Chapter 43 To Form the Perfect Union, Part III

So, here I am, following this living Word into a gas station turned super center. He starts to walk up and down the aisles, one by one, showing me all of the variety and the choices -- for this taste or another.

And this is just the candy section.

He’s not speaking now, as if to say, this is a time to simply follow him and if I will, quite literally in this case, he’ll reveal a few things, and I’ll find some answers to my questions.

So, while this whole thing may have started with angst and a certain fogginess over a bad margarita in a seedy bar, I'm hoping the fog will lift. As I've said before, I love a good metaphor.

We make our way to the salty snacks, then to the bread and the books and the magazines, even some tee-shirts, and then we move over to the drinks: all types of milk, soda, teas, lemonade; energy and caffeine in a bottle to go.

And beer. Lots of it. Light, dark, amber; cheap or expensive, you choose.

No tequila though, just in case you're wondering.

Convenience goods are everywhere. Impulse items, whatever you want to call ‘em. To refresh us, to fill us, to clothe us and to help us wake up. And yes, to entertain us.

Oh, and we can get gas here too. Forgot all about that.

So as I was saying, this is going to be more of a show than a tell. Must be some kind of mind trick, but it works. I get the sense he doesn't want me to compare and associate and scrutinize every aspect of our pit stop to the current state of the church, but just enough for me to raise an eyebrow and some healthy questions. I think that's how his stories were always meant to work. As if to say, that maybe, just maybe, more truth and clarification comes in the following after, in close proximity to him, rather than in some closed door, stagnant dissection of this or that.

So, the most obvious one, I think, is that like some churches, especially the big ones, there’s so much available that I suppose it’s natural to wander and forget why I came here in the first place. I guess the masses, by way of supply and demand have decided what’s best for me and for you, so we can have the finest possible selection at our disposal. Actually, there are so many choices that I get lost in it all, and confused; and then I’m not even sure what I want. Or need. Am I hungry or thirsty or both? Or neither?

I might just choose to pass on the whole thing.

Churches and modern gas stations alike stock their goods and their programs to sell, to keep their profits high -- to keep us happy, so we’ll not only get fueled up, but we’ll stop shopping around for a better place. Maybe we'll even get so caught up in the shopping that we'll forget our ride is outside, tanked up and ready to go.

We stop in the salty snack aisle and he’s holding a package of corn nuts now, reading the ingredients. He’s smiling and somehow I have a feeling this will show up again in his little word picture.

We walk around some more, and the epiphanies keep coming.

I suppose, if you go to enough gas stations, or churches for that matter, you’ll find that they actually have more in common than not. Sure, they might offer something a little different here; perhaps something unique there, but we're deceived into thinking that one is better than the other. Maybe this one has a Subway attached, or maybe the price of gas is a little lower; but then again, the neighborhood isn’t so good, or it’s simply too far away, so we pay a little more and we rationalize because of the quality of the fuel. And so it is with the excellence of worship. The superb teaching. The likeness to our living standard and the likelihood we'll be near our like minded and like colored neighbors. So our kids can play together and go to school together, and of course, church together.

He hasn’t said anything at all yet, but he smiles from time to time and so I wonder if he’s listening to my inner voice, my attempts to understand him and his latest story. But then he begins:

Do I still want you to come here, Jeff?

Yes. Well, at least that’s what he said outside.

Absolutely. I want you here. As I said, I’ve designed you in such a way that you need to stop often and regularly, to feast upon my truth and to worship me.

Wouldn't have it any other way, I say, somewhat confidently, even though I haven't wanted to stop at all lately.

But these “stations” were originally intended for you to keep going; there wasn't much of a reason for you to stay inside. At least not for long.

But, now there is, I think. Plenty.

You’ve all become great consumers. Yet in the consuming, you’re just hanging around. You study the Bible, yes, but you assume that I have nothing left to say. And so you bicker about what I have said to fit your situation, never realizing that I might clarify it for you out here, where this church of the open road meets. You have a full tank of gas, but you're unwilling to use it, and even when you do, you won't venture out very far.

Hmmm.

You just have to follow me, wherever I lead, which is what I’ve asked you to do from the beginning.

He's talking to me, pretty loudly now over the top of a display. Somehow he kept going and I stopped, distracted as usual, the irony of it all not lost on me for a moment.

He holds up that bag of corn nuts again.

And if you stay and just hang around, pretty soon you'll start arguing over things that don't matter, like whether corn nuts actually have nuts in them, and if not, why are they called corn nuts? You can't even decide what it is you're eating! And all the while, people are going hungry.

Ouch.

This is not rocket science, Jeff. But you've done your best to make it so.

He’s right, you know, this Jesus of my imagination. The point he’s making is that church is not supposed to be about buildings and budgets and butts in seats. It's not about us walking up and down the aisles as consumers, trying to decide what's best for us from what’s available, as chosen by the masses, through supply and demand.

I think we have a better way to find out what church is. And what it’s not.

And as far as the bigger and the better and the luring of the collective us to this one or that, well, gas stations might find success that way, but this Body we’ve become just isn’t very good or efficient when we’re divided. We’re not designed for competition, but that’s really what has happened. We've become separated over aisles of preference, taste, flavor and tolerance. So we amp it up to stay ahead; we become more savvy and more convenient and we sometimes even compromise to keep people coming, when, in fact, we simply need mission in unity and unity in mission.

We need to discover what's common among us instead of what denominationally divides us.

We join up again, near the end of the aisles, Jesus and me. He must have caught those voices in my head again because he says:

You shouldn’t try to distinguish yourselves from other churches for your own sake, but look to serve with other churches for my sake. And Jeff, don't get me wrong -- as you ride out into ever expanding circles, you will always need churches to rise up, for those you find in the shadows and the hidden spaces on my behalf will need to be fed and refreshed and comforted. They'll crave community, just like you do. But don’t stop there. Keep riding. Keep pushing borders deep into the margins, for this is how my Kingdom will be inaugurated.

And then he said something, which I've heard my buddy Joe say before. It’s pretty cool coming from Jesus, though, who I suppose is the ultimate source of all relevant statements:

Are you building a bigger church or churching a bigger area?

That time it hit home.

And so, we're done inside. This Savior pays for his gas to ensure he can keep riding. I follow him outside, get on the back and off we go, outward as this church of the open road. I'll have more questions, and I'm sure you will too. But perhaps if we'll just agree to follow him, he’ll reveal a few more things about this Bride we're supposed to be.

And we'll be well on our way toward forming the perfect union.

13 "Quit your worship charades. I can't stand your trivial religious games: Monthly conferences, weekly Sabbaths, special meetings - meetings, meetings, meetings - I can't stand one more! 14 Meetings for this, meetings for that. I hate them! You've worn me out! I'm sick of your religion, religion, religion, while you go right on sinning. 15 When you put on your next prayer-performance, I'll be looking the other way. No matter how long or loud or often you pray, I'll not be listening. And do you know why? Because you've been tearing people to pieces, and your hands are bloody.

16 Go home and wash up. Clean up your act. Sweep your lives clean of your evildoings so I don't have to look at them any longer. Say no to wrong. 17 Learn to do good. Work for justice. Help the down-and-out. Stand up for the homeless. Go to bat for the defenseless. Let's Argue This Out (Isaiah 1:13-17, The Message)

Chapter 42 To Form the Perfect Union, Part II

And so, off we go, the effects of my bad, partially consumed margarita beginning to fade, just like the sun in front of us. We’re heading westward, toward what I’m not quite sure.

I do have to smile a little when I think about this Savior, on his own, with me; there’s no intermediary here, no middle man that I can see. I’m touching him, talking to him, and simply overwhelmed with the ease of it all. He’s straight up, no garnish to decorate him or mask his purpose.

