The Karma of Chewing Gum

Central to Hinduism, Sikhism, Buddhism and Jainism, the law of Karma suggests all living creatures are responsible for their Karma or the collective sum of all behavior a being has done. Literally meaning "the fruits of action," Karma is the complete cycle of "cause and effect" whose deeds create past, present and future experiences. Those adhering to Karma see themselves as responsible for their own behavior and the pain or joy that behavior brings to others.

In the 24 years my wife and I have known one another, I've always struggled with her general method of disposing chewing gum. Though, to her defense, she is typically quite good about throwing it into hedges, bushes or flowerbeds where it will likely never be detected by another human until it realizes its "half-life" and disappears into the crust of the earth, still I've never been comfortable with disposing of chewing gum anywhere but in a trash can.

My sweet wife has always defended her practice and I've always complained about it because I have a frustrating habit of stepping on "improperly" disposed chewing gum. I've always contended that I'm reaping her bad "Karma" because she refuses to dispose of her gum where someone will most assuredly never contact it. She typically replies, "Get over it!" Or "watch where you're stepping." She rarely steps in gum. But my point is I rarely find my foot in the bottom of a trash can, but I do seem to step in gum with obnoxious regularity!

Recently, I've admitted to giving in to my spouse's disposal preferences -- I guess to see how the "other half" lives. In the past week or so, I've thrown my discarded gum into a hedge, a patch of ground covering and once, out the window on the freeway at about 70 mph. Well... last night, walking through the parking garage of a high-end business tower downtown, I stepped into a sticky "executive" wad of gum. Now... who's "karma" am I reaping this time? I don't know! The "executive's," my wife's, I don't pretend to know. That is a mystery! But one thing I do know is, I'm giving up...

Forget "Karma"... I'm going to stick (pardon the pun) with the words of Jesus, "So in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you, for this sums up the Law and the Prophets" (Matt. 7:12).

From now on, I'm throwing my gum away in the trash can! If everyone else does the same thing... I'll never have to worry about stepping in gum again! I've seen interesting collections of discarded gum under tables and chairs the world over. Is that better or worse? At least another person doesn't step in it!

Where does your discarded gum wind up? Let me know because I'm fairly certain to find it!

When Old Music Becomes New Again

Channel surfing only a few days ago, I stumbled on a concert by one of my all-time favorite bands. Styx, named after the mythical river of fire separating purgatory and hell, was one of those bands that purist rockers loved to hate but generally everyone else loved. Truth be told, even those purist rockers would have to admit to some good songs (though they would hide behind the veil of accused commercialism).

Only 2 1/2 of the original band members are left (the 1/2 is the remaining Panozzo brother (Chuck) who only comes out on stage occasionally to play a song or two when he feels up to it -- the other brother (John) tragically died from alcoholism).

For this televised concert, the band teamed up with a 115 member youth orchestra (Contemporary Youth Orchestra of Cleveland and a large youth chorus). I must admit that at first sight, I thought the gig would be lame. Just a bunch of washed up rockers trying to live off the music that made them famous some 30 years ago. Happily, I was quite surprised.

The quality of blending "old rockers" with amazing young musicians was well worth the two hours I invested in watching. Tommy Shaw and James "JY" Young can still "bring it" vocally and instrumentally, but the energy coming from those young musicians (all 13 - 19 years old) was inspiring. Following the concert Tommy Shaw stated "that may be the most fun Styx has ever had on stage. Ever!"

That made me think of something Paul once wrote to Timothy... "Don't let anyone look down on you because you are young, but set an example for believers in speech, in life, in love, in faith and in purity" (1 Tim 4:12). Though referencing an entirely different aspect of life, there is a helpful parallel.

When the young and the old come together, they can make beautiful "music," but success may largely be dependent upon the young accepting the old guy's songs and the old guys letting the "youth" play it their way!

To hear more...(click here)

What examples do you have of generational cooperation?

Dime For Your Thought

What with inflation over the years, certainly the thoughts of another are worth more than a penny. Let's blow right past the nickel and go straight to a dime! So, "a dime for your thoughts on this one."

Early this morning in the gym I was working triceps in front of the dumbbells (not the people, the weights) and down around the 45, 50 and 55 lbs assortment, I saw a dime lying face-down on the floor. In between the first and second sets, I began to wonder what the "righteous" thing to do would be regarding the dime. I've heard it said that one should never pick up a coin face-down due to "bad luck" coming upon the coin or the possessor. I don't believe in that kind of stuff so it was easily discounted (pardon the pun).

But my thoughts were toward whether it would be "right" to pick up the dime or is it more "righteous" to leave it there? I tried the WWJD (What Would Jesus Do) and couldn't resolve the matter. To me, there is righteousness in leaving it there -- my thought being someone else who might really need it would find it (but a person who really needs a dime probably isn't paying $28+ per month to work out at a gym!

I thought about the person who lost it and perhaps they would come back for it. It was still there when I left the workout floor.

I thought about righteously taking the dime and putting it toward something useful or beneficial for the sake of others. But I didn't do that either.

Could it be that what we do with a "dime" is reflective of what we would do with much more?

A dime for your thoughts...

Calling the Name

This morning, at the funeral of a friend and coworker's father, I heard the attending minister several times reference the phrase, "We call his name" and it caught my attention.

