies, listening to any spectacular music, or participating in things that lend themselves easily to a list. I did, however, read quite a bit last year. With reading I seem to go months without wanting to lay my eyes on anything, followed by a time when all I want to do is read. This year was the latter...

My favorite books of 2007
(Not necessarily published in 2007.)

5. Crashing Through: A True Story of Risk, Adventure, and the Man Who Dared to See, by Robert Kurson.

Mike May lived an exceptional life. He was a decorated speed skiing champion, had a beautiful family, and was a tenacious business man. His being blind since early childhood was, for him, a relatively peripheral aspect of his personality. After early attempts by the world's best ophtamologists, May seeing again was a lost cause. This was until a chance meeting with his wife's eye doctor introduced him to a new (non embryonic) stem-cell procedure that could potentially restore his sight. The options are not as clear as you think. This book was an inspirational story of identity, passion, and (for me,) the complexity and beauty God has placed in the human brain.

4. The Year of Living Biblically: One Man's Humble Quest to Follow the Bible as Literally as Possible, by A.J. Jacobs.

I briefly mentioned this book in THIS POST. Jacobs, a Brit, became interested in the large amount of people who profess to have a literal belief in Scripture. He followed his curiosity by visiting the Amish, Creation Scientists, and Orthodox Jews. Jacobs' wrote about those he encountered with a kindness and generosity not often found by skeptics of faith (or us "emergents.")

3. Little Chapel on the River, by Wendy Bounds.

It's the true story of a Wall Street Journal Reporter who was forced out of her apartment after the 9/11 attacks. She found temporary housing in Garrison, a small town about fifty miles north of New York, just across the Hudson River from West Point. Bounds discovers, almost by accident, an Irish Bar tacked onto an old general store and chronicles the struggles and joy of the family that owns the place and the lives that frequent it. It's one of the most moving portraits I've ever seen of what makes true community exist-- struggle, commitment, loyalty, memory, and an understanding that place matters. The title of the book comes from a guy who drives over sixty miles once a week to the bar, and considers it his church-- The Little Chapel on the River.

I wrote Bounds to tell her how much I appreciated her book. She was kind enough to reply with this...

Craig -- thank you so much for taking time to send this thoughtful note.Obviously you've got a great many books at your fingertips to read, so I'mreally glad that Little Chapel made it into your hands. I like what youwrote about the cynics and small towns. When I went out to do publicityfor this book, I was taken aback by how cynical much of NYC media wasabout the lure of small towns. Suppose I should have known, given that I'min the media, but there you go. Still, once folks read it, I think theydeep down wished for a community like that themselves. I'm glad you wrote.Keep in touch. Wendy

I received a recent unfortunate update from Wendy that the Little Chapel is closing down at the end of this month. (If any rich benefactor would like to fund my trip to Garrison, I'll be greatly obliged. :)) She has started a blog about Guinans HERE.

1. (Tie) Jayber Crow, by Wendell Berry.

I wrote about this book HERE.

1. (Tie) The Road, by Cormac McCarthy.

McCarthy is a master at using a small amount of words to convey a large amount of subjects. This was one of those few books that I stayed up late to keep reading until the end. The story is about the fallout from a catastrophic disaster, but ultimately it probes the depths of the love between two people, and how far that love will go. It's about the power of good. I can't say enough...

_________________________________

So, that's that.

Advent, the final days...

2007-12-23T22:59:00.000-06:00

Years ago I read Phillip Yancey's The Jesus I Never Knew, and it convinced me that the Hallmark version of the Christmas story we have all grown accustomed to is a little more sterile, and a little less chaotic and frightening than the accounts found in the gospels. An unwanted pregnancy, strange appearances of beings and light, and homelessness all combined for a messy series of events.

Yet I can't help but believe that for at least a few moments that night, as Mary recovered from the labor and Joseph took a break from all the logistical planning that went into raising the Son of God, there was peace. Calm. An assurance that God is most definitely with us.

An this, to me, is the great story of Christmas that we so desperately need every day of the year. The stories of the Exodus speak of a God that delivers. Revelation lets us know that God will make all things right. The epistles tell us that God's way to live is the absolute best way. But a young couple out in a field, watching the one-who-had-been-longed for sigh as he closed his eyes for his first experience of sleep, this tells of a God that is near. A God that, indeed, is with us.