That bartender would like him.

We pull into a gas station with one of those convenience marts attached, one that might as well just convert into a super market because they're selling everything in there except for cuts of beef and fresh fish.

I get off the back and lean against the pump and I watch him as he smiles warmly at people filling their tanks all around him; he the very one who knows their story, from start to finish, more intimately than any other. But yet, he keeps his distance. At least for now, sensing some otherworldly resistance, I suppose.

As he starts to remove the gas cap and select his fuel of choice, he looks at me. His eyes are dark, but not black or brown; in fact I can't even really describe the color. The closest I can come to it is the shade of a pre-dawn sky, of night being overcome.

Jeff, let’s get back to the basics.

I was right about this conversation not being over.

I am the embodiment of God’s Word, right?

Yes. I was still thinking about what I should call the color of his eyes. Gotcha.

Disembodied words are not my way.

No, they're not. That I am certain of.

So, what do you notice, then, when you find references to me, the Word, capital W, in the Bible?

He knows I don't know. I don’t read it very often. I'm not proud of it, for obvious reasons. He keeps going anyway.

Look around and you’ll see a lot of action verbs that always show up in the same sentence, like teaching, proclaiming, planting, landscaping, serving, doing, becoming, going, speaking, preaching, prospering, hearing, receiving, revealing.

Wow, I think. Those are all in there?

Yes.

Check. I knew that.

But they’re not all good action verbs. Look a little further and you'll find twisting and watering down.

I definitely know about that.

So, here we go again, and I don't mean to get real simple on you Jeff, but I'm going to anyway. You agreed back when we were riding around the church that you believe it all. How about that verse that says:

For everything we know about God's Word is summed up in a single sentence: Love others as you love yourself. That's an act of true freedom. (Gal 5:14 The Message)

Yes, I do love it when he gets simple. I still need clarification, though.

So, if I get this straight, you want me to teach, proclaim, plant, landscape, serve, do, become, go, speak, preach, prosper, hear, receive and reveal you, the Word, to others, and you're love?

Correct. And I don’t want you to twist or water me down.

This is all great and wonderful, I think, but I'm still struggling with the whole church thing, you know, lower case c, and the amount of time we put into our disgareements about it.

Jeff, the tug you've felt over the past few months and over your margarita to break out of denomination and religion is always going to occur when you decide that you really want to follow me; when you really want to get this love. There’s just too much freedom in it; whereas, religion, and often the churches which symbolize and contain religion, well, sometimes they look for ways to complicate that.

Yeah, OK, but..

He cut me off, this Creator of the universe. He could tell I was going to complicate it.

Why are we here, Jeff?

I don’t know. We need gas. Here we go, another word picture. But he knows I need them.

Yes, we do. What else?

Uh, I suppose we should check the oil and the tire pressure. Maybe throw out some trash, if we had any trash. I always have a lot of trash in my minivan. Four kids, enough said.

Good. What else?

I guess we could go inside and get pretty much anything we wanted to eat. And we could use the bathroom.

He topped off the tank and looked at me with a knowing look. Here comes the hook.

It’s good to stop isn’t it?

Yes, I guess.

We actually need to stop, don’t we?

Yes.

It’s not an option is it, if we want to keep riding?

No. It’s definitely not an option. Though with gas prices, I might be riding my bicycle soon.

We’ll always need fuel and food for this ride, or we won't get very far. But what happens if we decide to stop riding altogether, and think instead that this station was just a good place for us to stay?

I'm starting to track with him now. Well, we’d have plenty to eat and drink for a while. Lots of gas.

Eventually though, the reason you stopped, would become irrelevant, wouldn’t it? If you’re not going to ride, well then, you don’t need gas for your cycle, do you?

That didn't seem so simple. But I didn't let on.

No. I guess not.

So then what happens?

I just look at him, not really sure what to say. There's an awkward pause because everything I feel about church is still so sacred, so untouchable, so rooted in a formula of a solemn something or another that I dare not untangle it. Without the help of a margarita. And my imagination.

He knows this. He always knows.

Let me just tell you a little about what happens, Jeff.

We start to walk in to the stuff mart in front of us, to pay for our gas and I suppose walk the aisles deciding what we want to eat.

This could get interesting, I think.

Chapter 41 To Form the Perfect Union, Part I

I'll admit I like a good margarita. I'm not a snob about it, but the right tequila is key, and a proper citrus companion is a necessity; a fitting dance partner, so to speak -- one to form the perfect union, with just the right amount of ice to bless it all, of course.

And don't get me started on the salt.

Suffice it to say, if done right, the whole thing, from top to bottom, is like a mariachi for your senses.

OK, so maybe I am a snob about it.

But, alas, today -- right now, in fact -- the rough hewn bartender in front of me doesn't care. He's snubbing the whole thing with a look in his eye, as if to say, tequila was meant to be on its own, straight up, maybe a little ice, and certainly for someone tougher than me. I don't care what he thinks, though; that's what I want, so I'm standing my ground. In a way, it's poetic justice for me to watch him emasculate himself as he digs around for the ingredients to mix one. I half expect him to search out a tiny cocktail umbrella from the back room and brand me a sissy.

I move myself to the far end of the bar, away from sneering regulars, and when he's done, he slides my margarita out to me like I'm in some gun-slinging western. I've already accepted the fact that I'll be suffering through his version of it, but maybe I need to suffer a little bit anyhow, I think to myself as I hold on tightly, with two hands. I hunch over it and breathe it in, celebrating not much of anything at this little pity party for myself. For some reason, I'm looking for answers in this seedy dive, over the salted rim of a dirty glass, staring deep into a liquid that used to sway peacefully as a blue agave plant in the wind of somewhere south of here.

Who would ever choose this setting to wrestle concepts of a church gone bad? I would, I suppose. Maybe you'd like to join me. You see, I'm medicating myself through some crisis of faith, or maybe just religion, because I’ve grown tired, so very tired of the formulas and the rituals and the figureheads. Strange to be pondering this in a place where people come to think less and drink more, but it seems more likely I'll find him here anyway, right here in this down-and-out watering hole, which is insane, I know.

But insane or not, that's my problem. This Jesus I know and love had an insane and unexplainable love and an inclination to touch people, all of them -- drunks, prostitutes, gamblers and lepers. He longed to be about healing, and so he just did it. A lot. He spent most of his time outside, always on the move, looking for them; but he also cherished it when they came looking for him. That always made him smile, and so he rewarded their faith.

Of course, there were some who came looking for a fight, bent and determined to prove him wrong. Not that he didn’t welcome the inquisitive; no, not at all. It was just the way they asked. You know the ones -- full of judgment and pride and self righteousness. He knew hearts.

Correct that. He knows hearts.

Anyhow, reading and hearing about what happened back then, it just seems really simple to me. So much so, that today, I doubt he cares about the spaces in between us -- you know, our denominational territories. Maybe I've felt it more this Easter season, but what caused this divide, these rites and routines? What formed our Christian labels? Are you a Methodist or Lutheran? Perhaps Catholic? What instigated our disagreements, the very ones which now cause us to point fingers at each other? Maybe I just need to spend more time researching and learning about church history, but if I can be brutally honest, I don't care much about it if only draws attention away from the man we've all agreed is the One.

Does any of it matter anymore if what we really mean is to simply follow after him?

And that very question leads me to right about now, sitting in a bar, sipping on my bad excuse for a fine Mexican drink.

I’m never quite sure how or even why he seeks me out, but the rumble is obvious outside the door of this corner bar. All Harley engines, to me anyway, shun the convention of a smoother resonance. It’s an unsettling racket: an explosion of pistons and fuel that shake the ground. On purpose, I assume.