I'm familiar with the phrase as it refers to calling upon the name of the Lord as when Samuel called "upon the Lord" for thunder and rain (1 Sam 15:17) but I'm not familiar with it in regard to those of us who have gone on to be with the Lord. The "calling" the name of the deceased is something I'd not thought of previously. This idea has had me thinking the rest of the day. Not knowing if this is a phrase particular to the Christian fellowship to which this man was a member, I find it full of interesting thought and wrought with consideration.

The number of our days are known by the Lord before one of them comes into being (Ps. 139:16) and if we live conscienciously, we find ourselves therefore constantly "becoming" more of what God has created us to be. Daily we are part of a community of "becomings" and the degree to which we each "become" is the degree to which the entire community comes closer to God's intended reality.

I never knew the gentleman for whom we gathered to "call his name" today. But though I never knew him personally, I do feel that now, having "called his name," I feel more as though I do know him. As we collectively "called his name," others who did personally know the man stood and testified to his life and his "becoming." He was a God-lover, a humble man of humble means who served God, his fellow man and his church. In his passing, he is honored and revered by those who knew him well.

When the number of our days has come to a close, the one thing that remains is our name. Last night, while catching up on an old rock band I once followed, I "googled" one of the band member's names to see what ever became of him. I found that he died some 10 years ago and left little of a favorable legacy. He suffered from significant addictions that, ultimately, were responsible for his death in the flesh. "Calling on his name" (electronically) produced only a sad commentary on the 80's lifestyle of "sex, drugs and rock and roll."

"Calling the name" is the one thing that will exist far beyond our days. "Calling the name" will be a legacy and testimony to the degree of our becoming. Paul reminds his readers that "at the name of Jesus every knee will bow... and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father" (Phil. 2:10-11). There is something inherently powerful in "calling" His name.

We are all becoming, but what will be the word (or the confession), when they "call the name" that we have been given to wear?

When they "call my name" I pray it will look something like Jesus and will be at least something of what God intends me to be, becoming more and more like Jesus.

Missing Icons

Maybe ours were stolen? Maybe we couldn't afford them? Maybe they told a story about which we didn't agree? I just didn't know.

But I do remember when I was a kid I visited a Catholic mass with my next door neighbor friend. I think it must have been an obligatory visit because he had come to VBS all week with me and my family and his mom asked my mom if I could go to church with them the next Sunday. My mom said I "had to go because it was the polite thing to do." So, I went. It was a Sunday morning mass, too. It seemed I got a "full dose" of Catholicism at a tender young age.

At the time I wasn't really comfortable there. These people knelt on these little benches when they prayed. Everyone seemed to have known a "script" that I didn't know and so they knew when to speak to the guy up front in what appeared to be the coolest bath robe I had ever seen!

Just arriving there was an experience. The parking lot was full of cars and there were lots of people coming into the church. Our parking lot at my home church was rarely "full" and there definitely wasn't "standing room only" like there was here! I saw another friend from school there, he didn't look any more comfortable than I did, but he knew when to do that "thing" on his forehead and across his chest and I didn't. So, I didn't wave at him (because I didn't want to inadvertently commit to something or make a gesture that might imply I had come there for some kind of spiritual business I wasn't ready for -- I didn't really want to be one of those boys in the "junior" bath robes). Therefore, keeping my hands close to my sides, I just tried to look like I fit in.

Keeping my hands still wasn't easy from the start though. Walking in through the lobby, there was a bowl of water on a pedestal. My friend's parents put their hands in the bowl, then my friend's brother and sister and then he did, too. I used to play in the drinking fountain at the lobby of my church, but this wasn't a drinking fountain and everyone was doing it. Mom would have scolded me for not washing my hands long enough, but I guessed it wasn't about getting clean. I heard someone whisper something about "holy" water, but all I knew was it was cold and now my hands were wet. Left pant leg... end of problem!

When the "parade" started, I thought that was cool. Some little guys, a little older than me were walking into the church with a guy carrying something smoking. That was the coolest! I didn't know what it was, so I leaned toward the aisle to see if I could smell it. No good, but I followed it with my eyes all the way down the aisle. They also carried these big banners with pictures and words written on them. The words didn't make any sense to me, but I do remember beautiful rich colors and gold and silver lettering. They looked like curtains I'd seen in a really nice theater.

I checked out when the guy with the cool bathrobe started speaking a different language. Everyone else who knew the "script" spoke back in English, but I didn't know the script so I just knelt when they did, but the rest of the time I was looking at statues, stained glass window pictures and still trying to figure out what the smoking pot was all about.

Nearly 40 years later, the images are still there. Appreciated now with a far greater sense of understanding and purpose.

The next week -- Sunday -- in my home church, I was (confessedly) bored. The preacher didn't say anything funny that week and Mom didn't wear that bracelet I liked to play with. So... I just sat there, swinging my feet off the end of the pew pretending in my mind my legs were like that big carnival ride I saw in the parking lot of my friend's church a few weeks before. My church didn't do cool carnivals either. Something about not "fundraising" or something... my dad said when I asked him if we could have one, too.

So I just sat there... wondering what it would be like if my church had statues I could look at, stained glass pictures and other things that might tell a story or make me wonder more about God like I did at my friend's church.