If you happen to read this in the midst of time spent with your loved ones, I tell you, Merry Christmas. May we celebrate the presence of God in our midst by being fully present in the midst of each other.

Advent, Days Seventeen and Eighteen...

2007-12-20T23:10:00.000-06:00

Peace is a Top Five Christmas word. Yet peace eludes us, even now. Crime, wars, and disease threaten our very being. Yet peace must be more than an absence of these things. It's a little naive' for someone who is against our wars to demand peace. Don't get me wrong, a world without violence would be infinitely better than a world with it. But was Iraq at peace before we invaded? Will it be at peace when we leave?

And how about us? We live in a relatively safe world. Terrorism, crime, and the threat of deadly accidents occupy a minute portion of thought space, but does this put us at peace?

In Luke 2 the angel sang "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth...peace."

Just ten chapters later Luke records the words of Jesus... "Do you think I came to bring peace on earth? No, but division."

This tells me that the waters of peace are deeper and more treacherous than what we originally thought.

Yet still, we pray for peace, we pray the child sleeping in the night may just yet bring us goodness and light.

Advent, Day Sixteen...

2007-12-18T22:08:00.000-06:00

There are some things about the holiday season that I have missed since going to a more nontraditional church.

Four words: Hanging of the Green.

Advent, Day Fifteen...

2007-12-17T19:54:00.001-06:00

For all the joy associated with Christmas, there's a requisite light melancholy floating throughout the songs and stories. It's an interesting dissonance. I listen to some versions of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas and hear within the melody and lyrics a sadness. Maybe it's a recognition of some kind, that while we wait for the Great Arrival, we often wait in the midst of loneliness.

For me, I often feel Christmas the most walking downtown Waco in the cold of night. There really are few places I know more conducive to realizing the desolate state we are in. For all the life going on around the Austin Avenue area, when the sun goes down, the emptiness arrives. With hands in pockets, eyes gazing forward at vacant structures, and the chill slapping my ears, I'm strolling down a metaphor for my life, and the life of the entire created order. A place that once was, and can be again.

Advent, Day Fourteen...

2007-12-16T19:12:00.000-06:00

Over the years there have been a number of replacements when The Great Christian Worship Superstar David Crowder can't make it to church. From time to time the guys and gal from Mosaic down in Austin make it up to UBC. I'll be honest, besides being about the biggest Erin Davis fan around, (Erin plays the cello and saw-- yes, saw-- and is one of the coolest people I've ever had the of knowing,) it's hard for me to get into their music. It's a little too Austin Cool for my ClearChannel ears.

But today they gave me one of those musical experiences that you probably only get a handful of times in your life. Which is to say, they sang a song I've heard and sang numerous of times in my life, but it was as if I were hearing it for the first time. And I'm not just talking about the changes in phrasing and melody. I heard an entirely different song.

Who knew "It Came Upon a Midnight Clear" so so powerful? Seth said he sang it like he thought Dylan would sing it. When it was over, I seriously wanted to say "Amen," but I was afraid people may think I was joking.

"For lo! the days are hastening on,
By prophet bards foretold,
When, with the ever-circling years,
Shall come the Age of Gold;
When peace shall over all the earth
Its ancient splendors fling,
And all the world give back the song
Which now the angels sing."

Since the evangelical world has begun to slowly embrace Advent, I think we've done a great job with anticipating the celebration of the first arrival of Jesus, while giving a slight head nod to the fact that we are also looking forward to the second arrival. A baby in a manger is a little more fun to think about than the destruction of this world and the coming of our King. I guess, though, this all depends on who you are.

I really have no more thoughts on this, other than that if you haven't read Leif Enger's Peace Like A River, then you need to. When hearing the song this morning, where it spoke of the day when all the world will echo back the songs of the Christmas angels, a description of heaven in Enger's book was about all I could think about...

"Is it fair to say that country is more real than ours? That its stone is harder, its water more drenching — that the weather itself is alert and not just background? Can you endure a witness to its tactile presence?"

Advent, Days Twelve and Thirteen...

