Pain

Pain. 

Aches and pains. 

Numb. 

Blind and dumb. 

Shifting, burning, 

Aching, throbbing, 

Pain. 

Gift of age, Curse brings rage

That builds and tears 

On wounds and fears 

Like coils of rope,  

Draining hope.

Yet on I walk, 

‘Er this one thought, 

With pain comes patience 

And grateful thanks 

Of days gone by, 

And future bright.

Form vs Function

Photo by beasty . on Unsplash

In the course of meeting with clients, whether in homes or on commercial construction sites, I often witness the very real, the very often frustrating (though not always calamitous) clash that happens when an architect's design meets with the constraints of gravity, angles and deductions.  It is a tension I often find myself holding both ends of.

In my world of selling window coverings, I almost always start with function.  Do you want sun control?  Insulation?  Privacy?  Room darkening?  Knowing those answers allow me to better recommend different treatments or products.  Once we look at the options, clients can settle on a form: a roman shade, plantation shutters, or a drapery.

This reminds me of a conversation I had recently with a friend about tensions we feel in church, about the natural tendency to go from small, natural and organic to large, structured and programmed.  Or the pull to make something as relational as spiritual development into a curriculum or a one-size-fits-all program.

Tim Woodroof wrote about this in A Church That Flies.  In it he describes the tension between form and function.  In very simple terms, form is the shape a thing takes or the way it appears in the world.  Function is the purpose for which a thing is in the world.

The author uses the situation that we read about in Acts 15 where the church in Antioch was beginning to take on legs of its own and the baby was not looking as much like the parents as the parents wished.  The leaders in Jerusalem were concerned because what they thought was important or essential was not being taught or lived out like they thought it should.  The church in very Gentile Antioch was experiencing things that the church in very Jewish Jerusalem was not.

One Gospel.

Two contexts.

What to do?  What began as rigid demands that someone adhere to old ways or comply with legal standards ended in grace, wisdom and freedom.  What had the potential to snuff out a growing movement of men and women being transformed by the Gospel was challenged and changed.  What we see is the incredible trust the Father has given his people to take the function he desires and to let it take on the forms necessary to take root in the nations of the world.

Where do you see form and function at play in your world?  In your church context?  What forms are taken for granted?  How and when do we stop and examine the function behind the form?  And what could the church look like in your context if you had the courage to let it?

One Simple Image to Get Unstuck in the Spiritual Disciplines

 

It's so natural for us to want to see results, to get something in return for time or energy or heart invested.  When we come to the spiritual disciplines, most of us know that the promise isn't an immediate return.  Most of us know that it's more about a lifestyle or a journey.

And yet.

And yet I catch myself expecting, looking, wanting to see tangible results.  I'm an action oriented, results driven kind of guy.  This slow, tedious plodding grates at my body.

So I find myself in a season where I'm diving back in.  Fiddling with fasting.  Playing at prayer.  Dabbling in reflective journaling.  Walking along in the dark under a canopy of stars, breath visible in the cold, my prayers go out and seem unheard, aimless.  I listen and hear nothing.

Confiding this recently with some close friends, one of them shared an image that really landed and stuck in my soul.

A trellis.

He said, "The spiritual disciplines are like a trellis for the soul."

I know what a trellis is.  You don't wander the streets of seaside Italian towns like we have and not know what they are.  I've got a backyard garden with several that hold up zucchinis and peppers and beans.  The concept is simple: a solid, vertical guide to which a living organism can attach itself in order to rise off the ground and approach the sun.

I smile as I type.

Brilliant.

I am a living organism who desperately wants to rise above the ground I was buried in.  I need something solid and vertical that I can attach myself to, that will take me higher and help me approach the source of life.

A trellis.

Suddenly, the frustration I feel about not sensing God's presence, about not hearing his voice.  About not seeing results.  Suddenly, the frustration is muted.  The impatience diminished.  It's replaced with a gentle reminder that as I practice these age old disciplines, I am allowing the tendrils of my soul to grab hold of solid, trusted guides that bring me ever higher.

Can you relate to feeling stuck?  Find yourself giving up?  Struggle to muster up the energy to try again?  Can I encourage you to let this image give you strength to give it another shot?

(Here is a handy list of some of the basic disciplines.)

Landscape

The landscape is changing.  Do you sense it?

Can you feel it?

See it?

I heard a podcaster recently refer to the incessant and drastic changes in our culture like the tide going out and that imagery really clicks with me.

The first time I came to the sleepy town of New Braunfels was in 1994.  I flew down to visit a cheerleader named Heather.  I was in love, so many of my first memories of this town are framed by the ethereal, cloudy giddiness of infatuation.  I still remember the moment I realized that her parents, who would become my in-laws and friends, lived on a lake.  I remember walking down and standing on the wooden deck and taking the scenery in.