I still wonder... are there missing icons?

What about you? Isn't it beneficial to sometimes have something to look at to help you understand the things you can't see? I'm glad I visited my friend's church that day, though at the time I didn't want to. It helped me to see then and helps me to see today the value of "seeing" things.

I wonder how much I'd miss if I couldn't see?

Icons.

Shadow of the Cross

This past Sunday morning, during the worship gathering in my home church, the worship planners had a graphic slide which really caught my attention. I tend to be a visual person and appreciate the thoughtful preparation those involved in the weekly planning of our worship experiences invest into each week's service by providing thoughtful visual content.

The slide catching my attention this week was the shadow of a cross being cast onto a polished stone wall (maybe marble). It was the kind of stone wall I've seen at the J. Paul Getty Museum in Los Angeles (one of my favorite places to go in the L.A. area). Polished but yet still having character, rough spots and crevices throughout, the stone has its own unique character. The stone and its finishing is truly a work of art in itself.

What really grabbed my attention in this moment though was not the stone, however beautiful in appearance, but the figure of the cross. I've heard the phrase the "shadow of the cross" of many years. In fact, I have used the phrase both in written and sermonic content and have utilized those words in my prayer life on countless occasions. But something struck with profound newness for me during worship... "What shadow do I cast?"

I've always taken the phrase to mean "living in the shadow of the cross of Jesus." By doing such, I am reminded of the atoning sacrifice of my Lord and the price that was paid for my straying heart. I've thought of it as a shield from the wrath of the Creator and a comfort and cooling protection from the scorch of the tempters flaming arrows. I'd never thought of it in terms of the shadow I cast before this moment.

Perhaps it was the angle of the photo? Maybe it was the use of light that caught my eye? Or, more likely, it was God calling me to reconsider a piece of my life that needs the attention of "Calvary's tree." What shadow am I casting?

If we "walk in the light, as he is in the light, we have fellowship with one another" (1 John 1:7). Fellowship with God is more than mere affiliation. It has a necessary element of reflection as well. Walking in the light of Christ will necessarily cast some shadow. I can't help but think of the occasion recorded in Acts 5:15 when people brought the sick into the streets and laid them on beds and mats so that at least Peter's shadow might fall on some of them as he passed by.

That, at least in my mind, is so pretty powerful "shadow casting!" Since Sunday morning I've been meditating, praying and wondering what kind of a shadow I'm casting. I'm asking God to reveal to me more of what other people see and I'm wondering if it looks "cross-like."

What does your shadow look like?

Of Cathedrals and Water Walking

I've heard it said that life and culture in the United States runs not far behind that of Europe and generally speaking, I believe it. Dotted across Europe stand centuries old cathedrals that Sunday after Sunday go empty and unused. Abandoned decades (if not centuries) ago, some are converted for alternative usage. Many are not, left to ruin. Recently, one cathedral was invovled in an interesting transformation. In Southwark Park, London, England artist Michael Cross (interesting coincidental surname) recently exhibited a site-specific commissioned work entitled "Bridge."

While the artist's surname may be coincidence, that fact the exhibit takes place in a discarded church building I doubt is any coincidence at all. The following is a brief write-up I found:

Housed in a former church, (one of the earliest examples of poured concrete construction and a Grade II listed building), the piece comprises submerging two thirds of the inside of the church in water, and producing a series of steps which rise out of the apparently empty man-made lake’ as you walk across them. Each step emerges one step in front of you and disappears back underneath behind you as you go. This bridge is purely mechanical, the weight of the person on it depresses each step a little, this force activates a submerged mechanism which raises the next step.

The public are invited to walk out on it as if walking on water, eventually reaching the middle of the lake, thirty steps and twelve meters from the shore. There they will stand alone and detached, stranded in the middle of a plane of water until they choose to return the way they came. For some people this experience of being cut off and surrounded by water will be peaceful, for others terrifying. For some walking across the water will be pure childish joy, whilst others will be too scared to try.

Honestly speaking, I have mixed emotions when I see this. I am impressed by the artistry and the engineering, but my heart sinks when considering if this is what is to become of churches in the US. Churches in this country are closing by the day. On the way to the church building in which I work, I pass several discarded church buildings now occupied by businesses or day care/schools. That alone is disturbing enough. How far are we from following in Europe's footsteps?

I guess what really troubles me is the interest, inquiry and the magnificent effort put forth to emulate an occurrance that Christ Jesus actually achieved in the flesh. Though magnificent in design and execution, isn't this art exhibit like handing a child a Stratavarius and expecting them to play Mozart? Something will fall miserably short in the process. It may feel like walking on water, but the most important experience is still left wanting!

I sincerely appreciate the asthetic experientialcial value of solitude and contemplation in a setting such as this. In fact, had I been in England during the run of this exhibition, I would have likely made a point of going and experiencing the "Bridge" myself. I'm all about tactile experience, especially ones that promote my continuing relationship with Jesus Christ. Merely being in a church building of that vintage does things to me anyway. It is emotionally stirring to stand gazing up into those flying buttresses and "hearing" the worship of saints long since departed.

