Collecting more than dust…

Some people are collectors and some aren’t. I’ve always been in the former camp since I first had any spending money at all. At one time or another, I’ve collected comic books, records, 3-D stuff, unusual musical instruments, Nero Wolfe mysteries, flipbooks, PEZ dispensers, magazines, movies, diaries, and other things I can’t think of right now. Whatever my current interest was, I devoted much time and money to pursuing that just-one-more-thing which would be the crown jewel of my collection. There were good things about collecting: I was easy to shop for; if you collect anything with the Marx Brothers on it, your mom will always find something. And on vacations, my collecting urge filled the free time I could have spent on culture, dining and sight-seeing. There were stores and flea markets and antique shops.
A couple of years ago, I realized that my collecting bug was largely in remission. There are two reasons I can think of. First, the Internet has sorta ruined collecting for me. Why travel to another city and dig through dusty boxes when you can find your particular holy grail on eBay? Any book I’ve ever wanted to find is just a couple of clicks away.
The second reason only came to me recently. I realized that my loss of interest in acquiring stuff coincided with a casual prayer I made. I asked God to help me love people more. Just to be funny, He answered that prayer. I can’t say that I have completely lost my desire for collecting things…or that I have achieved perfect love for all humanity. But there’s been a definite change. I’m not saying that anyone who collects is antisocial or doesn’t care about others. I only know that suddenly people became more interesting than things I could put on a shelf or in a scrapbook. Now I collect stories, experiences, memories and encounters with other folks. Such collectibles don’t take up much room, don’t need to be dusted, and can’t be sold on eBay.
But they’re priceless.

"Too left" feet…

A few weeks ago, I wrote about summing up your life in six words and I listed a couple of my own attempts. Here’s another one: “Baptist dilemma: loved music, couldn’t dance.” I grew up in a denomination which had the idea that dancing was sinful. It was ingrained in me so well that once, when I danced at an eighth-grade graduation party, I went home and confessed to my parents what I’d done.
Now, of course, dancing seems pretty innocent, but I still feel awkward and clumsy when I do it — which is maybe once every couple of years. I asked my mom if she danced when she was in high school. She said no. My dad, however, did kick up his heels a few times in his youth. After he “got the call” from God to enter the ministry, he went to a dance and a girl asked him if it was true…was he really going to be a preacher? When he said yes, she asked, “Then what are you doing here?” His jitterbugging days were over.
My mom told me that once, after we kids were grown, she and my dad were home alone and she said, “Why don’t we just dance right here?” Daddy just laughed. But I think Mom really wished they could drop those old chains and hold each other close and sway to the music.
My dad is gone now, and my mom uses a walker to get around. But a few years ago, at the wedding reception for one of their grandchildren, something kind of wonderful happened. The DJ began playing that “chicken dance” song…and for the first time in our lives, my entire family got out on the floor—my mom and dad included—and danced around in a circle. In his final years, my dad had softened. He cared less about the do’s and dont’s of his denominational upbringing and he cared more about…caring more. If he had to do it all over again, I think he would have waltzed my mom around the living room with no problem. See, God never said not to dance; some preacher came up with that, one of those preachers who was more committed to taking joy out of the world than putting joy into it.
You can be chicken to dance…or you can dance like a chicken. One makes you feel self-righteous; the other makes you feel free, happy and alive. Which do you think God prefers?

Six words can say a lot

I once worked at a church which built a new sanctuary. In front of the new building was one of those lighted signs that holds plastic letters. Someone would have the responsibility of changing the message on that sign each week. Since I was the low man on the totem pole, that responsibility became mine.
Changing the sign required me to prop open the plexiglass cover, remove all the old letters, and insert the new message, taking care to center each line. I enjoyed this for a few weeks and then reality began to set in. It got more and more difficult to think of clever, witty sayings which would convict sinners and bless saints while offending no one. And when the temperature was anywhere in the vicinity of freezing, changing the sign lost its charm completely.
It’s a challenge to convey a meaningful message in just a few words. A few months ago I read a small book called Not Quite What I Was Planning. The book consists of numerous people’s attempts to sum up their lives using only six words; the title itself is one person’s mini-autobiography. I was charmed by the book and have shared it with many people and encouraged them to choose their own six-word summaries. I made several tries at summing up myself: “A cookie? Yes, I’d love one.” Or “Baptist dilemma: loved music, couldn’t dance.” I came up with some serious ones, too … like “You can’t outlove God. But try.” And “I can’t. God can. We will.”
I wish I’d read that book back when I was changing the sign every week; having a definite number of words to use forces you to be creative, to distill your ideas down to the bare essentials. Can you capture yourself in six words? Give it a try. Email me your results at mrobertson@riverbend.com. I think you’ll be surprised how much you can get into six words. After all, it only takes three to say “God is love.”
Here are six more: “Choose your words; share your story.”

Do--re--me?

