catching his breath

What do you think about the song? The short film?

The song blows me away…”If I can change I hope I never know.” How many live with these feelings?

I’m still baffled by the short film. It’s powerful but in a way that words can’t explain. And this is why I believe that those who follow Jesus must wrestle with art expressions such as this video.  Yes, we’ve often done a great job of engaging our intellect as we attempt to discover the human condition. But what about engaging our soul? Our emotions? Have we thrown in fully, (emotionally, spiritually, soulfully) to find solidarity with the society in which we find ourselves?

What people in our neighborhoods, schools and jobs face often defies articulation. Can we meet the mess of life without words? Yes, but.

Doing so means that we must open the emotions of our life to the vulnerability of being torn deeply by things to painful for words. Will we wear the scars of a neighbor’s wounds?

This hits home to my family and me… but I thought it was hysterically subversive. Check it out here.

[Disclaimer: If you're offended by mildly crude humor and some foul language just move on.  I'm telling you now. If you watch and are offended and aghast at my linking to the clip you are without excuse.]

It often happens when I’m in conversation about the current economical situation, the plight of the poor or the demise of the oppressed that someone in a smarmy tone begins to offer his/her advice to the people group we’re discussing. “Well,” Mr. or Mrs. Smarmy adds, “these folks should realize all the help that is out there for them. They can get grants for school and stuff like that. If they want help they can find it.”

I’m not against offering advice and tough-love admonitions to those in desperate situations or in a financial quagmire. I’m for lending a hand-up instead of giving a handout. Seeing people freed from their dependancy of welfare would delight me to the core. I constantly wrestle with discerning the best ways to assist and bring hope to the poor and marginalized in society. And I think some who unnecessarily gobble up government assistance need to hear a stern word of rebuke on occasion.

So why cringe at the contributions of Mr. or Mrs. Smarmy? Here’s why. Their advice, and perhaps decent advice, never reaches the ears of those who most need to hear it. Often they don’t know the poor of the community as individuals with stories. They merely observe and critique them as a categorized group. Honestly, such smug sound-bites often comes across in conversation as rhetorical devices meant to elevate one’s sense or perception of self-worth. Can’t you see how I’m doing and how well I have my business in order?

Gag.

This shot-into-the-darkness self-serving advice is wasted on the nerves of an inner ear that sends signals to my brain that gets what is being said and agrees already (and has agreed a thousand times before that). Without intending to lather on the smarm (not a word but it works), let me say that I don’t need to hear that particular advice. But some of my friends would certainly gain footing through your experiences and wisdom. Mr./Mrs. Smarmy, why don’t you let me introduce you to them?

No? Ok. Why waste words then?

From what I can tell an unwillingness to relationally engage the poor and marginalized by those with the answers erects the greatest barrier to getting a grip on the economical plight of some. I have no doubt that many of the ideas and advice on the tongues of Mr. and Mrs. Smarmys everywhere would benefit those needing to hear it. The offering and acceptance of advice between the groups would, perhaps, move communities toward closing the gap between the well-off and poor. The exchange within these intentional relationships would start the process moving forward. Maybe, some would begin seeing better days ahead.

And maybe not. I suspect we’ll never know until the categories disintegrate and people from every social strata take time to get to know one another.

Maybe the first step to any systemic economical change would be an icebreaker game.

I hope that everyone has enjoyed the holiday season. I must say that for my family and few of my friends a few challenging circumstances on the road this season presented opportunities for growth (interpreted muffled fits of cussing). All the same, life happens and we must live it.

Recently, my wife and I have engaged heated and fearful discussions regarding some of our perplexing and complicated financial realities (this isn’t a plea for help, just an honest assessment of how it is). These soulful conversations have forced both of us to revisit the importance of simple living.

We recognize that some of our financial difficulties exist due to things outside our control, but other problems are the direct result of our own bad decisions. In several ways certain aspects of our life together have spun out of control in a whirl of felt-needs and consumeristic impulses. I have little doubt these decisions compile the complexity and drama of our economic situation.

At the start, I’m foggy on the exact nature of these culprits and I’m writing and assessing things at the gut level. Intuitively I long for a simplistic way of life and believe that such a life centers itself in the heart of God’s kingdom.

I’ll continue to explore and unpack these feelings through the year to see if anything emerges that is helpful and beneficial. I hope to engage God’s story in a way that will offer some insight. I’ll seek to understand if there is a deeper, but simpler, level at which to live the way of Jesus in the midst of a culture that seemingly imprisons people in an economic fun-house with no exits. It won’t be the only discussion kicked around on the blog in the coming year but a dominant one.

Join me on this journey toward simplicity in 2010.

Happy New Year, folks!

Check out this article in Slate.

I don’t know about the war on Christmas and my part in it. So let me just think out loud for a minute.

When I read the Christmas story in Scripture I get the sense that we’re to embody the presence of God in humility and sacrifice––and that it has nothing to do with making a list of Christmas friendly store or the debate of whether it’s “Happy Holidays” or “Merry Christmas.”