He comes in, and yes, he's looking for me, this Jesus of my imagination. It's too late for me to hide. He bellies right up to the bar and sits next to me. The bartender asks him what he’d like. I'm hoping he'll snub him on my behalf, but he just smiles, puts his hand across the bar and touches his arm, appropriately, and replies that he isn't staying. Plus, he says, he's doing a lot of riding today, so it won't be a good mixture. Speaking of a not-so-good mixture, it's funny, but I'm strangely un-embarrassed to be found hugging a cocktail. By him, anyway.

He studies the room and he locks in on the faces, yes, even the bartender, each one is so important to him. I keep forgetting that.

But, apparently, the moment is all about Jeff, and so he looks at me with those eyes, you know, as in: get up now, we’re going. So up and out we go.

The timing seems right, so I say, I bet they'll have good margaritas in heaven.

He laughs deep and hard as we climb on his ride. I can still feel his ribs shaking as he responds, yes, perhaps -- but without the bad choices and hangovers.

He intuitively knows what I’ve been struggling with, and so our journey isn’t far. We ride a couple of miles and then start to circle a corner block that surrounds an old church. It's opulent, perhaps the most beautiful in my town, of stone and granite and stained glass; a temple to cradle His people with a steeple rising to the sky in worship of His Father, who is worthy of it all, no doubt.

After circling a few times, he breaks the silence.

A lot of time is spent in there studying God’s Word, he speaks firmly and loudly over the engine’s din.

Yes, I agree.

Is the Word a book, to just be studied, or am I the Word?

Both, I guess. That seems like a trick question. I'm not sure what this has to do with anything.

Safe answer, he responds.

For the record, I think we both look a little silly, two men just riding around and around a church. People are starting to stare.

Do you believe everything in the Bible, Jeff?

My response is quick. Yes, of course (although, between you and me, I’ve always thought the story about Noah and the Ark sounded a bit like a fairy tale).

He can read my thoughts, damn it. So he reminds me that a lot of people died in that story. It wasn’t a fairy tale.

OK, so now I believe the whole thing.

If you believe it all, he continues, then, getting back to the question at hand, I’m sure you remember the part about me being the Word, right?

Yes. We just covered that.

OK, good. What do you notice about me right now?

Uh.. I don’t know. A lot of things.

You've got your arms around me.

OK, yes, I do. He's setting me up for something.

Are the lungs in my chest moving in and out?

Yes.

So, I’m breathing?

Yes.

Do you feel my heart beating?

Yes.

Great. Is it safe to assume, then, that I’m alive?

Well, duh, I think. Yes, of course.

So, if I'm alive, then one could conclude that I'm the living Word?

Yes.

Excellent. He pauses for a moment, maybe for effect. Jeff, are we moving, or sitting still?

I let that one hang while I think about it.

Well, technically, we're moving, but it sort of feels like we're sitting still. You know, 'cause we keep riding around in a circle.

He turns around, this Jesus of the open road, his face close to mine. He's smiling, perhaps from the irony of my response. He dips into one last turn, and I lean in with him as he accelerates away from that old stone church, out into the city.

I have a feeling this conversation is far from over.

Chapter 40 Two White Guys, Who Happen to Follow Jesus

This past Saturday, my friend Joe and I met with Mustafa, a Sudanese man who will soon be setting up his tables of merchandise in front of the Rialto. Mustafa sells shoes and various other pieces of urban clothing, and he moves from street corner to street corner, trying to earn enough money to send home to his wife and his seven children, and his mother, all of whom have recently fled the Darfurian region of Sudan to the capital city of Khartoum, in hopes of a better life. Or simply life itself.

So, we showed him the area he could use -- a little alcove under the marquee where a ticket booth once stood for the movies inside. It is a good space, wide open, yet under protection for shade, or if it should rain. Then we went inside and gave him a tour, revealing for him the promise of a new cultural center in this beloved, ancient theater of ours, 11,000 square feet of space, currently of twisted metal and concrete, under renovation for Mustafa and the many others who now call our town their own. We talked about the dream of Sudanese gatherings, and of classrooms filled with children and adults alike in the area where the balcony still stands. We envisioned some day, that Sudanese celebrations and weddings could take place in the main auditorium. He at first seemed overwhelmed by the task in front of us (and I can't blame him for that), but then he seemed excited, and smiled. He looked around at the mess, and then above it, and perhaps he grabbed some of the vision as he said, “Yes, some day.”

You see, it just so happens that Fort Wayne is now home to one of the largest Darfurian populations in the United States. Mustafa and his countrymen might not realize it, but every bit of effort we undertake inside that theater -- every stone moved, every sledge hammer swung, every bruised muscle and stretched tendon and inhaled breath of dust and grime -- all of it -- is for them. And not just them, really, but displaced people from strange borders all over the world; people that somehow survive and persevere long enough to make their way here.

After the tour, Mustafa wanted to talk about bringing his family to the United States to be with him. And so we dusted off some chairs and sat down, and in his broken English, he was able to describe the costs associated with the various visa applications (that he has already begun), and if those should be received and approved by the proper authorities, the expense of plane tickets to ultimately bring them here. All told, he’s looking at around $10,000. He’s already paid about $3000 of it, but it’s hard for him to save much because nearly everything he earns is immediately sent back home to provide for his loved ones, his mother included.

The Sudanese are a proud people, and so it is difficult for him to talk about this with others in the Sudanese community, those who live in Fort Wayne, right here in his midst. Joe actually asked him directly if he had discussed any of this with them, and he quickly dismissed it as an option, which I heard clear as a bell above and beyond the other sentiments that were harder to understand. And so, Mustafa, a Muslim, sat in a room with two white guys, who happen to follow Jesus, asking for our help. I’m sure that wasn’t easy, either, but for the record, I don’t think I can express in words how much of an honor it was.

So, we spent the next half hour or so talking about how The Reclamation Project might be able to help, maybe by co-signing on a loan for him, or some such thing, and all the while he listened politely as we explained it -- but, because of his Muslim faith, the taking out of a loan does not sit well with him. We discussed other options to find the money and expedite the process. Joe is actually leaving in a couple weeks for a return trip to Sudan, and he offered to bring greetings to Mustafa’s family on his behalf, or money – to seek out other solutions, whatever he could. We gave him hope, as best we knew how – hope to bear against what seems to be a hopeless situation.

And then, what I love about Joe is that he always has the courage and presence of mind to ask whomever we may be meeting with, Muslim or otherwise, if we can pray together. Not after we leave, or some day as some vague promise, but right now. Mustafa nodded a little hesitantly, but it was a nod of agreement all the same, and so Joe began to pray. He prayed for blessing, and for provision. He prayed for Mustafa’s family and he prayed that we’ll find the right foundations and grant givers to provide for their reunion, very soon, and that everyone would be protected until then. And then, he asked that all of it be done in Jesus’ name, which is obviously a daunting seal of approval for a Muslim, but Joe didn’t shy away from it.

As we were leaving, we told Mustafa that some people might stop him in front of the Rialto when he is setting up his shop. They’ll ask him if he’s allowed to be there and if he has permission from the owners. We told him to call us if that happens, because we'll say "he’s with us" and that he’s more than allowed to be there. We talked a bit about the steady flow of traffic in front of the Rialto, up and down Calhoun, a main artery in and out of the city, which should be good for business. I wanted to tell him to pay extra close attention to the sound of an old Harley without much a muffler, but maybe, that will be for another day.

Yes, some day.

