Chapter 4 A Muse of Some Sort

I am just a poor boy, though my story's seldom told;
I have squandered my resistance for a pocketful of mumbles,
Such are promises.
All lies and jest; still a man hears what he wants to hear,
And disregards the rest.

When I left my home and my family, I was no more than a boy;
In the company of strangers,
In the quiet of the railway station, runnin' scared, laying low;
Seeking out the poorer quarters, where the ragged people go,
Looking for the places only they would know.

Li la li...

(The Boxer - Simon and Garfunkel)


You’ve heard me describe, in preceding pages, that my children wave their hands in unison to Simon and Garfunkel. But, truth be told, they do it mostly to one song; specifically, The Boxer. Their tiny arms sway with the most beautiful motion and accord during the “li la li’s”.

And I get choked up, more often than I care to admit, when I look back and see all of them in their car seats, their fingertips in the air, moving silently to the rhythm as the orchestration reaches a crescendo. All of the lyrics are haunting and compelling and sad, but I tend to lose it at the climactic end, where there’s a whole gaggle of li la li’s. There they are, eight arms in the air, attached to little people with faces that smile in sweet unison. Music has calmed the beasts of childhood, with all of its infantile disagreements and squabbles over minutia and imaginary lines.

It is an incredible picture, a point of inspiration, where everything is in harmony (if only for a moment) and it overwhelms me as I fight back tears. I struggle to even describe it adequately.

But this very struggle gets me to wondering. This new kind of church begs for something similar -- a muse of some sort -- that would collectively inspire a sustained moment of mere simplicity where, despite sad lyrics, our arms could sway, childlike, in beautiful accord, cajoling this present Bride into unison beyond the customs of our own design.

Could it be that something or maybe even a Someone might be able to motivate and thrust this church above the realm of the ordinary? Could it possibly be that this Harley riding Jesus would rouse us from our slumber?

If so, well, then this could get dicey. And dangerous. To actually envision a church where even the gravest of skeptics associate the members of it with the Rider alone; where perceptions of pious pulpits and the people who fill them are removed, those good intentioned souls who step gingerly onto pedestals; yes, even those pedestals that slowly evolve, mysteriously, into wholly righteous platforms.

Over time, it seems that you and me, this enclave of a church that was, well, perhaps we’ve squandered our resistance for a pocketful of mumbles. And we’ve believed it of course, this notion that even though Jesus walked with the poor and marginalized of ancient days, for contemporary believers such as us, he only came to punch our ticket for Heaven. Such are promises.

All lies and jest, it’s not so hard to see how a man could hear what he wants to hear and disregard the rest.

And so, now well into my 39th year, I just have to ask the question: Why would any church who claims to follow him not lead others to do what he did on a regular basis? If I’m not mistaken, he was known for laying low and for seeking out the poorer quarters, where the ragged people go.

Yes, it might just be that simple, because he could usually be found looking for the places only they would know.

We must learn, in fact we must train ourselves to accept with grace our mission to do just that. Maybe even simply that. The church building where we receive nourishment is not the destination. It is instead a launching pad where we are fed and fueled for the moments of unparalleled wonder that stumble headlong into days of adventure. Not inside, mind you, but right out there where Harley riding brothers and sisters find incarnation at the street level. If it helps you, than imagine it so.

Imagine not a long train on the Bride’s dress, laid nicely and quite perfectly on the scarlet runway by prim and proper bridesmaids who purse their lips and shush away latecomers as they close the door. Envision instead the billowing of a gown that swells and fills with the breeze off the back of that low ride, where the Bride has one arm strapped around the Groom's waist, and with the other, she throws the lacey veil and her bouquet to the wind, beckoning all to come to a celebration.

And right there on the edge of a very special something, a moment of incredible consequence, everything will start to come into focus. To be sure, the lyrics of life are sad and haunting at times but this is a place where the music of mission has calmed the beasts of infantile disagreements and squabbles over minutia. The orchestration of the saints will cross imaginary lines and reach a crescendo deep within the simplicity of swaying arms that strive in unison to serve a dying world.

That, my friends, is a new kind of church.

Li la li, La La La Li Li Li...