I got in trouble in third grade. Our teacher had left the room and I took the opportunity to do something I’d been thinking about. Any guesses? I stood next to the desk of a girl I liked and I sang a song to her, a Neil Sedaka tune called “Alice in Wonderland.” The entire class overheard as I sang my little heart out for this girl who lived across the street from me. I suppose I thought that I would finish the song and she would sigh and say, “I like you, too.” We would walk home together and I would carry her books. We would someday marry and live in a castle.
Instead, she told the teacher what I had done and I was made to stand in the hallway for awhile, punished for singing. See, I’ve always had this problem—I can’t keep from singing. When I feel good, songs just pop out. I can usually control it when I’m in public, but music is such a natural part of me that I can’t deny it for long. Long after third grade, when I decided to propose to Lisa, I just had to do it musically. I wrote and recorded a song asking her to marry me and I convinced KLBJ-FM to play it at a certain time. I can’t keep from singing.
That’s why it’s always puzzled me that some people don’t sing in church. When I was a music director, I could always see them standing in the congregation, looking stoically ahead, just waiting for the hymn to be over. Perhaps such folks think that they’ll be graded on how they sound. But that’s not it. We are programmed to praise God, each given an instrument that requires no money, no lessons, no lengthy hours of practice. All God asks is that we play it. Like any proud parent, He is as happy with honks and squeaks as with the most virtuosic violin cadenza.
We’re playing in a big orchestra and we need your part…even if it’s soft and shaky, even if we never hear you. It’s not for us, anyway; it’s for the One who makes all the instruments. How can you keep from singing?

Past future

I was once a member of an organization that might surprise you. Yes, dear readers, I was an official participant in the Future Farmers of America. Not by choice, mind you; in the small, rural high school I attended, all boys were required to take two years of “Vocational Agriculture,” while girls were shunted into “Home Economics.” My memories of FFA include my attempts to raise chickens, my assisting the Ag teacher in converting male hogs into not-so-male hogs, the annual livestock show, and the monthly FFA meetings. At the meetings, the officers would sit behind two tables at the front of the room, wearing their blue corduroy jackets. Before each boy was a small statuette related to his office. I can’t remember what they all were, but among them were an owl, a plow…and an ear of corn. Each officer would stand and state their office and what their symbol represented. The owl, of course, stood for wisdom, the wisdom hopefully exhibited by the advisor, our Ag teacher. Corn marked the secretary’s position. I remember him stating that corn was grown in all fifty states, but I can’t for the life of me remember what was so “corny” about being the chapter’s secretary.
I did not go on to become a farmer; as far as I know, neither did anyone else in my class. See, it wasn’t really my goal at all. No matter how many times I heard the pledge to corn, it always fell on dear ears (sorry). Of course, I never went on to become a superhero or an astronaut or a rock star, either. I probably should have belonged instead to the Future Fatties of America, but who knew?
Few of us end up where we thought we would. But God knows we really don’t need that many ballerinas and firemen. He also knows exactly what he wants for your life: joy, peace, grace, forgiveness. He also wants you to spread the word about Him, to be a sower of seed, to…uh…be a farmer.
In God’s kingdom, we are all future farmers, planting seeds He will harvest.

How sweet it is…

My dad was as vice-free as anyone I’ve ever known. But he did have a little bit of a sweet tooth. And when I say “a little bit,” I mean it; the kind of sweets he enjoyed were not typical of what tempts most of us.
His unusual taste in candy went back to his childhood when he would spend Saturday afternoon at the “picture show.” He would buy a nickel’s worth of candy corn at a store next to the theater and make it last through the afternoon as he watched a double feature, newsreel, cartoon and previews. He described to me how to do this: First, put one piece of candy corn in your mouth. Bite off the little white tip and stow the rest in your cheek. Slowly shave down the white piece with your teeth, savoring each tiny shred. Then bite off the yellow top of the corn and proceed in the same fashion. By the time you finish the orange middle piece, 20 or 30 minutes could have elapsed.
As an adult, he liked one candy that hardly anyone admits to eating. They’re called Circus Peanuts, but they’re really spongey, orange marshmallowy lumps shaped like large peanuts in shells. He could stick one of these between his cheek and gum and sit happily in a hunting blind for hours as the rubbery abomination slowly dissolved.
During the last years of his life, he kept a large jar of jawbreakers on his desk. Once a day he would pop one in his mouth and let the thing melt.
I’ve got his jawbreaker jar on my desk now, but I find it hard to follow my dad’s example. I get impatient and chew up the candy corn or bite down on the jawbreaker as soon as it’s small enough or spit out the circus peanut because…because…well, it’s because I’m not as wise as my dad. He knew that the sweet part of life was to be savored, not gobbled. He knew there was enough goodness to last a lifetime if he paced himself. He took his time and enjoyed every second. Sweet!