What I have to wonder is why must we pursue the experience allegedly apart from the One who accomplished it. That chime of clarity rings as loudly as carillion bells in my awareness of getting experience before relationship. Shouldn't we realize our desperate need to experience the "Man" long before we experience the "experience" itself. While I'm not suggesting a relationship with Jesus Christ will result in the experience of walking on water, I do believe we will experience more than we can ask or imagine (1 Cor. 2:6-16; Eph. 3:20).

There is a "bridge" to cross the great distance between where we are and where Jesus is. It is not found imitating His miraculous journey across water, it is found in knowing Him and being aware of how well we are known by Him. The "bridge" is relationship and that is something even a man named Cross can not achieve for his own. He too, finds it in submission to the One who is known by the Cross in order that we might begin "walking on water" with the One who actually did it in the first place.

Creation's Confetti

The Creator's canvas across the Dallas County skyline is changing -- beautifying with each passing morning. While it will never rival the masterpiece that is New England in the Fall, both native and newcomer to North Texas will appreciate what relative volume of autumn's leaves befall us this time each year.

On this morning's ride into the office, the beauty was appreciable. Brilliant splashes of yellows and golds accented by rich hues of red and burnt amber. Color is such an amazing thing when one takes the time to let it saturate the field of vision. The courtyard below my office window is exploding today in brilliant red. Wishing I could stay and watch long enough to actually see the colors change, I realistically return to the tasks of the day.

Riding at a brisk pace through the backroads from my residence to the trappings of the city early this morning, the leaves were beginning their annual descent to the ground. What a marvelous celebration of creation and the cycles of life! It was glorious having the leafs fall around me and to stir those already resting on the pavement with a quick twist of the throttle. Ah, how blessed the choreography of the foliage under the direction of the stirring acceleration. A merited encore is cheered for the wondrous dance in my side mirrors.

Enjoying this natural confetti, I began to reflect on the things for which the Divine may be celebrating today. Perhaps the spiritual rebirth of countless numbers who today have given their devotion to the risen Christ or maybe an expression of justice and mercy to one who is impoverished or downtrodden. The poor are not far from the heart of God. He would rejoice for the prodigal come home or the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.

There is so much for which the Divine might rejoice! (Limited in the depth of meditation allowed on the back of a motorcycle, I dare not think of many more instances on the point, for safe riding demands much attention and coordination. "Hey, look out for that tree... !).

A breeze has blown all afternoon, thus accelerating the descent of Fall's beauty. Before all color is gone and Creation's celebration moves to another phase of partying, may I recommend you take time to soak in the festivities? Creation's "confetti" is flying and the big thunderous noisemakers are likely not too far away (cooler weather and potential storms are forecast for the weekend) to be followed eventually by the hush of snow's blanketed stillness.

Take in the glory and celebrate with the One who has made it all! This is a glorious time of year!

Life is an amazing party with the Creator, isn't it?

How have you responded to His invitation?

Sacred Space

"Now Moses was tending the flock of Jethro his father-in-law, the priest of Midian, and he led the flock to the far side of the desert and came to Horeb, the mountain of God. There the angel of the Lord appeared to him in flames of fire from within a bush. Moses saw that though the bush was on fire it did not burn up. So Moses thought, "I will go over and see this strange sight -- why the bush does not burn up."

When the Lord saw that he had gone over to look, God called to him from within the bush, "Moses! Moses!" And Moses said, "Here I am." "Do not come any closer," God said. "Take off your sandals, for the place where you are standing is holy ground." (Ex. 3:1-5)

One has to love Moses' curiosity. Did he react any differently than we might? I don't believe so. He was going to simply check out why a bush could burn from within and not be consumed by the fire. That is honest curiosity, isn't it? Curiousity overcame any moment of fear or judgement and Moses found an encounter that changed his personal life and the life of his people forever.

For a good part of my childhood, we removed our shoes when we came into the house. Although quite common across the world (it has been suggested as much as 80% of the world's population remove outdoor shoes before entering a private home), this custom gets away from many Americans. Beyond merely soiling the floors of the home (especially in a region with frequent rain and subsequent mud), there is a custom of humility and honor present in removing one's shoes. When I visit homes that practice this, I instantly feel more welcomed and a part of the home itself.

For Moses that day, he'd been tending the flock near Horeb, perhaps for some time when an angel of the Lord appeared in the bush. I wonder if Moses had seen that bush before (pre-ignition)? Was it recognized? It easily could have been a bush he'd seen many times before. Familiarity might explain Moses' innocence in approaching with his sandals on. He'd likely been there before -- only this time, things were different; much different!

What made the space sacred that day was not the fire in the bush, it was the presence of the Lord. Once the reality of things hit his awareness, Moses hid his face, "because he was afraid to look at God" (3:6). That space would be forever changed in the life of Moses. What did he experience the next time he saw the bush? Was he tempted to take the bush with him? No... in leading the Israelites out of slavery, he went with the One who was in the bush. He didn't need the bush itself, only the God present in the bush!

The Arrowhead Water Bottling Company owns a series of wells in the mountains of So. California. On a little private hike while attending a conference center located close to those wells, I had a particularly clarifying experience with God at the well simply named "#1." The well, though clearly remembered as the sight of my encounter is not nearly as important to me as the encounter itself. The ground around the well and the rock I sat upon has little to do with the sacred part of the experience. The sacred element was being in the presence of God and that He cared enough to meet me there.