2007-12-14T21:52:00.000-06:00

I'm taking a two day break from my advents posts. Hope you have been enjoying them. Tomorrow I have the honor of officiating the wedding of my close friends Britt and Holly Duke, so I'm going to dedicate the weekend to that.

But you can talk amongst yourselves. In light of Josh's most recent post, share your favorite all time Christmas movies. I'll give my top three...

3. Love, Actually. I actually love this movie a lot. It reminds me that there are moments of grace waiting to happen all around, if you just look for them.

2. National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. "Sometimes I think all that Santa crap's just bull. If he was so real, how come we didn't get squat last year? We didn't do nothin wrong, and we still got the shaft." Enough said.

1. A Christmas Story. I saw this with my third grade Sunday School class at the theater in Tyler after church. I think one of the reason's guys love this so much, at least for me, is the scene where Ralphie beats the living crap out of Scott Fargas. We all had our own Scott Fargas' in our mind.

Advent, Day Eleven...

2007-12-13T23:11:00.000-06:00

The 1970's landed in East Texas sometime around 1982. It was around this time that the Nash family of Neches Street found themselves the proud owners of a brand new aluminum Christmas tree. That's right, we were groovy. This tree consisted of a metal pole (festivus, anyone?) with tiny holes to hold in place the tinsel-laden silver and shiny branches. And if you are wondering, the answer is yes-- We had a color wheel. This fine piece of artistic machinery had a large light bulb illuminating a plastic rotating disk with all the primary colors. Drivers by would do a double take-- "Look at the pretty blue aluminum tree! Uh...wait...hold on...IT'S NOW RED!" It is all true. What is now kitsch was once a part of the fabric of my holidays.

I actually feel kind of sinfully prideful that many of you have no clue what I'm talking about.

Advent, Day Ten...

2007-12-12T22:02:00.000-06:00

I'm waiting. For what, I'm not quite sure. I suspect at times my waiting is more for that Christmas feeling from the past than for a savior that that has come to redeem my broken life.

Regardless, the candles keep being lit and, before you know it, the dawn will have arrived. Selfish and emotional motives will be blinded by a celebratory light that will continue forever.

Come, Lord Jesus...

Advent, Day Nine...

2007-12-11T12:16:00.000-06:00

If I've learned anything about writing from when I first began blogging until now it is this-- Good writing is as much about what you don't write as it is what you do. The same can be said about good sermons. I was told by Kyle early on that you don't have to let your audience know exactly how you came to a thought, you just have to give them the thought. This creates space for spiritual imagination.

When I read the gospel accounts of the nativity, I'm struck by how little detail we are given. There's a lot of material about the events leading up to the birth of Jesus. But other than wise men arriving from the east some time later, we are not given much to go with other than an inn that is full and an available stable out back.

Of all the valuble things the iconography of Catholic and Orthodox traditions have given us, one drawback is all the glowing. It's hard to look at a piece of this art, especially that of the nativity, withoug seeing a glow around everyone involved. Even the sheep sometimes have a glow around their heads.

Yet all my experience with human beings leads me to believe that Mary and Joseph may not have been the most pleasant people to be around during that night. I believe them to be very important, just, and above all else obedient saints whose contribution to the history of the world cannot be diminished. But I've seen video of women in labor. Even in sterile, anasthetized environment, chaos is usually involved.

Oh, and I've also worked the front desk of a hotel. Even the holiest followers of Christ become rough around the edges when denied a room.

I imagine there was a lot of screaming, anger, and doubt swirling around that stable out in the fields that night. And yet I still believe it to have been a holy night. The very humanity of it is what glows to me. The fact that God subjected himself to the fear and discomfort a newborn feels at the first pangs of hunger, this makes the night spiritual. The very power that created the universe, being nursed to strength and health by one he created, this is something special.

Advent, Day Nine...

2007-12-10T20:36:00.000-06:00

In the summer of '98 I found myself, once again, in Estonia, a small country on the northeastern shores of the Baltic Sea, just south of Finland. My job was to take care of the dozen or so summer missionaries sent by Baptist Student Ministries around Texas. What it amounted to was a whole lot of travel to places where I just made sure everything was running smoothly.