Getting the point…

When we were kids, my older brother did something which made a big impression on my mind. He shot me in the head with his bow and arrow. We were in the backyard and I bent over to pick up a ball and the sight of the top of my big, round head was apparently too much for him to resist. We both quickly realized that a mistake had been made. I was in pain and bleeding…and he knew he was gonna get it.
After a trip to the doctor, I was okay; I even got to wear my baseball cap to church that week to cover the shaved circle on top of my head. The evening of “the incident,” my parents were in their room when a sheet of paper slid under the door. My brother had drawn up a formal document, using my dad’s typewriter. The title was in all caps (though misspelled): “A PLEDGE OF SAFTY.” Below, in a signed paragraph, he solemnly promised to never again shoot his little brother with an arrow.
And you know what? He never has…at least so far.
If only all our pledges could be so easily kept, all those promises we’ve made to God if He would only give us a break this one time. I’ve done a poor job of holding up my end of the God-bargains I’ve sworn to.
In a scrapbook at home, I still have my brother’s pledge. I can flourish it in his face if I ever need to, saying, “See? You promised!”
But God is not like that. Those broken promises I made? He can’t find ‘em. He doesn’t seem to remember them. The wounds and hurts I’ve caused Him? He’s forgiven and forgotten them. And I love that. See, I need more guilt and shame like I need…well, another hole in my head. And I’ve already got one of those, thanks to my brother.

Come, thou font…

When the personal computer began to invade homes in the late 1980s, people had access to some tools they had never experienced before. Chief among these was the availability of fonts—different styles of lettering. A few fonts came loaded on that new computer, but there were soon thousands of different fonts available. For the obsessive among us, it quickly became a badge of honor to amass a library of as many fonts as we could gather. No longer was a simple missive limited to the common typefaces we recognized as coming from a typewriter. No more were your flyers and posters limited to whatever varieties of “rub-on” letters you bought at the office supply stores. It was an era of changing times…changing Times to Futura or Arial or Poster Bodoni, that is.
The drawback to this bounty was that everyone felt compelled to show off their font collection. Your corporate newsletter soon had ten or twelve different typefaces on the front page alone. Such ostentation meant there was little regard for the actual text, for the message intended for the reader. Desktop publishing instead became a can-you-top-this game: “Hey, look! These letters look like cheese!”
Fonts became as numerous and varied as denominations of churches, and the similarities didn’t end with sheer numbers. It doesn’t matter how fancy your new font is if the words cannot be read. Words—and churches—are for communicating a message. When we become too intent on showing off our edgy new look or our hip facade, we obscure the simple word, the text that pre-existed everything: “In the beginning was the Word.” A word so powerful, so eternal, does not need to be set in 72-point New Century Bold Italic All-Caps. It just needs to be legible, on the page and on the street. The question in your mind should always be: “Do you read me?”

Sock it to me?

During the week, I get up at 6:00am. But on Sunday morning, I arise at 5:30, before the other members of my family. They are not morning people, so I try to let them sleep as long as possible. I’ve grown accustomed to getting out of bed while it’s still dark and, for the most part, it hasn’t caused me any problems. I can find my clothes in the dark. I know where I put my shoes. My wallet is always in its place. But occasionally I will discover—too late—that I’ve made a mistake. I’ll be at church, ready to teach my class, when I notice I have on one blue sock and one black sock. Or one dark brown and one black.
It’s my own fault. Usually I roll my socks together after they’ve been laundered. But there are always a few strays, a few orphan socks whose mate is…somewhere…probably in my sock drawer. So I put the strays in the drawer and then, some dark morning, I can’t find a pair that’s been rolled and I pick out two that sorta seem, in the pre-dawn dimness, to be alike. And therein lies the lesson. In darkness, it is difficult to make the right choices. You make a guess and take a chance. Sometimes it’s the wrong choice.
That’s when I have to find the time to dump all the stray socks out on the bed, during the afternoon, with the blinds open and the sunlight shining in. Now it’s much easier to tell the blue from the brown or the black. All I have to do is let the light in.
How frequently do we make choices blindly, choices which are much more important than what color socks to wear today? We ask for guidance and then sit there in the dark, hoping we will do the right thing. Don’t you want to choose wisely? The light switch is right there. Flip on the light. Open the blinds.
Let in the Light.

Happy to meet you…

I was in a bookstore a couple of weeks ago when I came upon a display table at the end of an aisle. On the table was a placard that read “Happiness.” I drew closer and examined the books stacked there; eighteen different titles, all promising to help the reader find happiness. The sheer number of books on this subject—and I’m sure there were even more on a shelf somewhere—was evidence that a whole bunch of people are unable to find happiness…and they will fork over their money to anyone who can tell them where to look.
Why is this? Doesn’t the Constitution—unlike any other country on earth—guarantee us the right to happiness?
No, not quite. It actually guarantees us the right to pursue happiness. There’s no guarantee that we will find it. However, I think there’s an important clue hidden in that phrase. What if happiness—instead of being the goal—is just a by-product of the pursuit? I recently read a book by an author who searched for the happiest place on earth. He pointed out that most of us move “from a teeming college dorm to an apartment to a house and, if we’re really wealthy, to an estate. We think we’re moving up, but really we’re walling off ourselves.” The more we close ourselves off from community, the harder it will be to find happiness…for happiness comes from other people.
It’s like Jesus told his disciple friends: If you wanna do something nice for Jesus, do something nice for some person around you. Therefore, if you want to be happy, try to make someone else happy. If you spend some time pursuing happiness for another person, you may be surprised to find how much you get to share in it.