Do you have a sacred space? Too often in seeking God we concern ourselves with finding the "space" rather than finding the One who is willing to occupy the space. Our behavior is more as if Moses had been looking for an enflamed bush rather than merely being open and willing to hear from God when He appeared. Perhaps our "pre-ignited" spaces are too tight or too restrictive for God's presence? It would serve us well to merely welcome His presence wherever He may choose to arrive.

Are you concentrating more on looking for a sacred place or on looking for the One who makes all space sacred?

Integral Creation

A friend was once so consumed with working in her yard that if she were not able to get her hands "dirty" every few days, things just didn't seem right with her. Expressed on more than one occasion, she spoke of the fact she, "loved the feeling of dirt." She'd also comment on the "aroma" of newly tilled soil and how much she loved smelling it. Not quite on a par with obsession, I would still suggest her to be somewhat consumed by it all.

Flowers were her thing. If I recall, Sweet Pea was one of her favorites. The way she spoke of them was almost as if they were beloved friends. Beautiful in color and texture, she had quite an affinity for them. Knowing what I now know of her life then, it seems as though time in the garden and among those flowers was something of a refuge for her. A heartsick soul at that time in her life, the floral beauty of Sweet Pea may have been the grandest beauty around her.

Christianity's earliest theologians spoke often and well of creation. They saw creation as a physical representation of God's presence among them. Creation was more than a sign, it was a sacrament -- a divine language -- by which God reaches out and communicates with the humanity living in creation. As Christians, we should be the first among many who find resonance with creation. But sadly, such often is not the case. Ironically, it even appears we may be among the last!

Christians today are more suspicious of people who worship through nature than those who (actually) worship titles, positions and objects of human creation. Mankind's own greed and selfishness allows the "steamrolling and bulldozing" of creation in order to build our "temples" of capitalist "worship." Where is the disconnect? Maybe it is in the dirt?

Not yet to the level of my dirt-loving friend, one day I was cleaning a flower bed around my house and I smelled it -- that aroma with which my friend was quite familiar. It seemed as though very familiar with dirt (I loved playing in dirt as a kid -- the more grass stains the better, too), I had smelled it (again) for the first time. The smell came in through my nostrils but reached deeply and touched my heart. It was as if I had made a connection with something profound...

"...the Lord God formed the man from the dust of the ground
and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life,
and the man became a living being."
(Gen. 2:7)

So much of human life today is spent "doing" rather than "being." So much is this the case, some people express difficulty in even knowing how to merely "be." If attempted, time spent "being" is typically held under the suspicious scrutiny of "time management" and questioned for its validity and purposefulness. "Being" falls victim to the tyranny of "doing" and we miss the integral link to creation itself. Can an hour on a bench in a park really be productive or is it merely a ruse for the lazy?

How can we appreciate the breath of life breathed into each one of us, if we never appreciate the "dirt" from which we've come, into which that breath is wonderfully blown? We must stop and contemplate the "dirt" if we're ever to appreciate the "breath."

Winter is coming. Fall is a great time to plant a tree. Perhaps more than providing future shade for a moment of springtime contemplation, perhaps the mere planting will bring a sense of meaning to your soul? We are, after all, but of breath, dirt and life.

Your thoughts?

Listening...

It's late as rain rolls off the roof and onto the drive outside our home office window. Eyes closed, I imagine hearing the muffled drums of revolutionary war soldiers marching on to yet another battle. "Blat; blat; rat-tatta-tat-tat-tat."

I hear the "splishing-splashing" of my kids only a few years ago, when they were so young, as evening hours fell in the waning moments of bath time... "Splish... splish...splat!" "Time for bed little ones," would come the call. Nestled, secure, safe and off to dreamland they would go.

Falling harder now... Imagine the rolling of fingers and thumbs on a waiting room side table as the patient sits, awaiting the news from the medical test. The pattern is steady, not loud enough to offend or irritate, but certainly present to all close by. Nervous tension is broken only by the sound itself. Waiting... waiting... what will they say?

A brilliant flash of light... now an instantaneous "crack" as thunder peals across the North Texas sky. No metaphor. No simile. No imagination. The sound is altogether unique.

Is it He who rides the ancient skies above?

"Sing to God, O kingdoms of the earth,
sing praise to the Lord,
to him who rides the ancient skies above,
who thunders with mighty voice."
(Ps. 68:32-33)

Shhhh... listen, now. Listen.

He speaks, but would we be among those who listen?

"Then the Lord spoke to Job out of the storm...
...Do you have an arm like God's,
and can your voice thunder like his?"
Job. 40:6,9

Listen. Listening...

Crossing Over

Up late last night, channel surfing seemed like the right amount of exercise before retiring from a long week. Catching a channel or two of innane TV (in my opinion it is difficult to find much substance these days on the airwaves), I came across an episode featuring a man I've seen before. His claim is to have the ability to "cross over" and communicate with those who have departed life in the flesh. If lacking authenticity, he and his audience members do a convincing job of playing out their scripts. If authentic, it is interesting observing how much effort is taken (both on this side and the other side) to instill peace and comfort for those who are left remaining on this earth.