Christmas is a mixed bag for me theologically. It doesn’t come off as “merry” to think about the real story of Mary (a virgin cast out as a whore, a poor, crying baby in a stinky, poop-filled barn or the weeping mothers of Jerusalem wailing for their dead sons). It means I have a God who has work for me to do and sometimes it’s not peaceful or merry. There’s a mess and he’s rolled up his sleeves and jumped in; he turns to us and says follow me. Answering this call can turn life upside down. Participating in God’s incarnation entrenches me in the messiness and ugly realities of life.

Basically, I don’t have time for the war on Christmas.

I’m currently working through several readings for grad school. One paper spoke to the mission of the church and had several sections that admonished churches to move from a neutral/negative identity into a productive one. I particularly liked the advice that encouraged congregations to move beyond collecting members to developing ministers.

Churches that stagnate gather spectators. Churches that grow promote a collective effort of ministry. Nobody gets to sit around. Nobody gets to watch.

For this to take place some things need to happen.

There needs to be work to do. God will provide if we will ask. Pray. Watch. Jump into what God is already doing in the community.

Each minister (member) needs to assess his or her gifts and seek to use it in bringing God’s presence into their life context.

Leaders must empower and let go of control. Ministers (with a capital M) have often been guilty of crippling the real ministers by hijacking their ministry. The best leaders refuse to lead.

The work available needs to coincide with real life. Resist the temptation to fabricate stuff to do at the building and ask people to put up tables and chairs and call it ministry. Church happens, or should happen, outside of the building.

A genuine commitment to hard work is needed from each minister. The collective attitude of the church should foster an understanding in each one that it will take hard work to live as the body of Jesus in this city.

What do you think? Anything else you want to add?

As long as I can remember, one way I’ve tested the soundness of something I’ve constructed (say a tree-house fort or a bookshelf or a table) is by attempting to bring it down. I shake it, push against it, tug on the support features and do my best to deconstruct it. If it can’t stand against my physical scrutiny then it needs a do-over; it’s not safe.

Some ideologies create unsafe atmospheres for those underneath their ideological constructions. They encourage these dangerous situations through resisting inspection and honest attempts at deconstruction. You aren’t welcome to poke around or push against a support beam; don’t rattle it to test it’s sturdiness. Often those seeking to deconstruct are accused of negativity. They’re blamed for constantly trying to tear stuff down.

Is this fair?

Several people I know squirm at the thought of subjecting their theological edifices to any type of deconstruction. They’ve built it and it’s done. Going back over it repeatedly is uncomfortably negative; perhaps too much work or potential rebuilding. Yet, some who see the rickety theology for what it is fear that it will come crashing down and inflict untold damage to those nearby. They wonder why its builders chain themselves to the wrecking ball refusing to abandon such dangerous conditions.

Unfortunately, the inevitable happens. Religious ideas and dogmas that have refused quality control have collapsed under their own weight and misconstruction. They’ve squashed and mangled lives of countless people who remain trapped beneath the pile of twisted reason. Those passing by feel helpless to drag the dying wounded from the carnage.

It’s easy to miss the real culprit when those scared of deconstruction shout against it in the name of staying positive. Look closely and discover that debasing a deconstructive motive poses the real threat to life. The intentions of deconstruction simply seek to ensure what is being built sustains life; and, though it contains a negative aspect, it’s ultimately a positive and life-affirming agenda.

Time to play, pretend, acting as if your soul has no grime,
smile, back-slap, swap them: the pleasantries, they’re a dime.
Entering church, game on, gotta do this. Smile and nod, friend;
get finished, shake, side-hug, move, almost there, almost. The end.
Did it. Nobody asked, nobody knew. I kept it up and feigned on through.
They didn’t care about it and neither did I…I, well kind of, but who
would even care if I told them? I accept the play, the game, the untrue.

The land of make believe, Holy-wood hills, I get it but hate it.
I slide through it, never noticed, never pressured. Reckless fidget,
wondering, do they know, will they ask, will they pervade and push
right in to me, my life, my thoughts, the real me, the one I wish
they’d care some more about? Can they handle the truth I can’t take?
Hard exterior, nothing inside, at least you won’t find out, it’s mine. Wait,
someone approaches, smile, wipe that brow. Take two…action! One last try,
and I do, again, not a clue. And the Oscar goes to         …about to die.

It’s hard to breathe when you’re plastic, I must break out, let loose, live.
Reality beckons me and it’s what I want, truth, ugly truth, for that I’d give
all of this up, everything. Shallow suffering and fantasy, please, stay in your place,
don’t invade life with the fake. But you persist, and how I wish for just a taste
of the real, the life, edgy and uncut, but what exists?…nothing, blank rounds of smiles.
It’s alright. It’s alright. I’ve done this…I can maneuver my way through the aisles.