Teddy or not…

I heard a story recently, told by the father of a small boy. The boy had been plagued by health issues from the time of his birth, but was finally able to live a normal lifestyle. His family took a much-anticipated trip to Disney World and had a great time. When they arrived back home, however, the little boy discovered that his teddy bear had been left behind. The bear had been his constant companion through illness and hospital stays and the boy plaintively cried that he didn’t know how he could live without the teddy. Frantically, the parents called the hotel in Florida; no one had turned in a teddy bear. The father boarded a plane back to Orlando, drove to the hotel, and questioned all the housekeeping staff. One woman remembered seeing the bear…in the trash.
The father and several hotel staffers dashed to the basement, only to find that the trash had already been picked up. That was not the end. Dad and the hotel staff drove to the garbage dump, finagled their way in, and located the container which had come from the hotel — a huge metal dumpster the size of an 18-wheeler trailer. The container was emptied on the ground and all activity at the dump ceased while a half-dozen people began tearing open trash bags. Finally, the teddy bear was found, none the worse for wear, and the exhausted father took another plane back home.
I thought about this story for days after I heard it. If you’re a parent, you can probably identify with the dad, dropping everything to care for his child. Or maybe you feel like the child, knowing what it’s like to have a father care so much for you. But then a third thought occurred to me: I’m the teddy bear. Lost. Alone. Buried in garbage. Hopeless. But Someone came looking for me, digging through the decay and filth, never giving up until He found me and brought me home. How about that; I was enthralled by this story…and then I find out it’s about me!
It’s about you, too.

Lemon aid

I have a dependable car. It was not always thus. The first several vehicles I owned were my first experience with gambling; the odds on getting where I was going were rarely in my favor. The rule seemed to be “If life gives you lemons, sell ‘em to Mike and laugh all the way to the bank.” I had a ‘65 Mustang; great car, right? Except this one had been in a wreck and the frame was bent, grinding the tread off my tires every couple of weeks.
I had a car which had the lovable quirk of catching on fire about once a month. I was driving another car down the street when the driveshaft just…fell…out…on the ground. On another vehicle, the back wheels would lock up occasionally, causing the tires to screech loudly and pedestrians to look around in fear. I grew accustomed to hearing mechanics say that sentence that you never want to hear: “Wow, I never saw one do that before!”
Eventually, I experienced the thrill of buying a new car. That smell! That shiny chrome! That warranty! I could at last drive without fearing that something might explode or fall off at any moment. It was an entirely new level of confidence and peace of mind.
I think that’s why the Bible says that when we begin a relationship with God through Jesus, we become new creations. Would you buy a used car from God? You can’t. All He has are brand-new models. God doesn’t just set our odometers back a few miles. He doesn’t slap a sticker on us that says “As Is.” No, we come off the assembly line shiny and new, with no miles on us, no scratches, a host of new accessories, and a warranty for a billion years or a billion miles, whichever comes last. So what are we supposed to do? Sit in the garage? No, we’re supposed to get out and go. And don’t just be a Sunday driver, either; show off that newness every day of the week.

Something brewing…

I stop at the same convenience store every morning to get my caffeinated beverage of choice. As I parked the other day, I noticed a car leaving with three men inside. One of them was just a minute or two away from getting a little surprise; on the roof of the car was a large styrofoam cup of coffee. It was too late for me to get the attention of anyone in the car, but I thought about what was likely to happen. Someone would say, “Hey, what’d I do with my —” just before coffee poured down the back window. Or maybe it would stay up there until the car made a stop, only then tumbling forward onto the windshield as if to say, “Remember me?” Would the man in the car laugh? Would he be mad? Would the other guys tease him?
It’s a sad thing to get what you need and then lose it. Or to have your big moment arrive, only to find you’re not prepared. One day when my daughter was about five, her preschool group made their own t-shirts. Lindsey drew a big horse head on her shirt—she was extremely fond of horses at the time. There was a large word balloon coming out of the horse’s mouth and he was saying, “Hello…uh…uh…well, never mind.” I instantly fell in love with this shirt and I still plan to get it framed to hang on my wall. That hapless horse had waited forever to get his moment in the spotlight and then…he had nothing to say.
Ever ask God for something and then, when you actually get what you’ve asked for, you don’t know what to do with it? I have. Several years ago, I asked God to help me love other people. And when it began to happen, I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t say, “Uh…uh…never mind.” And I didn’t want to lose it, like a cup of coffee on a car roof. The only choice was to use it.
And—to borrow a line from Robert Frost—that has made all the difference.

