The Way for Us to Get Along

Sometimes I wish I didn’t know the right thing to do. Even just typing that, it sounds crazy, but it’s true. Let me explain. Sometimes, you know the right thing to do and you know it is going to be hard or you know some folks aren’t going to understand. Other times, you know the right thing to do, but the wrong thing just seems to be so much easier, or more fun. Somehow, it seems that it would almost be better not to know the right thing. At least then you would have an excuse.

Too many times, I wish I didn’t know the right thing to do.

And sometimes, I just wish people around me would listen to me when I know the right thing for them to do. And when they don’t and it ends up badly, sometimes I wish I had the class not to say I told you so. Sometime I do, sometimes I don’t. You know, like those times when you tell your kids not to stand up on that thing, because it wont hold them. But they stand on it anyway and fall and get a bump and cry. And as much as you want to hold them and comfort them, you just feel this parental responsibility to make them understand that you actually knew better and that next time, if they listened to you, life would go so much better.

I get like that with adults I know, too. I see what is going to happen if they don’t take my advice, and when they don’t and it happens, I wish I was better at fighting off that parental urge, then, too. That would be my right thing to do.

And I do it even to myself. Don’t even go there, I say. Don’t even start thinking that way. But then, when I am sitting in a pile of broken glass with a baseball bat in my hand, my ball in the neighbor’s living room (or the grown up version of the same basic thing) I can hear myself saying, I told you so. I even parent myself, sometimes.

When I look for reprieve, I remember Paul said,

What I don't understand about myself is that I decide one way, but then I act another, doing things I absolutely despise. – Romans 7:15

He was making a different kind of point, but nonetheless, even Paul fell short at times. Small comfort, though, when the dad voice inside my head -- knowing full well what I was thinking says, “What could you possibly have been thinking?”

Of course the only proper answer to that question is “Uh, I dunno.”

Do you ever put that dad voice in God’s mouth? I do that, too. I think it is an age old tendency. I think from the beginning of God’s revelation of Himself to man, man has superimposed far too many earthly father traits onto the Heavenly Father. Even Jesus must have thought it too prevalent to not address it.

Remember the story of the prodigal son? The whole story is in Luke 15:11-31, but the gist is that the young son took his inheritance early and squandered it. Starving and destitute, he came crawling back to the father with his tail between his legs, planning to beg for a morsel of mercy. The father who had been daily looking in hope that his lost son would return, instead ran out to hug him and love him and rather than a crumb, showered his son with buckets of grace.

"But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him.” Luke 15:20

"But the father said to his servants, 'Quick! Bring the best robe and put it on him. Put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet.’” Luke 15:22

The son had come home, expecting to beg to be taken in as a lowly servant. The father, though, at the instant of his son’s return restored him to his old role in the family, complete with the family ring, the best robe and a feast of celebration that his lost son had come back to be part of the family.

I think that story was preserved for a good reason. First, Jesus, Son of God, wanted to let us know that God the Father isn't looking for a chance to say, “I told you so.” He isn’t looking to scold and to deride us into a more dutiful son role. God is instead daily searching across the fields looking for His lost children to come home to receive His love and to be restored to His family in full stead.

And there is another reason, too, I believe, though it isn’t in the gospel. Actually that reason came out of a Rolling Stone cover of an old blues tune, Prodigal Son, that has been running through my head tonite. In that song, the same story is told, but the last line says it all. After recounting the need to celebrate the brother’s turning back from his life of sin, the father’s last line is a stunning explanation for his unlimited grace:
"Cause that’s the way for us to get along."

I guess in the end, grace, like all of God’s gifts is given in part that we might share it with each other.

I pray that the next time I have every right to tell someone, "I told you so.", that instead I remember that song and instead give my brother (or sister) my best robe and the family ring.

Because that definitely is a better way for us to get along.

Softly and Tenderly, Jesus is Calling.

Softly and Tenderly, Jesus is Calling. I am working on an arrangement of that song for a class I am taking from Berklee’s online School of Music. I like arranging music. It’s a lot of fun. I especially like to take old hymns that I grew up with, those beautiful melodies and stunning lyrics, and update them to a more modern setting so that a new group of young church goers can experience the theology and the beauty of those old hymns.

I think, most young people today are turned off by big organ sounds on old style hymns. “Boooorrrrrrinnnng”, I can picture them saying with a perfectly timed eye roll. They are probably right. And we need to accept that and deal with it. Unless we want them to leave and find something that feels more relevant. And leave they will. I left. I walked away from the church for a long time. The cracks in the system started in late high school and church became less and less relevant to me, until when I graduated from college and moved out on my own, I finally had a whole bunch of other things to do that were fun and interesting (though not all together good for me) and I only went to church when I was home – and couldn’t get out of it – and on Christmas Eve (because it got me in the mood for what had become a mostly secular experience).

I’m not going to lie to you (after all this is supposed to be spirit in truth). I had a lot of fun. I had some hard times and paid for some of that fun, but a lifestyle of: single, young, independent, with a sense of adventure and a lack of rules (besides the ones I decided to adopt because they fit me) seemed to work pretty well a lot of the time.