I let the two students in Nova, a tiny fishing village in the remote northwest corner of the country, know I'd be there on a particular day to visit them. After spending a good half-day in Tallinn, the country's largest city, trying to communicate my need to find a bus to Nova, I was on my way through the forested regions of nowhere. I was able to ask a little old lady on the bus to let me know when we arrived in Nova. Two hours later I asked her again, and she pointed that it was still ahead a bit.

A couple of hours before sundown the bus stopped and the lady gestured that I had arrived at my destination. I looked around and saw absolutely nothing. The last area that looked anything like a town was many stops ago. But she insisted, and I got off.

And I was alone. In the middle of a lonely world, I was alone.

I remember a slight feeling of anxiety that I would not be found. I gave the students I would be visiting a day, but I had no clue what time I would be there. This was before the wide use of cell phones (and there probably wouldn't have been a signal that far out anyway,) and there was no town anywhere to be found to use a pay phone.

So I walked.

The small cringe of fear slowly gave way to a sense of freedom. I was walking down an old abandoned road in a corner of the world that is unknown to most people. No place to rest and the possibility that I was in the wrong part-of-nowhere and would not be found for some time. But still, freedom.

I guess helplessness can do this to a person. When you are in a place where there's really nothing you can do but wait for help, you are free to simply walk.

A lot is made of the fear that must have been felt by Mary and Joseph, carrying a child they had done nothing to receive, stuck in a world without a place to lay, without any hope that things would get better. Maybe this is what kept them walking.
Maybe this is why the angels told them to not be afraid.

Anyway, I was eventually found. Just as we all were at the end of Mary and Joseph's journey.

Advent, Day Eight...

2007-12-09T19:48:00.000-06:00

There's something about contrast that makes a story worth reading. When telling people about my love for Cormac McCarthy's The Road, I always have to fend off a nervous preoccupation with what many consider to be the author's tendency toward dark and hopeless plots. Make no mistake about it, McCarthy has an ability to paint human depravity in all of it's frightening detail, and The Road is no exception. But what makes the novel so astonishing is how grand small moments of grace appear against the backdrop of a world that has sunk into the depths. Light shines brightest when the dark is at it's darkest.

Earlier today, as the sun was setting, I stepped outside to look around. On the northwest corner of my back yard is an old building that houses a furniture store. It is one of those businesses that is intent on just holding on as long as it can. If the building was painted before, the color has long since gone away. I was standing in the field that is adjacent to our house. A cold front blew through this morning, and the sun has been behind clouds all day. Being Sunday evening, the streets to east of me, the ones that take people to downtown, were all still. I could hear the buzz of traffic from Waco drive a few blocks down the road, but it was otherwise a rather peaceful moment.

I thought about the week ahead and all the people who make my life worth living. I thought about work and the gifts I still have to buy. In my mind was ringing the words to O, Holy Night and I considered it a blessing to be cold. Because the cold is a perfect metaphor for the state of our world, and of the condition of the human soul. And all this somehow makes the warmth flowing out of a manger long ago just a little more comforting. It draws us closer to the thrill of hope that causes a weary world to rejoice.

Advent, Day Seven...

2007-12-08T13:56:00.000-06:00

I've got a few Christmas rituals.

One is reading David Sedaris' Holidays on Ice. I go through this tiny book every holiday season on a few of my lunch breaks. This is about the fourth or fifth year. And it never fails, every single year, I laugh out loud during the first story at the exact same things. If you are looking for something good to pass the days at home, get you a copy.

Advent, Day Six...

2007-12-07T23:33:00.002-06:00

I don't believe my story is all that extraordinary. But as I was talking to a close friend about the past couple of years, it's definitely not a story I would have written. Sometimes the unimaginable comes in the most ordinary packages.

I wonder if Mary and Joseph had this thought in their minds after all the pushing was done, the first nursing occurred, and Jesus finally closed his eyes in peaceful sleep. This wasn't in the script. They were to be married, live a little while as a carpenter and his wife and then, when God so chose, have children.

But in the stillness of midnight, with the whole world asleep, oblivious to the fact that all the yearning of all the ages was in the process of being stilled in their midst, this young couple accepted the unimaginable.

And the world would never be the same.

Advent, Day Six...