And so, with this view of Mustafa's world, I suppose our very idea of missions around the world is changing. We’ve always sent out well meaning people from this church congregation and that, to places hither and yon, where over time they learn the language, adapt to the customs, and hope beyond hope that they’ll be accepted in a new and strange land, and if so, that some day they’ll be permitted to share the good news of Jesus. Of course, God has seen fit to accomplish much through this, but curiously, now, perhaps through a new kind of church, He has also seen fit to bring people like Mustafa (and others who will be described in the pages that follow) to our very own backyard. Each with their own story of untold struggle, persecution, and pain. Stories that, in fact, need to be told; and, well, this seems like a good place to start telling them.

We pray and hope that people like Mustafa find Jesus here, not because we force Jesus upon him, but because he lives in our town now and he's come to us for help and we happen to be in a position to do just that, thanks to a creative God who knows all about timing and what a vast redistribution of resources looks like.

And it just so happens that Mustafa, and others, well, they trust us, and we hope beyond hope that some day they’ll ask why we would do such a thing, why we would do any of it -- and when we explain why, that they’ll trust the very Jesus who causes our hearts to well up with love for them. And, yes, we pray that some day they’ll be permitted to return home to their own native land, newly equipped and ready to re-emerge into their very own culture; to not only bring justice, but to share the good news of a Savior who made it all possible.

Yes, some day.

Chapter 39 A Crusade of a Different Sort

This open air concept of a church without walls is strange, no doubt, for it challenges historical paradigms and boxes and linear thinking. It has a hoof beat all its own that resonates and even explodes forward, wrenching us from the shadows, the ordinary and the static; it can, at times, quite literally lift us up and out of pews and stone temples and thrust us toward something new and near and palpable.

And so, this peaceful army of ours, perceived or otherwise, departs en masse (with good intentions), on a Crusade of a different sort. We embark, come what may, for the redemption of those He calls us to: the downtrodden, the weak, the victims. We are indeed a contagious, pulsating power -- a force to be reckoned with; and so, in the name of this very peace, we advance, above and beyond fixed fortresses, bearing anxious souls and passionate, bleeding hearts. With our postures leaning outward and onward, we carry our cross of conviction before us, proclaiming that justice and love must prevail over tyranny and oppression.

As inspiring a scene as this is, however, could it be that, intentions notwithstanding, peace speaks too softly? Is peace itself, at times, drowned out by the battle cries of the fervent? Are there some among us who must always fight against something, because some opposing militia should certainly await us, clanging loudly with brandished sword and raised shield? What armed foe are they, that we can and should devour on our conquest?

"Someone must pay for this!" they scream over the throng. "Surely some are assembled, hiding and hunching just beyond that pass, their strategy bent upon our ruin!"

Well, of course, for we know that mankind has always seen fit to raise up, among its ranks, some enemy; some group or cluster who are un-chosen, unworthy, unforgiven -- some likeness to lesser humanity that walk this same earth but somehow deserve less than what we’ve been offered. We must, accordingly, initiate and execute their destruction by matching and raising their hatred, with our very own form of malice and our righteous anger, justified by some ancient indignation.

In the name of our God we march, lifted crosses carried before us!

We must indeed, for they are the blasphemers and the sinners; they believe, sure, but not as we do. Their practices and customs are strange and unconventional -- some other sect or order, some tenet or faith, forcing them to cling to false hopes and phony gods. Their truth is not as it seems for they are blinded by ritual, generational passion, some age old fury.

But, wait.

Does not each creation, in and out of borders and colors and culture, unto all corners of the earth, bear one genetic resemblance, communally, to God? Are we not six billion strong, with hearts once good, traded much too soon for trinkets and transgressions? Did we not, together, endorse some past fall when these common lungs first breathed in and out, rendering us instantly doomed? Were we not all resigned to cower in shadowed corners in fear of Him who made us?

Yes, we were.

But another One came before us who healed all as they came to him, for he knew the prospect of the Kingdom in each. He packed lightly and walked this sod with very little, despite what he could have rightfully carried and crusaded and maneuvered to force his way, to exact his revenge, in front of him and beside him, all sides of him, really, to announce his glory and power; to depict his regalia and magnificence. Yet, he chose another way.

And was not the truth of which he spoke simple and unfettered, beckoning this one and that, some lesser humanity, blasphemers, sinners -- those unworthy others -- to him through promises of freedom, grace and forgiveness?

1 By this time a lot of men and women of doubtful reputation were hanging around Jesus, listening intently. 2 The Pharisees and religion scholars were not pleased, not at all pleased. They growled, "He takes in sinners and eats meals with them, treating them like old friends." Luke 15: 1-2 ~ The Message

Will we beg off from such a feast? What perceived sinner, different from us, from here or there, of doubtful reputation, will take our place at the table while we wring our scholarly hands together, clinging to our rules and regulations and assumed rightful seats? Who will sneak in ahead of us while we shout and hold our cross high?

Who among us will wrestle control from the Almighty?

And so, let the dust settle among this frenzied gathering. Let us, for now, lower our swords, remove our helmets and bring the horses to water. Inhale deeply the truth of a gentle, unassuming Christ, the One who knew of those stone temples and the laws within, yet also knew of something new and near and palpable; the One who smiled as he told stories and bucked custom and convention; yes, he, the very One who lifted his hand to caress faces, to muss up mops of hair, to carry burdens.

As we embrace and adopt his practices, let's advance this congregation with nary a mention nor posture of vengeance, lest it be directed solely at the dethroning of a dark prince, of evil incarnate -- not those whom he may inhabit with his lies, his deceit and his cruelty. (Therein lies a Crusade most worthy of our zeal).

We are a burgeoning assembly indeed, a collective influence fueled by Another, but we must realize that the cross we carry in front of us may be better served in our back pockets, to gently emerge when the time is right, when the questions are asked, as relationships and community grow tender; as we seek out the margins, the individual, the very creation and prized possession of God. We must inherently know this sin we carried, once forgiven, is cheapened if that very grace is not offered freely to the ones we seek on His behalf.

So, yes, absolutely, challenge paradigms, break out of boxes, color outside the lines; embrace a new beat and bust out of the ordinary and the static. But please, as you lift yourself up out of your pew, carry not that raised cross if it represents judgment or revenge, and nothing of Him.

A Good Spring Thaw

As I've mentioned before, my favorite season is actually the beginning of each one. So, here I am, again, ready and more than willing to accept a good spring thaw.

Winter is, all too often, stubborn, of course, with its departure, especially in the Midwest; it has a tenacious manner about it, overlapping its gray much too far into the spaces of spring.

And so, it's true for me, and, perhaps you, that because of this, we need to invite spring, shout out to it, desperately, and demand that it take its rightful place outside our window, throughout our days, even amongst these weary and subversive souls of ours.

There's also a need for honest anguish here, at least on my part, to describe and yes, even confess arctic hopelessness carried over from weeks of hibernation. Yet in its wake, I must not go lightly nor surrender in silence to these seasonal, stagnant sentiments.

Everything in me must scream for re-birth, renewal, awakening!

So, while there's nothing new or original in what follows, indulge me, please, because this conglomeration of personal pleadings from posts gone by is just one way I go about my own thawing out.

It's time for winter to be over and done with, don't you think?

~*~*~*

With the gray of the morning, I’m ashen too, and forever at odds, it seems, with who you are, as if the breathing in of One who just is holds no bearing, no advantage, no explanation.

Yet I write, for this art must paint you. My design is known by you, as is my longing to contain you and bring form to the formless, to rip light and its shadows from voids, to color the dull.

Fall down upon me now and create the weight of something -- anything -- for me to bear a piece of you. Draw near in some fashion, beyond these whimsies and conjecture, for this appetite will not be satiated with trinkets or toys. Put skin upon your flock and multiply their numbers; time their rhythm with mine, for I crave some companionship this day, of the supernatural sort.