Typically, this TV personality is communicating to remaining family members from his "readings" of the departed. Sometimes the departed are quite animated and emphatic to stress that everything "over here" is fine! Fascinating, really.

The most difficult audience members for me to watch are the parents of children who have "gone out of season." The "medium" often says the same thing, "I know this is difficult for you because what has happened to you isn't the way it is supposed to be. A parent is supposed to die before the child," he suggests.

To watch these parents not only struggle with the loss of child(ren), but to deal with their own guilt, questions of parenting, etc. is a heart rending thing. Authentic or not, the burden these people carry is worthy of attention,prayer and is quite authentic. Having personally never lost a child, and praying I never do, I appreciate we all live in the reality that it could happen (either as child or as parent). (Note: as my first child approaches the driving age, this is why I'd like to buy her a Sherman Tank as her first vehicle, but I can't afford one and I've heard the gas mileage and maintenance costs are horrible!).

In a couple hours, my family will attend the funeral of someone we've only met once. A lovely lady who lived to the ripe age of 95, we are attending to "mourn with those who mourn" (Romans 12:15) and are honored to do so. Closer to her grandchildren and great grandchildren than we were to her, we go to gather by their sides and renew old friendships in the process.

Though we go to mourn, I anticipate there will be less mourning and more rejoicing. The lady's son has already sent out email notices to this point. LuLu "crossed over" confident in her relationship with the Creator. A lifelong follower of Christ, she lived out her time faithfully and well. Crossing over for her seems to be as natural as turning off the TV and going to bed, only to rise in a far, far better place where there shouldn't be any difficulty finding something Good to "watch."

Blessings to her 95 years and to her family who celebrate them.

Sacred Little... Venti Philosophy, Part 2

Life is certainly not about coffee, but coffee can certainly be about life and is most definitely part of mine. Strange how but only a few years ago, I merely admired the aroma of the bean. Now, I can objectively say while free from addiction, I do enjoy it as much as any other consumable. Ahh coffee... tis a good thing!

Imagine my shock and dismay this morning when S'bucks was out of venti cups! I mean... how does that happen? What manager slipped a cog and arranged this fiasco! Oh, the humanity... this is upheaval of epic proportion! What is a venti guy supposed to do? I mean, they didn't even offer to throw my venti into two tall cups... venti wasn't an option this morning and if I sound a bit cranky, well... let's just appreciate that I'm a "shot" low off my normal intake! I mean... is a Grande really going to get the job done! C'mon... who forgets to order cups? It's not like there was a run on venti this morning, was there?

Later that day...

(Okay... group let's begin... Christopher: "Hi, I'm Christopher and I'm a venti addict." Group: "Hi, Christopher").

Surely I jest... however... One of last week's entries queried this issue of "bigger being better." We all fall victim to"bigger is better" ("more is best") eventually and then, once coming to our senses, we wonder how we can handle such a big "thing" (over-extended debt; keeping up a house so large; pumping even more fossil fuel into such a vehicular beast; ridding the moths feasting on clothes we haven't worn in ages; etc.). We begin to wonder where the "bigger is better" ("more is best") mentality even originates.

The point of origination might be a matter of perspective or disposition. I've known "depression babies" who justify excess as compensation for doing without for so many years. I've heard "boomers" express an almost innate need to "keep up" with their neighbors. I've observed others who simply justify it because they can "afford" it.

Exposing the "reason" may be as difficult as turning a lump of coal into a diamond in your bare hands, but one thing aiding any realization in the matter is to simply concentrate on the "little"... the sacred little.

All around us, every day of our existence, thanksgiving awaits in the "little" things. For example, before finishing this sentence, simply hold your breath and don't take another. It's okay... I'll wait............


You didn't pass out, did you? The reason: you needed that next breath. We all do. Anyone who has suffered with respiritory illness understands the value of a clear full breath. Too often, "bigger is better" ("more is best") is not a function of "need" but of "want." Eventually, we come to realize that we can trust our "needs" much more than we can trust our "wants."

Becoming aware of our language, we often convolute our "needs" with our "wants." How many times do we stand at the ice cream counter and say, "I need a double strawberry and cream on a waffle cone." Do we really "need" it? Is it a function of our survival? We may think so, but I reckon not.

What if you chose to live the rest of the day conscious of every breath. Would it transform your awareness of the "little" things? Breathe in... breathe out... breathe in... being aware of every single one. How precious are the little things! There are days I'm completely unaware of my breath. Imagine missing such a "little" thing that is so incredibly "big!"

While you may not be ready to sell the car, or downsize the new house... try being aware of your breath. Breathe (please do), but breathe with an appreciation for the "sacred little" and let it transform your perspective on the "venti" matters of life.

Next breath...

Trick or Treat?

Surely the energy will run out on the dressing up, knocking doors and asking for candy, won't it? As a culture, we've long since dispensed of the practice of offering the "trick" and merely gone for the "treat." These days, the "trick" takes much too much effort in a hectic, non-stop culture to work very hard on a "trick" and so the "treat" is an easy payoff... about $2.50 per bag as I figure it. A couple bags will "git er done."

At this point in the lives of my two kids, the candy isn't even a motivation anymore. It is merely about being with friends, dressing up and living out the last years of adolescence. As a parent, it is strange to watch the whole process begin to go away. Cute little girls once dressed as princesses or ladybugs or fairies have given way to young women, dressed as women, playing out one of the last chapters of childhood. It seems like only yesterday...