2007-12-07T23:33:00.001-06:00

Advent, Day Five...

2007-12-06T22:30:00.000-06:00

Ex Nihilo is a pretty big deal in Christian theology, if I remember correctly. Creatio Ex Nihilo. Creation out of nothing. Logos gets pretty big billing as well. Logos, word.

Genesis and John tells us all of this was made out of nothing, and it was made by the word. God spoke, and that was it. By his word...

The power of Oprah (Winfrey, that is-- in case you were confused as to what Oprah I was speaking of,) is about the closest thing I can figure to wrap my mind around the concept of creating something out of nothing. I often think about the power of her words. A struggling writer can be down on their luck, drawing a welfare check and wondering how the medical bills will be paid. All it takes is one simple sentence out of Oprah's mouth-- "I like this book by..."-- A sentence. Just a few words that can be said in the span of five seconds can create worlds where they didn't exist before.

I know it's a weak metaphor, but aren't all metaphors weak?

But God had nothing. No book, no author, not even matter-- the substance of existence.

A Word.
Then all.

And this is the power of Christmas. The Word-- the power that made all there is-- in our midst. Breathing the air he created, sharing space with us, his creation. The logos that created it all ex nihilo, in the arms of a young mom scared of what was to come.

How I'm Insane...

2007-12-05T21:27:00.000-06:00

This is not an advent thought, just something funny that happened in my mind at the store today.

Many of you know the history of my relationship with adult beverages. I was well into my twenties before I consumed alcohol. Before that, I believed this to be a sin. My thoughts varied from a cautionary "Well, it may not be wrong in and of itself, but it's not good for your witness," to a more fundamentalist "The very act of putting the stuff in your body is a sin."

I had my first drink alone in my apartment when I was living in Dallas. I did this alone because I still thought I was doing something very wrong. I drank a small amount, just enough for me to come close to getting a buzz. I still had a lifetime of stories (and lies) from preachers and youth ministers about people who died of alcohol poisoning with just one drink.

I moved back to Marshall and ceased my sinful behavior, because of my position at an institution that forbade such activity of it's employees.

When I moved to Waco, things began to change. The subject became a conversation piece, a good struggle that included new thoughts on scripture and culture. I came to the conclusion that the Bible spoke out against a lifestyle of destructive drunkenness, but that total abstinence cannot be found in the whole of the text. This opened the floodgates, literally and figuratively. If scripture was against a "lifestyle of destructive drunkenness," I reasoned, then getting drunk wasn't necessarily wrong. ERGO, Party!!!

Alright, speeding this up to get to the story from the store...

I drank a lot. Not everyday, or even every week. But when I drank, I DRANK.

When I began to try to lose weight and get healthier, and also when I became more comfortable with who I am, the drinking slowly tapered off to where it is now.

Now, I drink. Meaning-- I do happy hour once a week with my friends. When I eat at a Mexican restaurant, I have a Margarita or a Dos Equis. There's usually beer in the refrigerator, but sometimes it takes me weeks before I finish off a six pack. That's about it. I think about it rarely.

Gone is the need to prove how "liberated" I am because I drink.

Or so I thought.

At the store this evening I ran into a new couple from church. I've only met them once, at a Sunday School party, and forgot their names. But we recognized each other and stopped to talk for a bit. We reminded each other who we were, talked a little about church, then said we look forward to seeing each other again. Later, when I saw them in another aisle, I noticed a case of Shiner in their cart. (I'm a cart looker.) I didn't initially think anything of it. But then I began to wonder, "What if they think I'm one of those people who look down on them because they have beer in their cart?" So I did what any mature drinker would do-- I went to the beer aisle to get a six pack. I walked around the store some more, hoping to run into them again so they could see how unjudgemental I was because I also drink beer.

I never ran into them. I laughed out loud at myself. I thought about how funny it was that I wanted to call them(if I had their number) and say, "Hey, I'm not sure if you remember me from the store, but I just wanted to let you know that after I got my oatmeal and bread, I then went to get some beer. You may think I don't believe in drinking, because there was no beer in my cart (if you were looking in my cart, as I was looking in yours,) but I can ASSURE you, I drink. A LOT! I've deconstructed the hell out of the alcohol issue, and I'm liberated. You are probably new to this game, but I've been here all along. So anyway, just wanted to let you know.... I bought beer. Yessiree Bob. Beer, beer, beer."