Bring tension to this story, I beg; release some rising action that will at once invite resolution and a looming epilogue to cap this enduring, timeless struggle.

I am crushed into the realization that my humanity, more often than not, bears no resemblance to that which you intended. I should daily die but, instead, every other day perhaps, I grasp and claw and fight my way into my will of living, the very resolve that is manmade, centric focused, self-fulfilling.

Reveal yourself to me once more, for I’m thrashing about beneath these wanderings and taunted endlessly by one who hides you from me. Offer peace to these members and calm to this spirit; cocoon me away in your infinite reality for musings of the human sort render no such comfort.

I am tired. I am beaten. My eyes grow weary and blurred; my breathing becomes labored at times. My legs are heavy as I climb the stairs toward something, anything above and beyond this moment.

I watch as the chapters of this story reach their glorious heights only when I realize quite shockingly that I am not the Author. Yes, surprisingly, you do a much better job than someone such as me, with my feeble existence, my limited tolerance, my pathetic shell. Even as I write this, I plead for something, anything to help me describe you.

Help me depict you, because as it is, my mind bounces this way and that as I cower at the thought of you. My writing is sporadic, stunted, all over the place, yet nowhere as I try to capture you, as I search to contain you.

As I get out my bucket and shovel and begin to work on my sand castle, you form a mountain with your bare hands. While I retrieve my crayons and my construction paper, you sweep your fingers across the sky and make a prism of color unlike any other. While I blow my hot air, you breathe into the wind and engulf me into your embrace. While I puff on my horn and beat my drums, you summon nature to cascade and ripple and resound with the harmony of the ages.

You shock me, beckon me, and pull me by the ear. You embrace me, tap me on the shoulder, smack me on the bottom to get in the game. You place your hand on the small of my back, or turn me to face you. You stand in front of me, beside me, shield me, and nurture me. You even get out of my way.

You give me a free will to sin and so I do. But as one sin falls on top of another and they multiply and grow arms and legs and tentacles you never stop taking me back. I am wounded, limping for a lifetime, in fact, but there you are, down the road, on one knee, weeping as I run toward you. You’re so happy that I’m back. I run so fast to you that I knock you over when I get there, and we laugh.

Your lap is imminently ready to be crawled into, your chest large and comfortable to lay my head. You sit at my table, occupy my grief, and circumvent my catastrophes.

But I can’t mistake you for any other. No, I dare not try because you will deafen with thunder and you will rebuild kingdoms and you will not trifle with sin. Yours is a mighty fist attached to a muscular arm that keeps this planet in motion. I shudder at the reality that you are.

I try to capture the beauty of you, but no frame can contain you.

Your love is overwhelming, nearly as vast as you are. You prepare and execute a cosmic change in plans and summon your own beautiful Son to walk this earth and to ride through my imagination. To fix a horrible mess that is mankind; a horrific mess that is me.

Then you turn your back on him. You reject him, your first and only born; your beloved Son, yes, just for me.

So, as I write this, I am tired and I am beaten, but oh, how thankful, how awestruck I should be!

I was not meant to prop myself up, to cling to artificiality, to pigeonhole my way. I was not designed to muscle out of this box. I am fearfully and wonderfully made and I must -- yes, today I must -- find my weakness made strong in all that you are.

So throw back the curtains, let the light pierce the corners! Smack the space rugs and let me watch the dust cascade and tumble into the cleansing wind. Unshackle the back porch and invite in the subtle and benign breezes. Take off the storm door of this heart and soul and hang the wind chimes once again to perform their dance, to find their part in this great orchestra.

Unfold and unravel me! Search me deep within. Turn me upside down. Find me unholy, unworthy, unabashed and take every square inch and reconfigure me.

Reshape and retool me. Sweep away the cobwebs of bitterness, indecision, judgment and pride. Forgive in me the dusty shadows of winter, the cold and frost covered center of my being.


Transform me to your design so that I can join in the rapture of the season.

Chapter 38 When He Took Out His Palette

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon and the mere silhouette and rhythm of the day suggested that a nap was in order. But, apparently, none would be coming, because Gabe (that mop haired eleven year old of mine), decided it was time to pack up some stuff and drive downtown to the Rialto, for something of a new experience -- a ritual in the making; one that I actually hope endures.

But, before I get to said ritual, my only request was that, on the way, we listen to some Springsteen, because, as you may imagine, it’s of utmost importance that I pass this Boss appreciation onto another generation.

So, he agreed and off we went. But of all the songs available from this particular artist, Gabe decided he wanted to listen to 41 shots (American Skin). And so we did. Over and over and over again. And meaning no disrespect to the subject of the song, I swear he asked me 41 questions about it, one right after another.

If you didn’t know, 41 shots is a haunting allusion to a 1999 tragedy involving four NY City police officers who shot an African immigrant outside of his apartment in the Bronx. They fired 41 shots, killing him of course (although only 19 shots actually hit him). He was reaching for his wallet, but the police thought it was a gun, and he fit the profile of someone they were after, and, well, enough said. It was a painful time for the police department, the City itself and race relations in general.

It was an even more painful time for Kadiatou Diallo, who lost her son. His name was Amadou, and he was only 23.

After hearing the facts of the case, Gabe was righteously mad at the cops, mad at the world and mad about the number of times they shot Amadou. So he ranted and raved, just like he does with other perceived injustices in his life. I wanted him to have a measured perspective, though, and so we talked about how each person involved must have felt; and I couldn't have scripted it any better because this led to a deep discussion about race and skin color and prejudice, not just in New York but all over the world. And I wondered to myself right then and there if his world view was being shaped before my very eyes. Sometimes that happens, even when you’re eleven.

Maybe he’ll make music someday about discrimination and the downtrodden and the underdog, just like Bruce. And that would be more than alright with me.

But, I digress.

The conversation lasted nearly all the way to the Rialto, and while Gabe fumed, I took in the subtle changes evolving with each passing mile, as expansive courts and boulevards slowly shrunk into city streets and alleyways; where despite narrow passageways, a colorful berth opened big and wide with the acceptance of varying pigments of skin. South Calhoun Street, in particular, is so diverse at times that you could easily imagine a certain Someone has placed you in some type of incubator for a crash course in cross cultural awareness.

You see, Fort Wayne just so happens to be a resettlement city for international refugees, and so, each year, hundreds of people from distant places and continents find their way here to make a home. They come from Burma, Vietnam, Laos, Columbia, Peru and various African and European nations. They receive $400 per person from the U.S. Government, and some initial assistance for their first six months here, and after that, they’re on their own. Many don’t speak English and are even pre-literate in their native tongue. Some, from tribal cultures, well, they’ve quite literally been dropped off into a city like mine that might as well be located on another planet. They’re confused by city streets, and neon signs, and traffic and thermostats and technology; not to mention the fact that they’re still stinging from the loss of family members and suffering from the cause of their refugee status, whether it was war or famine or ethnic cleansing.

And so, if I’ve never told you before, well, here’s the sidebar scoop: The Reclamation Project, the story of which is told throughout the pages and chapters that precede this, simply exists to offer friendship, life skills training, employment, and ultimately home ownership for our new international neighbors. Many of these dear people have started to rebuild their life right around the Rialto, and so we keep working on that crazy old porn theater, different colors and creeds side by side; to not only elevate attention to their needs today, but to hopefully house all of these efforts within its walls tomorrow.

By the way, please don’t think me noble for starting this organization because, quite frankly I stumbled backassward into it while attempting to find Jesus, or more appropriately, while I was I perfecting and promoting the ritual that was my faith.