That deck has played host to so many events in the last 25 years: passionate kisses by moonlight, oohs and aahs on fourths of July, rehearsal dinners, late night, cigar fueled conversations, early morning quiet times, and celebrations galore.  All of those played out on a deck that overlooked Lake Dunlap, a long, skinny body of water held up by a dam on the Guadalupe River.

On the morning of May 14th of this year, the dam burst and the lake was drained.  What was once broad and deep became narrow and shallow.  What once moved downstream in proud silence, now leaps and plays in rocky rapids and twists and turns.  Where once water skis and pontoon boats were constants, now hosts kayaks and tubers.  We recently hosted a company dinner on the deck and I asked those assembled if they could guess what I had seen there, for the first time in twenty-five years.  The answer?  Fly fishermen.

The landscape is changing.  What we once took for granted has slipped through our fingers.  How do we respond?  We can wail and lament.  Surely there is room and space for some of that.  We can grumble and complain, but that will only lead to bitterness.

The day after the dam burst, I remember walking out on the deck and surveying the new reality.  I stood where I had jumped so many times before into water so deep I couldn’t touch the bottom and looked down to see dry ground.  And there, impaled in the drying mud was a rusty stop sign.

I believe what is called for is adapting.  The equipment and methods that once worked without effort now have to be rethought and reshaped.  The patterns and schedules once followed by habit and rote memory must now be rewritten, rescripted.  We don’t change who we are in terms of our values or our essence.  But how we navigate the new reality changes.  We bring who we are to bear on it.

The landscape is changing.  How will we respond?  Will we wail and lament?  Will we demand that things go back to the way they were?  Or will we let the new reality emerge and respond with the grace and creativity the Father’s spirit fills us with?

Greenroom vs Greenhouse

I heard a comment on a podcast the other day that has had me thinking.  It was in the middle of a conversation about yet another church leader that made a big public announcement about rejecting Christianity.  The comment was something like this: The greenroom is a lousy place to grow your faith.

Greenroom?  I had to look it up.  Do you know what a greenroom is?  It’s a sitting room or parlor where performers hang out before or after they are on stage, or during a performance when they aren’t involved.  As I read the definition, some of my favorite scenes from movies like That Thing You Do and A Mighty Wind came to mind.  “Ah!  Guy…see what the world looks like through those.”

The sentiment behind the statement was this: if the bulk of your ministry takes place on or around the stage, there are dangers and downsides.  If I let my mind wander there, I could see how a faith grown in a Greenroom might lead to:

• mask wearing 
• a performance mentality
• pride
• a focus on the external
• an unhealthy focus on pleasing an audience
• detachment from reality 

What to do?  What do do?  Here’s an idea: What if colleges and schools and church staff and music producers and concert venue managers encouraged greenrooms to be more like greenhouses?

What is a greenhouse?  I would venture to say a greenhouse would be a terrific place to grow your faith.  It is an environment where conditions are managed to foster real, organic growth, where things are alive, multiplying, where there is fruit and flourishing.

The question behind the Sunken Church is pertinent here.  What does the Church look like, in this culture, for this generation, when it is drawn up out of the waters we’ve submerged it in?

I love the question posed by David Kinnaman in his latest book as he helps us wrestle with raising resilient followers of Jesus in the church today.  Take away the stage and the Sunday morning service, but leave the mission of the church in place.  What does it look like for this generation?

It better look a whole lot more like a greenhouse than a greenroom.  If not, we can expect nothing more than what we are seeing more of: hollow, shallow, performance driven gatherings and buildings that are empty shells or museums.  Instead, let us replace fluorescent bulbs with sunlight.  Let us replace a well stocked bar with honest, intentional conversations.  Let us reorganize and reprogram and rebuild for real, healthy, authentic green house faith.

Loved

I started a new Christmas tradition a couple of years ago.  I decided I don’t want any more socks or shirts from my kids for Christmas.  No more robes, books, knives or desk decor.  What I want now, for the rest of my life from my kids for Christmas, is a song.

So I chose one.  One that meant something to me.  One that I hope they will play at my funeral.  I entrusted it to them, asking them to perform it for me, and then let it go.  Weeks and months went by and I had no clue if they were preparing.  I would drop an occasional hint, but I tried to let it take shape on its own.  As fall moved into winter, I began to hear notes and sounds and a smile would cross my lips.  Anticipation.

Last Christmas our whole family gathered at my parents’ cabin in the woods.  One night that week I organized an impromptu talent show and began gathering a list of acts from brothers and nephews and nieces.  The kids were going to perform my gift as the centerpiece of the show.

We laughed and listened, clapped and cheered as different family members shared.  Then it was my kids’ turn.  They gathered before the fireplace: Jacob on the cajon, Harrison on the keyboard, Jenova on xylophone and Haven on guitar.  Haven took the lead vocal and they began.