So, anyway, just thought I'd let you have a glimpse into my idiotic mind.

Advent, Day Four...

2007-12-05T09:22:00.000-06:00

There is a Christmas feeling. I feel it periodically throughout December and while knowing everyone SAYS they get into the "Christmas Spirit," I often wonder if the nature of what is going on within them is similar to what is going on in me. I suspect it is, with possible slight variations.

I don't feel it today, though. Today I just feel like I have to go feed the Commercial Christmas Machine. I say, just like you probably say, that I hate the commercial aspects of Christmas. Yet my job insists that I always be cognizant of how many hundreds of thousands of dollars I have to bring in this week. (Around one.)

The good thing is that my meager income makes it easier for me to opt out of the game that is Christmas. I'm not poor in the broad sense of the word, but purchasing gifts for more than a handful of people is just not possible.

Which makes me wonder why we focus on the "less fortunate" this time of the year. We hear the Christmas Spirit is about giving. I believe this to be true because a stable and a manger and a cruel cross and an empty tomb tell me so. But maybe it is more than this. Maybe the reason people give to the Salvation Army and serve in soup kitchens and think about the poor more this time of year is to actually get closer to a way of life we secretly envy. We think about how bad it would be to be in a situation where you can't buy gifts for your family. But isn't there something appealing about this as well?

For me, this Christmas feeling is about the magical word "with." Immanuel- God is "With Us" translates into the greatest story ever, and spurs us to be with each other as well. As I said in one of my Christmas posts last year, let know one fool you-- Christmas really is all about presence.

Advent, Day Three...

2007-12-04T17:38:00.000-06:00

The story of Christ, from the beginning the end, is the Great Equalizer of human history. From the dwelling place of cows, oxen, and the occasional transient some two thousand years ago, to the final moment in the indefinite future when he occupies a royal throne, God-With-Us requires response from all who hear. I'm not saying, necessarily, there are only two possible responses. I believe ultimate things are much more complicated than that. But the story is simply too compelling for anyone to hear it and be indifferent. This is true from the lowest to the highest. This rings with truth in the words of one of my favorite Christmas Carols...

"Said the shepherd boy to the little king-- Do you know what I know?
In your palace warm, mighty king-- Do you know what I know?
A child, a child, shivers in the cold
Let us bring him silver and gold."

Advent, Day Two...

2007-12-03T17:10:00.000-06:00

Some of my fondest Christmas memories occurred during my college years in Marshall, TX. Home of the Wonderland of Lights, Marshall was one of the first of many communities in East Texas/ Western Louisiana to realize the potential of transforming their lonely downtowns into places where people want to gather when the holidays arrive. There is a skating rink, an on-duty Santa, vendors of hot chocolate and apple cider, and tens of thousands of white lights adorning the historic courthouse and downtown buildings along the red brick streets. All of this adds up to an intentional feeling of Christmas. In content and distance it is far from New York City, but on a cold night where you can see your breath and the crowds begin to thin out (which in Marshall is very early,) there are inklings of this being big-story place where magical things really do happen.

After the fall semester in 1997, I found myself remaining around Marshall until Christmas eve. I was working at Pizza Hut and wouldn't have been able to afford the meager gifts I ended up buying if I had gone home.

Marshall, like most college towns, becomes extremely quiet when semesters end. This particular year was no different. For me, however, it was the first time in my life I learned to allow silence to actually happen to me. After my shifts ended at night, I would drive back to that campus on North Grove that I had grown to love. ETBU was decorated especially festive, and I was the only person around. I spent late nights walking around the "forest of myrtle, pine, and oak" just being quiet and thinking about all the implications of Immanuel-- God with us.

Needing to get away from an unhealthy church situation in a town closer to my home, I had recently joined a small country church out on the country highway on the way to Karnack. On the Sunday before Christmas, I woke up to sub freezing temperatures and a world covered in frost. As I parked and approached the small sanctuary, I realized there were no more than a half-dozen or so cars in the parking lot. I had arrived late, but still made a conscious choice to walk toward the building with slow, deliberate steps. It was one of the most peaceful moments I have ever experienced. I suppose the quiet, desolate atmosphere made me more open to this.