But, getting back to the ritual at hand, the very one in the making, you should know that the timing of our discussion regarding 41 shots and race relations and such seemed a bit odd, or maybe serendipitous, when held up against the reason for our trip to the Rialto. It’s just that, well, Gabe got a pellet gun for Christmas, a double action semi-automatic Crossman Repeat Air CO2 rifled steel pistol, to be exact; a rite of passage for boys his age. And living in Suburbia with its associations and its rules has essentially kept him from actually shooting it anywhere.

So, three months later, we were off to the broken down movie house to shoot his new gun, inside, amidst the debris and the rubble and the scaffolding and such. We set up cans and milk cartons everywhere and put on our goggles and turned on the construction lights and had a big old time of target practice, right in the same spot where fifty years ago, I suppose kids of all ages watched John Wayne shoot his trusty gun.

But despite this scene, there are just some songs, especially when you hear them a gazillion times, that you can’t get out of your head. With the repetitious and lingering words of 41 shots still pounding, I watched as Gabe unloaded a few dozen pellets into helpless targets, the irony and the gravity of it all not lost on me for a moment. And yes, I wondered what or who he was shooting at in his imagination, which maybe wasn’t so healthy on the heels of our conversation. I don't know, maybe it was.

Afterwards, we went up on the roof. It was unseasonably warm on that day and so we kneeled for a long time without speaking, behind the old brick parapet walls, and we looked down together at the streets below. Walking south on Pontiac were two African refugees, from Chad, both of whom have helped regularly with work days at the Rialto. We waved at them, Gabe and I, and they waved back with beautiful smiles of hope and recognition that lit up the corner.

Just across the street, an Asian family was unloading supplies to take into their market.

Just south, down Calhoun one block, an ambulance was taking an Hispanic man away from a Mexican restaurant, his loved ones looking on with concern.

The city was alive and vibrant, its rhythm rich and its beat resounding with culture and diversity, right here on the corner of Calhoun and Pontiac in Fort Wayne, Indiana. Gabe and I were fortunate enough to be looking down upon a microcosm -- a bird's eye view of maybe what God intended when He took out His palette and His brush and His paints, with each color offering unique tints and shades and bold splashes of radiancy -- on their own, perhaps, or mixing, complimenting one another. From what I know of the color of my skin, and the God who created me, this whitish, peachy, ruddy exterior of my body was always meant to accent another hue; not to dominate it, but instead to bleed and saturate into it, to overlap and bring texture and tone and, yes, beauty in the very mosaic harmony that the Artist intended.