Pardon the intrusion…

I was sixteen and eager to use my brand-new driver’s license at any opportunity. So when my mother asked me to go buy a gallon of milk, I didn’t whine; I took the money from her hand and set out, going to the store by the longest route possible. I was listening to the radio, cruising like a movie star, enjoying the still-new feeling of driving without anyone else in the car. After about fifteen minutes, I came to a stop sign and carefully braked. That’s when a strange man opened the door and got into my car. I glanced at the rearview mirror and saw two other guys in a car behind me. The fellow sitting in my passenger seat instructed me to drive out to the reservoir. Panicked, I did just what he said. Every time I came to a stop sign, the guys in the car behind would roll up and hit my bumper. I remember glancing at myself in the mirror and noticing how pale and scared I looked.
When I parked near the reservoir, the guy in my car asked for my wallet. I pleaded for him to let me go to the store and he could have the change from the money my mom had given me. For some reason he agreed. They followed me to the store, then took the money and left.
Back home, my mother’s “Where in the world have you been?” quickly turned to concern when she heard what had happened. I began locking the doors when I drove. I was angry and frightened of the guy who’d robbed me. But I moved on. That’s why it was a surprise when he popped into my head a few days ago. Occasionally I am convicted by Jesus’ statement that I cannot be forgiven unless I first forgive. So I will go through my past, trying to think of people I’ve never forgiven. After decades, I was suddenly reminded of the guy in my car. And I realized I’d had the car door locked—with him inside—for all these years. It was time to let him out.
We can give up driving, choosing instead to be driven…driven by hate or fear or guilt or doubt. Gas is expensive, though. It might be time to lighten the load. You won’t believe how much your mileage improves.

Almost finished…

Being a fan of the eccentric, I’ve long been aware of a house in San Jose, California, called the Winchester House. Sarah Winchester was the widow of William Winchester, of Winchester rifle fame and fortune. Legend has it that Sarah was told by some spiritual advisor that she would never achieve peace unless she built a house…and kept building it…forever. For 38 years, until her death, teams of workmen labored on her home, adding over 160 rooms. Through haste or by design, there are some very odd elements in the house: staircases which lead only to the ceiling; windows that look into other rooms instead of outside; and doors which open outside…three stories above the ground.
It’s easy to make fun of this rambling abode. That Mrs. Winchester must have been loony, huh? And then I realize that my house—the temple of God that is my body—has been under construction for even longer than hers. I’m not referring to my physical body, although I’ve been adding considerable square footage around the middle section. I’m referring to my person, my soul, my inner being. When I look back, I can see that I’ve built a few stairs which led nowhere. I’ve opened some doors that were dead ends. And I’ve put a lot of time and money into some areas that turned out to be uninhabitable.
Am I crazy? I’ll leave that up to you. I prefer to think that I’m just a work in progress, constantly changing, growing, remodeling. The part that makes me believe it’s not crazy is this: I’ve got a master Carpenter on full-time retainer. Oh, sometimes he shakes his head and says, “That’s not what should go in that spot.” But he keeps on building and building, stepping back to examine the job and say, “That looks beautiful!” It’s just a rambling, crazy house right now.
But he says he’s gonna build me a mansion next.

Vine-ripened…

Ketchup goes back to at least the 1600s. (I prefer the “ketchup” spelling to the more feline-referential “catsup”—but, hey, I’m a dog lover.) It appeared in an American cookbook as early as 1801. But did you know there were originally many other kinds of ketchup besides tomato? One could once choose lobster ketchup, mushroom ketchup, walnut ketchup and many other varieties, the uses of which I leave to your imagination. I suspect there’s good reason why you can’t go to the store and buy anchovy ketchup anymore.
Heinz launched their brand of ketchup in 1876 and there haven’t been many improvements since. Perhaps you remember back in 2000 when there was an attempt to foist purple or green ketchup upon us; those efforts came to naught and ketchup retains its crimson sauciness. Yes, I guess if we’ve mastered anything, you could say that we’ve had ketchup all figured out for quite awhile…except for those times when it’s hard to get it to start flowing out of the bottle.
Thus, a couple years ago, both Heinz and Hunt began packaging their ketchup in “upside-down” bottles. It seems like such a simple solution that you have to wonder why it took a couple of centuries. Churches can have things upside down, too, sometimes for hundreds of years. They focus on keeping rules and building impressive edifices and attracting crowds no matter what the cost. But then there are churches who have righted their message, emphasizing hope, grace, love and forgiveness. Such a simple idea; why does it take so long?
I traded in my old container years ago when I learned that God was not my adversary. When I came to know how much He loved me, it turned my world upside down…and it made that love flow much easier from me. Maybe you’re still stuck there: fearing God, never feeling good enough, always bearing that load of guilt. There’s a much better way. Catch up.

