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.