That’s quite simply why the call of this corner never fails to reach me way out on the corner where I live, as it beckons me from the uniformity of my safe and soft lair; it’s nearly palpable at times -- haunting even -- like the mythological Siren’s voices. But, by comparison, what invites me and what awaits me here is always good and promising and true.

~~~

So, in this wandering chapter, much like the bleeding and the saturating of colors, Springsteen songs have overlapped into righteous anger; and rites of passage have evolved into warm smiles from African immigrants. I'm not sure that I'm left with any solid answers because really, the racial injustice of this globe we walk on is almost too much to absorb, to take in, to grasp. The wounds seem too gaping to ever heal, and if one gash should miraculously mend, it seems another is ripped wide open. Different colors and different customs have rendered us broken, seemingly until the end.

The only thing I know to do is to keep at it, little by little. To somehow make this town a more accepting place; to bust out of silhouettes and rhythms and begin enduring rituals that give birth to healthy discussions, new experiences, side by side immersion in different cultures and maybe, just maybe, appreciations which can hopefully be passed on to another generation.

41 shots

41 shots

41 shots

41 shots

41 shots

41 shots

41 shots

41 shots....and we'll take that ride

'cross this bloody river to the other side

41 shots...

cut through the night

You're kneeling over his body in the vestibule

Praying for his life

Is it a gun, is it a knife

Is it a wallet, this is your life

It ain't no secret It ain't no secret

No secret my friend

You can get killed just for living

In your American skin

41 shots

Lena gets her son ready for school

She says "on these streets, Charles

You've got to understand the rules

If an officer stops you

Promise you'll always be polite,

that you'll never ever run away

Promise Mama you'll keep your hands in sight"

Is it a gun, is it a knife

Is it a wallet, this is your life

It ain't no secret It ain't no secret

No secret my friend

You can get killed just for living

In your American skin

Is it a gun, is it a knife

Is it in your heart, is it in your eyes

It ain't no secret

41 shots...

and we'll take that ride

'Cross this bloody river

To the other side

41 shots... got my boots caked in this mud

We're baptized in these waters

and in each other's blood

Is it a gun, is it a knife

Is it a wallet, this is your life

It ain't no secret It ain't no secret

No secret my friend

You can get killed just for living

In your American skin

~~ Bruce Springsteen

Chapter 37 Surrendered to Live Again

The smell of leather is earthy and real, and the consistency of its aroma spans time and fashion and, I suppose, even these socioeconomic gaps of our own making. Most everyone has held or owned something of leather; perhaps to wear, to sit on or walk upon. Maybe to find warmth or just hold between fingers.

And so, I think it's safe to say that its scent, its essence and the very feel of it permeates our collective senses; the skin of a beast conquered once to surrender flesh and grain, to live again -- tanned, conditioned and softened for our comfort and enjoyment. Whether new, slightly used, or tempered with age, it just is what it was, in a simple sort of way.

Maybe because of this, in no small part, the smell of leather always makes me think of something, or more appropriately, a certain Someone -- the very One who came to see me today on my 39th birthday, an unseasonably warm Saturday, to offer me a view from the back of his ride. It seems a birthday should be the best day for this, though, frankly, I need it every day.

His weathered leather jacket was on, of course, and it’s black, as you might expect, with a sweet aroma, like pine and smoke from distant fires. It's soft to the touch, perhaps from time and wind, road and grime, or maybe from hands and the embracing arms they’re attached to, reaching from the back of that seat, hanging on, gripping to him tightly, at times. It's also quite cracked in places, a reminder of its origins, revealing strength and covering all the same. The shoulders of it seem the most tender, as if the cheeks of one such as I and even my uncertain, masculine tears have broken them in -- the very tears that well up out of shame and then release; gratitude and rejoicing. Or maybe it's the oils from my skin, and perhaps yours, mixing and congealing to form our mere humanity, massaging and kneading the hide of another.

And so, that very leather scent wafted itself lightly above him as I climbed on the back of his Harley. We were off to no special place today, he said; perhaps just a jaunt down a side country road, or two, to feel the wind and to breathe in horizons as we passed by hopeful soybean fields, all with anxious soil, one after another.

We didn’t speak for some time. I almost thought we wouldn’t, which would have been alright, I suppose.

But then he said, out of a certain blue, “Happy Birthday, Jeff.”

It seemed odd coming from him, I must admit.

“Thanks.”

And then, I had to ask again, knowing the answer, but still needing to relax.

“Where are we going?”

“Nowhere in particular,” he answered. “I just wanted to take you for a ride on a great day and tell you that I love you. And that’s all, really.”

I didn’t know how to respond, but I blurted out the usual: “I love you too,” because I do, in case you’re wondering. I just have to imagine it and slow down enough to feel it; you know, to make it real for me. I'm not particularly proud of that.

He accelerated and I held on tight, trying to enjoy the ride, but I knew before long that I would need more than these exchanges of affection with the One I trust and follow after.

A few miles of silence passed by and we came to a four way stop, a county road crossing, perhaps designed with the anticipation of more traffic than this. The only sound was the low idle of that Harley engine, and we were the only souls around with ears to hear it. It seems he was riding aimlessly but full of purpose to calm me down, to breathe him and his leather in, to witness the creation of his Father.

But I couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“Speak to me.” It came out more desperate than I thought it would. “Please -- I just can’t seem to get it right these days.”

Sometimes a birthday accentuates that, if you know what I mean.

The coast was clear, of course, and so he accelerated and I'm pretty sure he said something in response but I couldn’t quite catch it, with my ears, you know, over the rumble (even though deep inside, I felt it).

“What?” I asked, playing dumb.

He turned a little, his right cheek over his shoulder, down by my face and he said it once more:

“You’re right by me.”

I leaned or maybe I reeled back a little. I’m right by him? Well, of course I am. I couldn’t get any closer on the back of this motorcycle if I tried. Or, did he mean I’m right by him?

He leaned into turns, and so did I, just like you’re supposed to, and together we passed by more fields, some with muddy cows, lonely barns and farm houses, over hills and into low lying clouds. I shifted my weight, thinking about what he said, pressing my cheek once more against his shoulder as he protected me from the wind, temperate as it was.

Then it struck me as we turned back toward home that it really didn’t matter which one he meant; whether it was proximity or my perceptions of performance, I was right by him and on this birthday of mine I believe that was the greatest gift, really; one of mostly silence and surrender, a ride to remember and to know that I'm redeemed, purchased at a cost and quite precious to him. And that he’s close too, because he is, closer than anyone ever will be, and he's as beautiful as I imagine him to be, for this essence of him is much like that sweet smell of leather which permeates my senses and I hope yours, as collectively we're reminded of him often -- earthy and consistent and real, his very humanity spanning time and fashion and I suppose other gaps of our own making.

It's true, I was embracing a man who was conquered once, scarred in places to remind me of his origins, surrendered to live again -- not only two thousand years ago -- but right now, for me to cling to and embrace, because he is who he was, in a simple sort of way. And he came to take me for a ride so I could be reminded of that.

And who he is, well, let me just say, it made this birthday the best day.

Chapter 36 A Certain Type of Lifeguard

A while ago, I wrote about a certain type of lifeguard. Pardon me for doing this, but I need to mess around with the metaphor a little -- because, well, I just do.

I was a lifeguard once and let me just say for the record that it was a pretty cushy job; you know, sitting in the sun with lots of authority. For three whole summers I possessed certain mysterious powers -- not only did I know how to blow my whistle at just the right time, but I had an uncanny ability to get a perfect tan while I protected the weak from the dangers of the open water. Everyone knew that if it should all go down, I was the man with the red shorts on.

In my case, thankfully, I never had to save a soul. By the end of the third summer, I wasn’t even sure if I remembered how to save a soul.

Still, the one thing I’ll take with me for a lifetime is the feeling, the hunch, the sensation that when I'm by the water, I just know that someone is about to drown. And since I'm expecting the worse possible scenario, well then, no one should be having any fun under my watch; because, come on, if they’re having too much fun they might go under. Accordingly, I keep the frivolity in check and I suppose I blow my pretend whistle. Repeatedly.

I actually observed this in myself and it scared me enough to write it down. As if somehow identifying it might break the pattern. For instance, as a father of four, if my kids are getting a little out of control with their frolic and fun in the sun, I’ve noticed that I'm often more prone to watch and warn instead of participate. I may not have a whistle around my neck but I might as well get one. I’m barking orders like crazy:

“Stop that, you’ll break your neck!”

“You two -- separate!”

Stop hitting, stop kicking, stop splashing, stop doing whatever it is that’s about to cause great harm to your body.

Unfortunately, this can play out well beyond parenting. It applies to the church too. We can very easily become the wrong kind of lifeguard church. Why? Well, here’s the thing. When I was a lifeguard, I sat up high where no one else could come. I knew the rules or at least I pretended that I did and I enforced them from my perch. I stopped all running, rough play, diving, chicken fights and basically everything that made being a kid (or even an adult) fun. I didn’t get involved with the melee because someone had to be responsible. I didn’t get into water to cool off because I might have missed someone drowning. I was the heavy and everyone knew it.

And so, with that mentality, all too often lifeguards and I suppose churches made up of people like me just speak when they choose, and much prefer to be the one controlling the dialogue. If interrupted, we speak in short sentences because we don’t want to make eye contact and take our other eye off the shoreline of "spirituality" for too long. We don’t have time for the common man below us and the non-lifeguard-ish messy issues they bring us, so we stay detached, hiding behind our mirrored lenses and our stained glass windows. We do our thing best when we're on the outskirts and watch with our eagle eye because we’re in control and we’re special. And everyone becomes more used to the barking of our voice and the shrill pitch of our whistle than the touch of our skin. Maybe they’ll try drowning a little so that at least we’ll come and be with them, even under false pretenses.

Or maybe they'll just swim far enough away that the whistle and the shouting and the rules and the orders are just a faint memory.

So, I guess these are just some questions we need to ask of ourselves, because we know that we’re the church.

As the church, are we just basking in the sun with lots of authority?

Do we consider ourselves better than others, blowing our judgmental whistle at just the right time, while pretending to protect the weak from the dangers of the great big open water?

Do we perceive others that aren't like us as having too much fun out there, so it's time for us to step in and warn them of the great harm they're about to do to their body instead of just listening and joining in to see if the fun, is actually, well, fun, and maybe not so bad afterall?

Do we only jump in when we perceive that people are drowning? Do we care about the ones that swam away, or do we only blame them for not trusting our ability to save them?