I studied eastern religions (Taoism, Zen, Hinduism). I partied. I traveled almost every weekend to go have fun somewhere with someone. I moved what seemed like twice a year. I was free, free falling. Not like last week’s free falling, the letting go of false pretenses and artificial constructs that hold us apart from God, but free falling like spinning wildly and without purpose.

I was free, but I was falling. I didn’t know it. I really only noticed the free part. But somewhere inside was a small emptiness that wouldn’t go away. A longing. A small, but gnawing hunger. Somewhere inside of me there was a feeling that I needed something more. So I searched and I tried. I experimented. I partied. But the searching and the hunger never really went away. I went down some good roads and some bad ones. On some of the roads, at times, it would feel like I was on a path to filling the emptiness. But always, eventually, the road would narrow to a small path and then dead end and the hunger would be all the more apparent. All the while, though, I knew there was something more -- somewhere. I just couldn’t find it.

I am on the right path, now, but I am still traveling, still on the journey. This path narrows and climbs. Sometimes it dips and rolls, but I can see where it is going. I realize more and more that to get to the end, I have to keep shedding more of me: more preconceptions, more disconnections, more opinions. The road is too steep to carry much with you, especially the baggage of what I am and what I think of other people. But it feels like the road home. Yea, sometimes I have to sit down and rest. Sometimes I veer off the path, but up ahead there is a sound, a voice that guides me gently back.

Some places there are others walking with me, some places I am alone, but moving always, I am. There are also tricky bends in the road, where people with good intentions but bad advice try to pull me off onto another path that looks like it is headed to the same place. But it’s not. Those are bad roads. It’s getting easier to recognize them, though. They usually start with words like: “You can’t.”, “You’re not.”, “We don’t.” and there isn’t much joy in the eyes or in the voices that call you off on to those paths.

But whatever comes my way, despite what gets in my way (especially my own selfishness and pride) there is a sound like a beacon off in the distance. And today, I think I know what it is.

Softly and tenderly, Jesus is calling. Calling for you and for me. Earnestly, tenderly, Jesus is calling. Ye who are weary, come home.

"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.” Matthew 11:8-29

Free Falling

Winged samaras. That’s the technical name for the maple seeds that spin like helicopters as they leave the tree. Most people call them whirlybirds.

The winged samaras grow holding on to the maple tree and then about this time of year, in the North East, they let go. They let go and fall freely, spinning wildly with beautiful abandon, landing softly on the ground. There the lucky ones sprout roots that dig down into the soil and turn into maple trees.

I want to be a winged samaras. I’m tired of holding on.

I wonder what its like to be a winged samaras. When it comes time to let go is it scary? What is that spinning ride to the ground like? Is it a dizzying flight of spinning terror into the unknown or an exhilarating carnival ride into its God given purpose?

I just want to let go. I want to let go of all the facades and all of the pretenses. I want to stop trying, stop reaching, stop striving and just let go and spin wildly into the air, carried by the wind.

Tom Petty wrote a song that could have been about the winged samaras.

“Gonna free fall out into nothin'. Gonna leave this world for a while.”

Then the anthem like chorus sings a repeated refrain with an air of triumph and joy, “Now I’m Free! Free Fallin’”. I wonder if that’s what it feels like to be a winged samaras, like a triumphant anthem. “Now I’m Free! Free Fallin’”.

Somehow I think that is the key to the Kingdom. Being able to let go. Letting go of all the facades, all of the pretenses. Letting go of all of it and spinning wildly out of control, out of the control of worldly cares and desires, disowning all the stuff the world, and the tv, and the advertising culture, and the people that are afraid to let go have put on us. Letting go and free falling.

Then He (Jesus) said, “God's kingdom is like seed thrown on a field by a man who then goes to bed and forgets about it. The seed sprouts and grows--he has no idea how it happens. The earth does it all without his help: first a green stem of grass, then a bud, then the ripened grain.” (Mark 4:26-28).

There is no striving there, no trying to be something. Just falling to the ground and growing, growing into what God has already placed inside of us, because inside of us all lies the Kingdom.

"The kingdom of God doesn't come by counting the days on the calendar. Nor when someone says, "Look here!' or, "There it is!' And why? Because God's kingdom is already among you." (Luke 17:20-21)

Jesus said that it’s already there. It was planted inside of us. Just like as little seed at the heavy end of the winged samaras was already packed with everything it needed to grow into a maple tree. It just couldn’t realize its purpose until it was ready to let go of the safety of the limb and let go; to let go and free fall, out into nothing.

There is a funny thing about the winged samaras, too, that just struck me. They don’t all let go at once. I wonder if one day, one of them says, “That’s it. I don’t want to do this anymore. I’m letting go.” And then, trusting in God, it lets go and free falls safely to its God given purpose. Then out of all the winged samaras that watched a few more start to think, “Me too. I’m letting go.” And one by one, sometimes alone, sometimes in small groups, they let go and spin wildly into their purpose.

In the church we would call that a revival. In the solitude of a heart that’s tired of holding on to the suffocating unreality of this world’s culture, its called free falling.

That’s it. I talked myself into it. I've seen others do it and blossom down on the ground below me. So that's it, I’m letting go. See you on the ground, my friend.

“Now I’m Free!!! Free Falling!!!”