Long after the door-to-door candy runs are a thing of the past, costumes will still be worn. Their mother and I went to a business event this past weekend. Everyone was festively festooned... some costumes were surely rented and I'm guessing for a handsome price, too. One doesn't come decked out to the nines as the Pope without shelling out some cash! Our "candy" that night? A fully catered meal from Culpeppers... a regularly featured restauant in "D" Magazine and an upper-crust Dallas favorite. If you haven't had the stuffed crab legs, well... "trick or treat" for those and take the trick if you have to!

I believe there is still some innocence left in my girls... the younger dressed tonight as a football player complete with glare block on her cheeks. Oh, she could have been "Miss Arizona" or "Miss Texas" like her big sister and close neighbor friend, but she's still hanging more closely to her youth. But for all of them, it is a process of moving on that even they don't really recognize. One day they will realize it though, and everything will have changed. Good thing I imagine. Life will be complicated soon enough, they need not rush for the world pushes them fast enough.

Today, circumstances called for me to look again into the mirror of self-reflection. Do we ever stop growing up? My adolescent growing pains were painful (leg cramps were the worst!). Spiritual growing pains are nonetheless severe even in mid-life. By now, (for the most part) our behaviors themselves are mostly righteous and good. What is really painful is when we begin looking at our true self and try to ascertain the deepest portions of who we are. If we are willing to go there, it won't be long before we long for childhood again, the days where merely wearing a costume would change our dispositions and (for a moment) we could be someone else. Adults can still pick some good costumes.

Getting to the depths of who we really are is what growing up is really all about. We may wander for a long time, "costumed" and falling victim to the "trick." Or, we can remove the mask, resist the denial, wrestle with the truth and perhaps, through it all, find the "treat."

We never stop growing up, do we?

Trick or treat?

Yes, trick or treat!

Another Man's Baby

The past several days I've been sitting with a friend's baby. It has been a long time since I've had the responsibility to care for another's. And when I have, it has only been for a few hours or maybe a day, but never for this long. We've been together for nearly a week now and that is something new for me.

As the day to take delivery arrived, I sensed a little anxiety welling in me. To care for something so precious for this period of time is a task from which many might shy away. But for me, and because of the trust my friend has put in me, I felt honored in the role.

In fact, before leaving town, he made it abundantly clear that I was the only one he would trust with his little beauty. Therefore, I feel honored indeed! I reassured him I would take care of her as if she were my own -- probably even better!

The day the carrier full of joy arrived, it was a cold, overcast and rainy day. I wanted to protect her from getting wet, but I forgot my umbrella. "Yeah," I thought self-critically. "We're off to a really great start, aren't we?" I chided myself. "Some babysitter you are!" I continued on.

Mind you, it is not that she couldn't handle the moisture, she is quite resilient. Yet, I wanted to show the care, concern and responsibility my friend knew I could provide. Though some rain got on her, I was quick on the draw with a fresh clean towel. "Good as new," I said as I wiped the last drop away. Surely she knew she was in good hands. Though unaccustomed to some things about her, I did feel a bond early on. I felt we'd soon be friends and neither of us were disappointed in that regard. What a fun time we've had together! A stroll around the neighborhood, we went shopping together and took a short drive on the Interstate. She was very well behaved every time we went out.

I noticed several people admire her while we were out. While I was proud of her as if she were mine, I was quick to say "... yeah, a friend of mine... beautiful, isn't she? Yes, he's quite proud of her!" was my response to admirers.

To take care of another's has inherent risks. What if I don't show the same care they do? What if I do something wrong? What if they judge the care I've shown as unfit? Would they ever trust me with something so valuable again? It can be a little stressful.

It makes me think of the role Jesus Christ has given to His followers to care for the church. It is a beloved child of the Father -- the "bride" of the Son. What a precious thing to care for and yet, people are so quick to criticize or even neglect her. Have we missed something of her value? Do we fail to see how incredibly diverse and yet unified she can be? It causes me deep concern when I think about it. Maybe we should stop taking care of it like it is ours, and begin taking care of it like it belongs to someone else? Would things change? Perhaps so!

Several days have passed and tomorrow the baby will be returning home into the arms of her beloved. I know he's excited to see her again. The couple of times he's called, I told him all about her and the special things I've done for her. "She's sparkling and radiant," I told him with confidence. She was sitting right in front of me the last time we talked, when I told him all about the fun we'd had while he's been gone. I wonder if he might even be a little jealous?

So, tomorrow I'll have to say, "Goodbye." I've wiped her down for the last time and filled her up with the best I could buy at the Tom Thumb and now... we wait for my trusting friend to return to pick up his "baby."

If I may speak quite frankly, she's not exactly the kind of baby I'd want for my own. She's a little slow to get going. Now, that may be because, in my humble opinion, she's a little on the chunky side even though she's only one year old. But... after spending a few days together, she's earned new respect in my eyes. I might like to have one just like her some day! My wife certainly enjoyed our time with her.

One of my babies has the same maker... so we'll just have to see if there is another "match made in heaven" out there somewhere. Who knows?