Here, Spot

I can tell you what I wore on Easter Sunday in 1972. It’s not that my memory is so good; it’s that the photo I have is so bad. Although I’ve blocked it out in my mind, apparently white suits were in vogue that year. I’ve got a white coat, white pants…uh…white shoes and a white belt. And what would go well with that? A hot pink shirt and a pink and white tie. If my ears had been a bit larger, I could have gotten a job at the mall as the Easter Bunny, no costume necessary.
I’m smiling in the photo. I guess I thought I looked pretty snappy. But here’s the thing: a white suit on me is just asking for trouble. I have a real problem staying spotless. That’s probably why no one has ever mistaken me for Barry Gibb. Or the Saturday-Night-Fever-era John Travolta. Or Gandhi. Ten minutes after donning a sparkling white outfit, I will lean against a muddy car or spill soda or sit in gum. And it only takes one spot to make me look foolish in white. Good thing I wasn’t a bride.
On Easter, we always wore our best clothes to church. Ladies would wear hats. Little girls would have flowery dresses and white gloves. And I wore a white suit on the only day when I could perhaps make it work.
Because on Easter, everything is beautiful. After all, what could be dirtier than a grave? What could be grimier than a stone tomb? Yet out of a grave burst a clean white Light, bright enough to make all the spots and stains disappear. Jesus…now HE could handle a white robe. Nobody’s ever mistaken me for Him, either…but I’m workin’ on it. Not by wearing a white suit anymore. But just by standing in the light.
He is risen. And I am spotless.

Alien

I’m not from your world. I’m from a place where there were no blue M&Ms…but we had tan ones. I’m from a time when a Mr. Potato Head toy required a real potato. In my world, a “King Size Coke” was a whopping 12 ounces…and that was the biggest bottle you could buy. A man would come to our house before daylight and leave fresh milk on the porch. There were three channels on television, and you had to actually get off the couch to change from one channel to another. The movie theater only had one screen…but the movie changed every two or three days. And once the movie had played your town, you would never have another chance to see it again. In the place I come from, you could write a check that didn’t even have your name pre-printed on it.
It wasn’t all good in that world. Children would run outside and dash through the white cloud of DDT when the truck came around spraying for mosquitoes. There were bomb shelters in backyards. There was lead paint and asbestos and polio and measles and iron lungs and people smoked everywhere. I am from another world.
Don’t get me wrong, though; I’m no anti-technology Luddite. I like having my remote control and my computer with wireless internet and my dvd collection. I’m just saying that things have changed, that’s all.
And that’s what we call “progress.” Hardly anything is the same as it was when I was a kid…or when my great-grandfather was a kid. I can only think of one thing that hasn’t changed: the love and grace and forgiveness of God. There’s been no progress in that field for, oh, two thousand years or so. None has been needed.
It’s good to know that Somebody got it right the first time.

Finding the groove…

I learned to play guitar by sitting on my bed with a Mel Bay chord book and a book of Hank Williams songs. A couple of years later, I taught myself how to play the piano so I could accompany myself when I sang. I practiced many hours on each instrument—not out of a sense of duty, but because I loved making music. It was a hobby, an artistic outlet…and a solitary endeavor. For 25 years or so, I was a one-man band. When four-track recorders became affordable, I began to make my own recordings, overdubbing myself playing bass, guitar, keyboards, strings.
When I came to Riverbend, Carlton Dillard eventually asked me to play synthesizer on Sundays and I discovered something: I didn’t know how to play in a band. All the years of playing alone had made me too self-sufficient. I wasn’t good at staying on the beat when someone else was playing. I tended to play too much, instead of finding my space within the sound of a whole band. I had to learn to listen better, to lay back when needed, to try to find spaces that needed filling. But I also experienced a new joy that could only be found in a group setting.
We stress community a lot here at Riverbend. It never occurred to me until this week that our church is saying, “Join the band. You’ve been playing alone for a long time. Come see what it’s like to be part of something bigger.” The skills and experiences you’ve had…they are invaluable. But the main value comes in giving them away, in sharing them with a larger group. Just like in music, there will be times when you’ll need to lay back, to sit out a few bars and let the band carry you. And there will be times when you will soar to places you never dreamed of, inspired and fueled by the group behind you. Come on, sit in with us. We will make beautiful music together.

Holey, holey, holey

I don’t wear a suit every Sunday. When I do, it usually means I’m scheduled to preach that day or perform some other “pastoral” function. Last Sunday I dressed up because I had a funeral at another church that afternoon. I arrived at Riverbend early, got things ready for my 8:30 class, sat down to have a donut, crossed my legs…and that’s when I noticed that my fine suit had a hole in it. On the right shin, some moth—from another denomination, no doubt—had chewed a spot about the size of a pencil. I was peeved. Still, it was a small hole and probably no one would notice it. I resolved not to think about it.
Yeah, right. I couldn’t think of anything else. When folks commented on me being dressed up—“Wow, what’s the occasion?” “Hey, you clean up pretty good!” “Lookin’ sharp!”—I had to bite my tongue to keep from saying, “You don’t understand! There’s an enormous gaping hole in my suit!” By 11:00am I began to slip; I actually pointed out the defect to someone and mentioned how it bothered me. But I made it through the morning, went to the funeral and did my pastoral duty.
On the way home, it occurred to me that this is how I feel when I approach God. Embarassed, ashamed because of the hole in my “perfect” persona, self-conscious about the flaws and failures in my character. I want to look good, but there is This. Giant. Flaw.
And then God says, “Wow, you clean up really nice!” I protest and say, “But what about this hole?”
“I didn’t notice it. I think you look beautiful.”
What can I say about love like that, love that overlooks my faults and only sees me at my best?
Suits me.