Are we guilty of allowing the bark of our voice to replace the touch of our hand?

I guess what I’m trying to say is that if you and I spend enough time like this, we run the risk of becoming that lifeguard of a church who has lost touch from too much time spent sitting in the sun. Maybe by the end we won’t even know if we can still help someone. Maybe everyone will eventually realize that we’re just a bunch of people sitting in a tower with red shorts on and a whistle around our neck and we just blow it a lot and shout orders and we never get in the water. And then the whistle will grow more distant because it loses its meaning when it’s blown too much.

A funny thing happens when we do church from the lifeguard tower. We spend so much time guarding that we miss life.

Chapter 35 To Really Feel and Know This Grace

This life is messy, no doubt, because of the likes of me and my selfishness; my sin, my attention to these personal wants and needs, this flesh, and perhaps my judgment or loathing of this or that.

Each day of this life blends into a repetitious pattern of weeks and months, on into a year, and in my attempts to curtail this behavior, I imagine my existence as a small loaf of hard crusted bread. I leave crumbs behind as I bite into it, or as I break off a piece; I try to be neat about it, but it’s just impossible, really. As I self consciously work my way to the soft, warm middle, right there on the table with its starched white tablecloth, there are hundreds of tiny reminders of something that was once whole, stark evidence that reveals the mess that I am; my proper table manners once again failing to conceal a beast who cannot be tamed.

And I look at others and the spaces around their plates to see if they’re doing a better job with it; if they have respectable habits at the table, more couth and a certain sophistication.

It’s shameful, really, to leave such a mess on this white tablecloth of my own design, so I want give it over to him, all of it: my crumbs, my messiness, my incapacity to keep tidy and clean about it. I want to bring it to him, my crusty bread, in two hands, reaching out to him, asking once again if he’ll take it and do something with it. You know, use it or put it back together or explain to me why I can never cut or break off a piece cleanly.

And, of course, I know he will. But I’m slow to believe it.

So, I need to actually see him receiving it, taking it from me, and maybe you do too; to really feel and know this grace from the One who gives it, the very One who rides in so nonchalantly and yet full of purpose. If it helps you, then imagine it with me. Close your eyes and shut out the outside noise of it all. Listen instead to something else, for just beyond us is a distant thunder that is approaching; not in divided claps, but deep and steady within the confines of a low rumble.

And when you hear it and you begin to feel it, well, that just makes it all the more actual, because sound and vibration have a way of heralding arrival to these senses; and the flutter on our skin and the uneasy tension in the air halts our breath before he is revealed.

Maybe you sense the crumbs are falling through the spaces of your fingers, just like mine, because I’m holding on tightly, trying to keep it all together, what’s left of it, so that I have something for him to hold of me, to explain, to understand of this inability to fix myself. I squeeze a little too hard in anticipation and more crumbs fall. I feel them hitting my feet and crashing to the ground, loudly, clanging, even these feathered pieces of crust. This necktie, so colorful, masking and tidying me with its rules and regulations, well, it’s just too tight. I can hardly breathe.

We're at a wedding reception.

The wind whips up a gentle, warm presence to insinuate what is unseen is ever true, and warming soil and distant flowerings fill and expand this want of smell. The doors of the reception hall have flown open, billowing curtains and sunlight falling into each other, beckoning the spring to take its rightful place on the fleeing shadow of this long winter’s night.

I open my eyes as he walks in and he sees me holding my brokenness right there in my very own grip, and so he takes the bread with one hand and with the other he guides my own hand to his side, and then this Rider lifts his left shoulder a little to expose his skin and well, there it is again, right where he was broken and pierced, and he tells me not to be shy, that I can touch it and run my fingers through it again and again, without feeling like I’m invading his space. And so I do, like I did that time on the back of his Harley, but this time my crumb filled fingers are on his flesh. And then he takes my small loaf of bread and he breaks it with a smile, because it is done. It is finished, once and for all.

I take my hand off, a little confused, as he says, “Let’s have a party.” He holds up my bread like an offering and maybe it is, and he does a little dance, a jig really; he wants to celebrate because I didn’t hide away this leavened scrap of dough.

Right about then I start looking around me and people are emerging from their tables, the shadows, the corners, the backyards and hidden places; there you are too, and we’re the church and we're all holding bread in both hands, the very crusty kind, walking toward him as pieces fall; white tablecloths begin to reveal crumbs everywhere and they’re on the floor too but it doesn’t matter because the One who should be most concerned about our mess is dancing, right there in the middle of it all, laughing, swinging this one and another around in His arms, and it’s really quite a beautiful scene. He beat this thing quite some time ago, for me and for you, so he's more inclined to get right to the party when we surrender it to him. He's always on the verge of celebrating and I keep forgetting that. So, I stomp on a glass just because I can, just because it fits the mood, and I’ve always wanted to. It shatters and he smiles at me.

The orchestra starts in full swing now, but underneath it all, I hear a cello and it’s low and gentle, muffled like the engine of his ride as it idles.

And I suppose that's just how I really feel and know this grace from the One who gives it.

My Friend Jim

It occurs to me that I grieve in small, acceptable amounts, such that are befitting a man, or at least a certain type of man. Far be it from me to mourn big and deep like one who’s lost and helpless and, perhaps, desperate. No, not me. Instead, I bury my sadness away and take it out to acknowledge it from time to time; I examine it and appreciate it at arm's length, like I would an old family watch, or a photo in a dusty scrap book.

I'm not proud of my way, trust me, but it's all quite suitable for these masculine, ever-so-reserved emotions that I bear.

And I say this, because, shortly after the planes flew into the World Trade Center, my friend Jim lost all of his life; and while I didn't quite realize it at the time, I lost part of mine. I’ve been accepting this truth in tiny, tolerable doses ever since.

It just so happens that Jim was my best friend growing up, and so, just like childhood, memories of him will always be unveiled in vivid color and stunning detail. We were the Huck and the Finn of Cranbury, New Jersey. The Millstone River ran through my backyard, and if you didn't know this already, rivers and boys are just about as perfect a combination as you could ever want. And so, adventures on the river nurtured a deep friendship that flowed through grade school, meandered into junior high and rushed straight on into the rapids of high school.

Jim and I shared everything, like best friends do, and by everything I mean birthday parties and schemes and backyard forts and trouble. We ventured together into a certain coming of age, and challenged head-on that ever awkward teenage angst; we enjoyed a love of the outdoors, sports, girls and Springsteen concerts. He was with me for that first dance, that first beer, and, well, maybe not too far away from that first anything.

When college came for both of us, we went our separate ways and time and distance eventually caused the inevitable breaking away of a childhood bond. I was married early and became a father, but Jim believed in marrying a bit later, and so he was still dating and enjoying bachelorhood to the fullest while I was changing diapers.

Despite the difference of trajectory, we would still call each other on our birthdays and get caught up, usually at our respective jobs; his from some office up in the hundreds of the World Trade Center; me, from some not so high office in Indiana.

Jim was an analyst with Cantor Fitzgerald and so our conversations were often interrupted mid sentence for him to scream something unintelligible at people around him. He worked in some sort of a bond trading floor, and I later learned that these orders involved the buying or selling of millions of dollars with just one shout. He probably had another phone on his other ear, but he would return to the conversation casually, never missing a beat, multi-tasking his way through the latest on life with his friend living half way across the country. And so, the last time I spoke to Jim was on July 22nd, 2001. He turned 34 that day.

Jim was the oldest of five children and with his job at Cantor, he probably made more money in one year than I would ever make in twenty. He was one of the youngest limited partners in that company’s history, and yet, he drove a modest car and lived in a small apartment in New Jersey. He apparently devised other ways to spend his money, and so he helped with the graduate school tuition of his siblings because he believed strongly in their education. He often loaned his friends money and he doted on his nieces and nephews with abandon. Jim's generosity and loyalty to his family and friends became the prevailing theme of what was remembered of him at his memorial.

I wrote a letter to Jim’s parents after the terrorist’s attack, and I was honored when his father read part of it at Jim’s service:

“As most boys did, we often found ourselves in trouble. We were the masters of many schemes and Jimmy was the natural leader of them all. He was the brave one, often defending me against whatever bully I had provoked. I remember vividly a time when Jimmy confronted a growling dog that was sprinting toward us. He stood face to face with this dog -- unflinching -- while I cowered behind him. The dog met his match and walked away without harm to either of us. Jimmy had a strength that cannot be described. He possessed a natural courage that created a steady, unwavering way about him. I remember, even as a child knowing that he would always be a leader but at the same time a loyal and true friend."

Jim ran with the bulls in Spain and in the New York City Marathon, and he skied all over the world. He lived a large life and he challenged himself on a regular basis. He literally exploded outward, not wanting to miss anything with the time he had.

With my knowledge of Jim, and from what I’ve gathered after the fact, there may have been some time after the planes hit for people in his office to devise some type of escape plan. If one existed, Jim would have found it. But there would be no escape. All exits and paths downward were blocked, and moving upward was found early on to be for naught.

Jim was dating a girl from the office, and I remember seeing pictures later of a young professional couple jumping together from the smoke filled building. It made me wonder, because it wasn’t a stretch for me to imagine him saying: I’m not going out like this. I will not cower and fade away in the smoke. I will not wait for a rescue that’s never going to come.

And so, quite possibly, he grabbed the hand of the one he loved and he died the same way that he lived, exploding outward and experiencing what was left of his life to the fullest.

Literally hundreds of Cantor Fitzgerald employees perished that day. The only physical remainder given to Jim's parents after the debris was cleared was his charred driver’s license, which gets me every time, because how could that be all that's left of such a life?

I write this four and a half years later, because, well, I guess this is just the way I grieve. Moments have tumbled by, many with his memory caught up in the mix. And those memories are starting to catch up with me, and I suppose, overtake me at times. I need to start sorting them out because they're probably all bungled up and tangled now.

So, this piece, as you've noticed, has nothing to do with a new kind of church -- at least I don't think so anyway. I just wanted you to know something of my friend Jim.

It's a tribute that's been a long time coming.