My song.  A gift for me.  Yet, what I received was not what I expected.  What happened as I soaked in the experience was altogether different.  I found myself watching each of them as they concentrated on notes and words and I noticed that each would look up every few beats to catch my eyes.  In each of those eye contacts I was surprised.  There was depth, there were questions.

“Do you like it?”

“Are you pleased?”

“Do we have your favor?”

I leaned forward in my chair and began trying to catch their eyes, transmitting love and delight as I met each of them and as the final note played and everyone began clapping, we hugged and laughed and I told them how much I loved them, how much I loved their song.

Reflecting on it now, having just requested my next Christmas song, it makes me wonder.  God invites us and calls us to live the way he designed, the way he showed us through his son.  The only way to do that is to trust that what he did really changes things and that what he said is true.  That trust leads to a life lived freely, truly, to a life that is full.

Does he give you glimpses of his pleasure with you?  Are you looking up to him for validation, for affirmation?  Do you know that he longs to catch your eye and transmit to your spirit how delighted he is with you?  Look up and know that you are loved.

Finding Grace on the Slopes

I was ten years old the first time I went skiing.  And it should have been fun.  It should have been an adventure.  It should have been memorable.  It was none of those things.  I hated it and have blocked most of the memories from my mind save for the feeling of cold, wet frustration.  In those formative years, the identity I was forging was wrapped around appearing successful, about looking good.  Skiing definitely didn't fit the category so I decided to never do it again.

Until 2019.

Danny and Chrissy Tovar have become some of our closest friends over the past couple of years and they talked us into it.  I fought and resisted, made excuses and procrastinated, but they were persuasive and in the end, I caved.  We put dates on the calendar and set money aside, we were going.  Destination: Pagosa Springs, Colorado.

We took our youngest two and they were excited.  It wasn't until the first morning on the slopes that they realized what all is involved in skiing.  If you've never been, it's quite an experience.  It was snowing and blowing hard that day, which made all of this more difficult.  After buying our tickets we waited to be fitted with boots and skis and shown how the equipment works.  Then we trudged through the snow carrying everything to the bunny slope where our instructor (who turned out to be really lousy) began our four hour lesson.

Throughout the lesson, Danny and Chrissy would come and check on us before heading off to enjoy the blue and black runs.  At the end of that first day, the instructor convinced me I was ready for the easiest of the blues.  I was scared and felt pressured, but went along.  Danny came with us.  Heather and the kids had had enough and headed to the lodge.

We rode the lift to the top of the peak and started our way down.  I fell.  A lot.  Over and over, I would get up, adjust my equipment, run through all the lessons in my head and then wipe out.  Hard.  Each time I was afraid I would twist a knee or hurt my back.  I was nauseous and the storm made it hard to see very far ahead.  We came upon a narrow section where the left side of the slope was a steep drop into deep powder and I clung to the right bank, slowly waddling down as little kids zipped by me.

By the time I got to the bottom, I was done.  We packed it up and headed back to our condo.  My whole family had had enough.  No interest in going back.  Everyone had counseled us to get back up and try a second day, but we had no desire.  I felt like a failure again, embarrassed all over gain.

The next day we stayed at the condo.  We played an eight hour game of Rail Baron and nursed our sore bodies.  We ate good food and processed our first day with the Tovars.  That afternoon, the question of whether or not we would try a second day again came up.  I did not want to, but felt that competitive spirit rising in me.  Danny and Chrissy, both, gently encouraged us to try it again, to give it a fresh start.   So we did.

The second day was much better.  It was sunny and clear.  Heather did better, but was ready to call it a day.  Harrison was feeling better and by lunchtime was off with Danny to ski down the blues.  Jenova overcame her fear when she found a new and better instructor.   She had mastered the bunny slope and I finally convinced her to try the intermediate one.

Three hours later, she was jumping off the lift and soaring down the slope in front of me.  I was able to make it down consecutive times without falling.  The truth is, though, I still wiped out from time to time.  Hard.  My kids did better than I did.  I was a 43 year-old beginner.  Toward the end of that second day, I lay on my back in deep powder after wiping out.  High above me, people passed overhead on a lift and shouted down encouragement, "Get back up!  You got this!"

That evening we sat, exhausted, around a table at a pizza pub and ate delicious food and drank cold brews and I found myself getting choked up.  Why?  We had experienced grace on the slopes of Pagosa Springs.  Danny and Chrissy had pushed us gently, provided everything we needed and walked with us when they could have easily run on ahead or judged us or mocked us, or even just put up with us.

We will go again.  We all want to, even though Heather may stay in the lodge.  Grace has left a good taste in our mouths.  My shame, my failing have been redeemed because someone was willing to extend me undeserved favor.

Photo by Veronica Kei on Unsplash