Mini mansions…

A little more than a year ago, I bought myself a new car—a Mini Cooper. It was perhaps the first time in my life I ever bought anything for me that contained “mini” in the name…but I don’t think they make an Extra-Large Cooper. The Mini has provided hours of enjoyment, not just for me but for the crowds that gather to watch me get into or out of this little vehicle. They’re unaware, apparently, that the inside of the Mini is plenty roomy…at least in the front seat.
I had to go to San Antonio to buy my Mini. As I drove home on I-35, I was exulting in my shiny new auto as it zipped from lane to lane. I glanced down at the digital speedometer and was surprised that it said “62.” Wow, I thought, it feels like I’m going faster than that...but it’s so smooth! That’s when I remembered that the fellow at the dealership had shown me how the instrument display toggled back and forth between showing the speed and showing the outside temperature. I touched the button and my actual speed popped up: 87.
Oops.
It’s a pretty good lesson, learning the difference between temperature and speed. Sometimes we come up with a new program or idea and it’s the hot new thing (or the cool new thing), but it goes nowhere. Or we get in a hurry to go, go, go with something, not realizing that the idea is cold and lifeless.
Life is busy. You probably feel like your accelerator is floored all the time. But you need more than speed; you need the heat, the warmth…the glow that comes from the Son.

Oldie...but goodie

These days I find myself listening to old music—music that’s not only older than me, it’s often older than my parents. It was not always thus; I used to stay on the cusp of the new, always aware of whose album was coming out next week. I think it was Harry Nilsson who first sent my tastes reeling backward when he recorded an album of songs from the 30s and 40s. Later, singers like Linda Ronstadt, Carly Simon, Manhattan Transfer and others produced their own versions of classic songs from decades earlier. As a budding songwriter, I was intrigued to make connections between names I had vaguely heard and songs that I now learned were clever and catchy. So that was a Gershwin song...and that one came from Johnny Mercer…or Hoagy Carmichael. When I unearthed some of the original versions, I was enthralled by the energy, the sheer joy present in the performers. Now I mostly listen to music that was old before I was born. And I’ve learned something.
I learned that a good, well-written song can live on for many, many years…while that great-sounding record which sold a million copies last month may sound dated in a year or two. It’s the difference between a good song and a good record. The record is frozen in time, showing all the earmarks of the era in which it was committed to tape. But the well-crafted song can be revived again and again, in different styles, by different generations.
I think of my faith in a similar fashion. There have been flashy digressions along the way which briefly caught my attention. But I keep coming back to the simple, perfect song of Jesus’ message. “Love your neighbor as much as you love yourself.” It doesn’t need a flashy video or dancers or pyrotechnics.The message is extremely simple…yet it can’t be improved.
Music to my ears.

Like a warm coat…

It was late January/early February, a couple of years ago, when I realized my winter coat was not doing the job. Austin was experiencing a rare period of several days when the temperature never rose above freezing?and neither did I. So I figured I'd go to the mall or maybe a couple of department stores, and find something warmer. Piece of cake, right?
Wrong.
On the coldest day of the year, every store was stocked with shorts, t-shirts and swimsuits, stuff that would be handy come spring break or summer vacation. Apparently you're supposed to plan ahead for the future when it comes to weather preparedness.
My method has always been more like "take care of the present and the future will be okay." It's why I have trouble with long-term goals; I'm near-sighted.
I finally found a coat. It was marked down to a bargain price because it was "last season" merchandise. It's easy to miss today if you're only focused on tomorrow. If I am only concerned with where I'll be in ten years, I have a hard time knowing what to do
right now. "Sufficient unto the day," you know.
If you want to have a happy future, if you want to be able to look back on a beautiful past, you only have to live in faith and love for one day: today.

Inflammatory remarks…

It’s a cold, wet day in Austin. That always brings out the firewood sellers, the intrepid entrepreneurs who park their trucks or trailers along the side of a busy road and erect a couple of stacks of “CLEAN DRY OAK.” It’s a pretty good marketing tool. When you’re driving along with the heater cranked up, you start thinking, “I bet I could fit a stack of wood in the trunk.” Perhaps you even have a fireplace at home.
Today, though, I saw a firewood merchant with a new tactic. Not content to just stack his wood like the others, he had brought along a small barbecue pit and was actually burning his wood by the side of the road. I thought this was genius; it not only helped the woodseller to stay warm, it provided tangible proof that his product was flammable and could actually produce smoke and heat and a satisfying crackling sound. That guy is gonna go far.
Churches get stuck in the same sort of rut. They put a couple of pieces of wood out front—in the shape of a cross—and then they wait for people to stop. But unless the passers-by can see some fire, can feel some warmth, there isn’t all that much reason to stop. I’ve heard lots of church people remark, after a particularly inspiring song, “If that don’t light your fire, your wood’s wet!”
Well, sometimes our wood is wet. And when that happens, we’re much less likely to attract the cold and lonely, the shivering searchers. But when our faith is burning bright, the light and warmth will draw people like moths.
Thaw out. Heat up. There’s only one difference between a torch and a stick-in-the-mud. Flame on!