I thought about the previous year and being hurt and the noise and clamor that goes on in cities-- even cities as small as Marshall. I considered the building I was about to walk into and how it would be quiet. I knew the little old lady with purple hair would have made banana bread for the college students still left in town, even though I was the only one. I knew the poor family with a lot of missing teeth would be there and would be so happy to see me. I knew we would sing the most life giving songs ever written-- "Blessed Assurance, Jesus is mine, oh what a foretaste of glory divine," and "On a hill far away, stood an old rugged cross... so I'll cling to that old rugged cross." Songs that somehow reach deep down into your bones when it's just you and a rag tag group of 10-12 other people huddled together outside of the cold, paralyzing wind.

During that year I learned that hope and healing is found in the quietest of places on the edge of the world and with people and physical structures that don't assume to be anything more than what they are, yet in their humility become the places where God dances at the songs of what God has done.

Advent, Day One.

2007-12-02T18:38:00.000-06:00

Somewhere in the Judean countryside lived a couple. They were devout, people of Yahweh. For as long as they could remember, stories of a future deliverance from the powers of this world were told with great expectation.

However, these stories were beginning to grow old. Pipe dreams, they thought. They kept telling the stories and singing the songs, but the anger and disappointment lingered.

It had been many years since the strange light in the sky had appeared, stoking the best flames of expectation seen since the times of the prophets, when the words of God appeared at regular intervals, announcing Good News of salvation.

The light disappeared, and life happened. Tragic, death filled life.

Three decades and countless sleepless nights later, rumors began to trickle into their little town. There was a man, and he was preaching things. Familiar things, yes, but also new things. The words he spoke echoed those of the prophets, but they were laced with a new and very present sense of urgency, of...Now. It was said he spoke the words of Isaiah in his hometown. In other places there were stories of healing.

Yet the thing that caused the most chatter and the most curiosity was all the talk of a New Kingdom.

As the stories ceased being small talk about this crazy character roaming the countryside and grew exponentially into stories of hope and belief and expectation, this couple had one question for those running into town to spread the news.

"How old is he?" They would ask.

Not seeing the relevance of this question, the bearer of the news would continue to tell stories of how he spoke to the Pharisees on the Sabbath and of how a young girl, pronounced dead, had been brought back to life.

"How old is he?"

"A man’s hand was shriveled, but it was made whole again."

"How old?"

The news bearer didn’t feel the old gentleman with the tired eyes, and his wife standing behind him, truly felt the magnitude of what was going on. He looked at them in disbelief at their disbelief. "He's speaking of deliverance, of setting us free."

Angered, the husband grabbed his old friend by his tunic, pulled him close, and insisted, "How old is he?"

In a moment, all was made clear. Slow recognition appeared on the face of the news bearer. He remembered the pain. It was not a pain unique to this couple. It was a pain felt by many of the same age as them. It was the pain of a lifetime of loss.

"I don’t know," he stuttered. Then, quietly and with the hurt of remembrance in his voice, "About 32, 33?"

They were all brought back to that night many years ago. Coming home from evening shared with friends, wondering aloud to each other what the light in the sky might mean, they heard the distant sounds of an army of hoof beats. They went into their houses, blew out the lights illuminating the darkness, and waited.

The soldiers arrived with ferocity. Brutality. Quickness.

The sun arose and the people finally braved coming out into the street. Dust was still floating down. Trickles of blood could be seen on a smattering of doorsteps.

And slowly, the parents of the deceased began carrying lifeless bodies, wrapped in swaddling clothes, out of the house, and toward the burial places. Looking around at the parents, knowledge slowly began to seep into the eyes of everyone in the community.

These were the parents of all the newborn boys.

It was months before they found out why. A jealous king intercepted the men from the east, following the light. They told him of a newborn king. He would have none of it, and their lives would be changed for ever.

These parents slowly returned to work. As much as was possible, life began to seep back into their pores. Yet in many ways they were irreparably crippled. Bound with the disappointment of what could have been, but what was never to be.