No! It can’t be this way, I need to find the real, behind the façade, the phony
person. A life that doesn’t want to live. It’s as if we’re dancing to a symphony,
the score for “The Stepford Wives.” Everybody feel good, look good, sound good, for
that’s your goal and your life. Do this, step here, walk there. Yes, that’ it. No, more.
No, less; just right. Smile. Pause and look away. Now move on. Very nice
to meet you. You did it well. They never noticed, they couldn’t tell, your act sufficed.

When will it end, this life of lies, staying in character? The only thing real is that…
it’s not real. Should I satisfy my thirst with that drop of truth or break the act
over my knee and melt the plastic into nothing? The furry swells inside, the feeling
that I can’t escape the shroud of secrecy looming over the living. The living?

Is that right, because I couldn’t tell? Reality exists but not in real time, the charade must
go on. For this act contains the only piece of truth left. Inside I fight and thrust
outward, trying to explode on to the scene, to scream, “Here I am it’s me!”
Really me, yeah, I know you don’t know me, but it’s me, I want you to see,
for yourself, but not the you I know, the you inside of you, the one inside the shell,
the one that speaks, the one that hurts, the one that’s watching this from hell,
the prison inside a plastic world. I want to live, to understand the free,
those that cry but not on cue, those that laugh outside the script, those that see
behind the scenes, those that distinguish their dreams and forget their lines,
those that have mined their feelings and brought them to the surface of life.

Real people, real problems, real hurts, real concerns enveloped in a world
of plastic. People trapped, anxiety ridden, scared their thoughts may unfurl.
But let them. Open up and stop pretending. Open up and quit reliving
the same steps the established programmed into your existence. Go on and give in
to the urge to be you, uncensored. Reject the life piety sells. Step to that raw
honesty. Let rage for dishonesty melt the plastic away. Exist, scars and all.

She stands shaking. Pregnant. Hopeless, ridden with shame about what she’s done. Tears cannot wash away the stigma, she’s tried. Suburbia has its standards.

The baby’s daddy? He doesn’t even know. Wouldn’t care if he did.

What about family? Her mother works two jobs, one of the jobs her father would have worked had he not ran off before she was born. She hasn’t the time to support her. Standards, remember? Doesn’t even have the time to say good night. That’s how it is.

What will she do? Fifteen. A child and knocked up.

Scared.

Confused.

Options?

Dizzy. A merry-go-round of choices circles her. Nauseating confusion. “Abortion? Adoption? Raise the baby myself? If I abort… no, that’s murder. If I put it up for adopt…oh, I’m horrible. Who will raise my baby? I can’t care for this baby. Is abortion really better for the baby? No…but.” Confusion mocks her––jeering at the one on stage forgetting her lines.

A beneficiary of abandonment. Forsaken. No embrace. No “I’m here.”

She stands shaking. Outside the clinic. Stomach cramping from emptiness. Convulsed in a dry heave, her ears ring. Disgusted with her life. Pondering the razor blade in the kitchen drawer.

“Screw up! Will you ever amount to anything?” shouts the indoctrination of her guardians. The mental assaults of her mother’s boyfriend. Enacted by his molesting hands. But not a single hand to lift her.

She stands shaking. Disoriented indecision. She’s desperate, afraid, hating herself. Dry heaves reach down, trying to jerk her stomach through her mouth. Acid stinging her chapped lips. She can’t live this nightmare. God?

She feigns hope. The urge to vomit again. Throat pulsating in pain. She screams inside, “Why?! Do you care, God? Say something!”

“Vote Today! Stop Abortion! Save a child!” booms the voice from the bullhorn.

Interrupted by the thunderous cadence of picketers, her racing mind halts. She loses air.

With raging confidence they stand and raise their signs. Embracing their Bibles. Lifting their voices. They have something to say.

She stands shaking.

Wipes the vomit from her lips. Turns and goes inside.

Check out the link here.

I agree that enough is enough. No matter where you fall politically, some things go too far and those who follow Jesus should invest in speaking out against those who go there. It’s clear that Jesus receives continuous bad publicity through religious and political radicals who attach his name to their purposes.

How about this? Let’s neutralize their poisonous rhetoric through accurately living out and speaking out the love of Jesus. Let’s shout, in word and deed, that the Jesus (mis)represented by these opportunistic exploitations isn’t the Messiah, the resurrected One, reconciling the world. And, we will no longer tolerate others exploiting him to gain the upper hand in political debate. He is not leverage for anyone’s personal or political agenda. He is not justification to spew hate and murderous innuendo.

God help all of us!

If you have had enough, speak up. Please. Speak whenever and wherever you have a platform, personally or privately. Refuse to let others hijack your responsibility to represent Jesus as anything other than the Messiah of shalom, the teacher of Matthew 5-7. Let’s pray for them and our leaders. Let’s pray that God would work to bring shalom into intensely emotional discussions and politics.

[P.S. I recently studied the passage cited on the t-shirts (Psalm 109) in depth through the scholarship of Walter Brueggemann. The passage speaks to much deeper issues and raises the complexity of social justice issues and God. Those who've used the passage as hate speech have completely ignored the hermeneutic complexities of reading texts thousands of years removed. When will we realize the danger of uninformed readings of Scripture?]