What did he mean by that?

Perhaps you missed the news a couple of weeks ago: Merriam-Webster (you know, the dictionary people) announced their “Word of the Year” for 2007. Are you ready? It’s “woot.” Actually, the preferred spelling is “w00t,” with zeroes instead of o’s in the middle. I was already familiar with the word; I have a 16-year-old daughter…plus I’m very, very hip, dontcha know. It’s used as an expression of joy or celebration, sort of how you’d use “Yay!” or “Awesome!," as in: “Woot! The new phonebooks are in!” The word is just one of the terms which has entered common usage from the world of computers and online activities. I still recall some blank looks last year when I told my classes I’d set up a “blog” to keep them informed. “What is a blog?” I was asked several times. I think all of us have become familiar with “spam” in its non-meat context and know what is meant by “Googling.” And maybe you’re comfy talking about how many “gigs” your “thumbdrive” will hold, or the “unboxed” video that’s on your “Tivo.”
Lingo—or jargon—can either make you feel part of a group or make you feel like an outsider to said group. We try here at Riverbend to avoid “insider” language; we don’t talk much about being “saved” or “walking the aisle.” I’ve never heard anyone refer to the Riverbend congregation as “saints.” There’s a reason. We ain’t saints. We’re all people who went searching because we were in pain, we had needs, we wanted love…and we found healing, sustenance and acceptance in the message of grace we heard here. Maybe “grace” is a code word, too, but it’s one that’s worth exploring. Grace is when somebody gives you the most valuable thing in the world, even though you don’t deserve it. Grace is messing up royally and still being loved. Grace is being relieved of the weight of your own guilt. It’s not code; it’s good news … w00t!

From the bucket seat…

I’ve had trouble writing the past few weeks. All the ideas I had seemed to be shallow and dull, and my attempts to flesh them out felt awkward, clunky. I have a list of ideas, but I would scan down the list, thinking, “Nope…nope…nope.” Since nothing new was working well, I recycled some old columns; if anyone experienced deja vu, they haven’t mentioned it to me.
But I needed to figure out why it was such an arduous process lately. Where had all my ideas gone? Today, while I was at lunch, I figured it out.
My dad used to say that you’ve got to empty out your bucket if you want God to fill it up. I think my bucket had gotten so full that there was very little room for new ideas, new blessings. Full of what? Supply your own joke, if you want, but the real answer is that it was mostly full of me. Periodically I start thinking I’m pretty important, that I’ve finally got it all figured out. Some part of my brain tells me that I can wax eloquently on any subject, answer any question, leap any tall building with a single bound. Pretty soon I’ve got a bucket full of ego, self-importance and superiority. And I don’t notice it until suddenly I reach for some inspiration and find…only me.
I mentioned awhile back that we had rented a dumpster in the process of cleaning house. It was the smartest thing we ever did. Out went tons of old stuff I’d been saving, things that I had built up to be important. We had room to move furniture around, room to actually walk in our walk-in closet, room for new, more worthy things.
At the beginning of this new year, I need to perform the same emptying of myself, to make room for more of God and what he wants me to learn. It turns out that I don’t have it all figured out. And knowing that is the first step toward wisdom.

May all your elephants be white…

This year I’ve been to three of them and I’ve been invited to two others. I refer, of course, to the “white elephant” Christmas party, an activity that was once rare but is now becoming as ubiquitous as that nagging recording of Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer. The white elephant party—when done properly—is a bonanza of bad gifts, a panoply of cheesy merchandise “as-seen-on-TV” or found in the garage. I love a good white elephant because I’m a big fan of the odd and the inexplicable. Years ago, I acquired a parmesan cheese shaker which is shaped like the leaning Tower of Pisa. I have a deck of cards featuring mugshots of famous people. Just this week I became the proud owner of a red trucker cap with real deer antlers hot-glued onto it.
I know some people fret about what to take to a white elephant party. They don’t realize the beauty of the pale pachyderm: picking out a tasteless item for a random person is much easier than deciding on a desirable gift for any actual person on your gift list. I don’t know what to get my mother this year, but I’ve had no problem coming up with multiple ideas for white elephants—gifts that NObody would ever buy for themselves.
Giving people stuff they don’t want and can’t use is as close as I’m likely to get to doing government work. If God had asked my advice two thousand years ago, I would probably have recommended that He send an angel to follow each person, 24 hours a day…with a taser. You commit a sin — ZAP! Instead, He made sure the first Christmas gift was perfect…perfect in every way.
Elephants are supposed to have excellent memories. God, on the other hand, tends to forget. He forgets my sins, my past indiscretions, my failures. Forgetting the past? What a present!