And now, here is a man, and he is the age their sons would have been.

What do we make of this? For these families, there was never again to be a silent night. In a roundabout way, their lives were ruined because of Jesus. And not in a Shane Clairborne, Jesus wrecked my life because I can’t get over his social-justice-teaching sort of way. The arrival of Jesus quite literally wrecked their lives.

In Advent, we wait for the arrival of Jesus, Our King. We are reminded of the wreckage, of the death and disappointment and the lifetime of tragic memory we are forced to endure. And we watch, over the horizon, for the light. We stand in solidarity with everyone experiencing the human condition, which IS everyone, and is the condition of totally helplessness, without God and without hope. We live in fear of the hoof beats, but armed with remembrance of the angels’ pronouncements, to the shepherds and to the wise men and to the women at the empty tomb, we see past the coming destruction to a Kingdom without fear, without disappointment, and without death.

Good Enough...

2007-11-22T19:32:00.000-06:00

I took a longer, more scenic route home this morning for Thanksgiving. I could just about do Hwy. 31 with my eyes closed, and I needed to get a different view. Heading east on 84, meandering in and out of Farm to Market Roads, then approaching Chandler from the south, I was reminded how stunningly beautiful the area I call home is. My recent Wendell Berry readings, the cold front that pushed through Texas last night, and the fall colors painting the rolling hills of pine and oak just south of Lake Palestine combined to create one of those memorable times on the road.

Instead of my usual auditory diet of old-time country music, I decided instead to listen to a book-on-cd I found last night in the bargain rack of Barnes and Noble. Po Bronson's "Why Do I Love These People?" caught my attention about a year ago, but not enough to actually read it. But the book is about family, so I figured listening to other's stories of their family dis functions and all the ways they have been transformed, redeemed, even ruined by the people they didn't get to choose would be a nice preparation for my annual experience of all the joys and pains of a Nash family Thanksgiving. At one point Bronson made the point that the "And they lived happily ever after..." stories are never as good as those of families who can't stand being with each other, but who somehow, over time, come to terms with how things are, and choose to be together. I tried to bring that with me into Thanksgiving, and I think it helped.

As I've shared before, I have a large extended family. My dad was the eighth of nine children. All his siblings had two or more children, and all but a handful in my generation have in turn had numerous kids. It's a long and wide line of people that look an awful lot alike. For as long as I can remember we've had Thanksgiving out at uncle Johnny and aunt Diane's farm. It's the only place large enough for our clan to roam.

For the past several years, uncle Johnny has done a hayride out on the back-acreage for the slew of little ones, some of whom look forward to this day where they can see cows and horses for an entire year. What usually happens is the young ones jump onto the back of the trailer, along with one or two of their parents. He then yells across the field to see if any of us left would like to go along. Those in my generation say no, we're just fine leaving the hayride fun to the children, we'll sit back and have thirds. But secretly I think we all really want to go along, if anything to rekindle the memories of when we were the little and found things to do out on the farm to entertain ourselves.

Today we acted on our impulses, and the hayride was full of three generations of Nash's. My parents were there, holding on as tight as the could, as were a couple of my cousins (one of whom is trying to fix me up with one of her friends,) and several children, who spent most of the trip throwing hay out so the cows would have a good Thanksgiving dinner. I wondered why I could look upon all these people in my extended family with a feeling of warmth, even with my face wind bitten with the cold breeze. Yet my immediate family takes a little more work to conjure up the same feelings. There's something different about the siblings of your parents and their children that is easier to deal with than your parents and siblings. There's enough distance with extended family to preserve the curiosity necessary for good conversation, yet there's the bond of blood there that keeps you bound to each other. With your immediate family, you are close enough to have grudges AND you are stuck to each other.

Toward the end of the hayride some of the younger boys jumped off to go play in the haystacks of the barn. Pulling up to the back of the house, I noticed the rest of the adults had stopped waiting for us and moved inside, where the fire was spreading warm air all around. I knew what was coming. I would say bye to everyone, my parents would follow me out to the car, and I'd head back west to the family I HAVE chosen. I laughed a little inside at the universality AND uniqueness of my experience. I knew it wasn't happily ever after, but it was good enough. Which is about as much as you can hope for.