Never judge another man's "baby," until you've at least ridden a few miles in his saddle!

Welcome home my friend... nothing but open road ahead! Why don't we take our "babies" for a spin?

Changing Seasons

While the leaves have already changed in the northeastern portion of this nation, here in Dallas things are moving a bit more slowly. October is always a fickle time of year in the Lone Star state. Will it be cold? Maybe. Will it be hot? Probably. Will it rain? Possibly. Will it snow? It could...you'll just have to wait and see. October is meteorological "mystery" month in North Texas.

It has become enjoyable for me to live in a place that has some distinction of season. In my former mostly desert place of residence, there were basically two seasons: hot and hotter. While the Bermuda grass did go dormant for a few months in "winter" as it was, we were always quick to overseed with rye grass to maintain the green hues in a landscape dominantly cast in browns, tans and neutrals. Not nearly as many people overseed their lawns here. It may merely be due to the size of the lawns (everything's bigger in Texas) or it may simply have something to do with appreciating the marking of the seasons.

Some leaves have begun to change here, but a few colder nights will be required before fall really kicks into gear in North Texas. When it comes, and it will come, it will seem as if to come virtually overnight. Another ten degrees will fall off the overnight thermometer and that will be that. Fall will roll right into winter and I'll be sucking up oak leaves with a yard vac.

When winter hits in Dallas (one good ice storm can quickly get the job done) everything turns gray. Trees are stripped bare to the bark. Many days seem to have a gray lens over them but there is something appropriate about it all. A season to fit the times. Christmas fires are warmer when the leaves are gone and the grass quietly sleeps in a slightly mellow yellow tone. It is right to pause and let nature take its course. Overseeding is certainly optional and not necessarily preferred.

In the seasons of our souls, isn't it appropriate there be marks of change? When bitter cold breaks into life, the leaves turn and fall, the grass withers and sleeps, why are we often so quick to "overseed" as if to cover up the inevitable dormancy of the soul's "winter" months?

"There is a time for everything,
and a season for every activity under heaven..."
(Ecc. 3:1)

Observing the changes in your spiritual year, would distinctive seasons be apparent? Are you stuck in Spring where only beautiful blooms are allowed to grow? Or has winter fallen upon you with such a continuing force, there is no hope for the grass to come back or for the birds to return to nesting to bring a new generation of life?

"[God] has made everything beautiful in its time.
He has also set eternity in the hearts of men;
yet they cannot fathom what God has done from
beginning to end"
(Ecc. 3:11)

Perhaps if we were to better mark the "seasons" of our spiritual lives, we would at least better fathom what God has done and may be doing now?

The grass has yellowed, the leaves have fallen, I now stand bare before the Lord. In His good time, the Spring will come and with it, new life.

Venti Philosophy

Sipping another Venti cup this morning, curiosity got the best of me. Why purchase a Venti, anyway? Is it a function of value? Is it evidence of a growing dependency on the bean? Is it veiled prestige? Why not a simple Grande or even a Tall? Frankly, if it isn't a hot Venti in my hand, somehow it feels like I've been jipped.

While trying to drive, sip and not spill on my shirt, I pull up next to a Hummer. Not the "mini me" versions H-2 and now H-3 mind you, but the original behemoth, H-1. Looking eye-to-hub level with their right front tire, I had to wonder, "Why?" Though it is raining today (something North Texas needs in desperate measure), I'm quite confident the urban princess behind the wheel will not be taking it off road today. "Does that vehicle ever get exercised to its full (amazing) off-road potential?" I wonder with a skeptics inquiry.

Are we Americans victimized by a "bigger is better" mentality? For some, the audacity of owning a Mini Cooper is unthinkable, unless of course it is for the shear novelty of it all. "Look at the cute little car," they'll say. Never acknowledging that Europeans have driven the Mini for half a century and consider it a quite viable means of transportation.

My curiosity wanders to acts of service as a follower of Christ. If "bigger is best," what values get swept away into the novelty of "mini" service? What Christ-like mercies are expeditiously dispensed as all too common place or perhaps just meaningless? A wave, a smile, a held door, a yield in traffic (even to the smaller vehicle -- today, the Hummer overtook my right-of-way and who am I to put up a mere 4-door-sedan's protest?)... do any of these mercies still have a place in being "salt" and "light" to a self-centered "bigger is best" world?

The Venti philosophy is all about what I want, that is the bottom line. I desire the larger cup, therefore I buy. Justified in my mind as the higher value -- but at what cost?

That will be $4.11 Christopher.

See you next time.

Village Expressions and My Kid

The African proverb, while full of wisdom and truth, remains rather cliche for most. Rarely does one have the pleasure of witnessing the beauty of the truth first hand, in a singular moment in space and time. Tonight, I did. "It takes a village to raise a child."

My older daughter is finding her way in the world ironically on the stage of make-believe. Drama has captivated the imagination and talents of my first born sophomore starlet and tonight a local sandwich shop generously offered the drama department at our high school 50% of the receipts from 5 to 8pm. A kind gesture from a local business owner who is willing to "give back" to his (or her) "village." Village expression #1.

Arriving about 45 minutes later than I intended (rehearsal for Robin Hood ran late, making my not-yet-to-be-driving daughter totally dependent upon parental transportation), I walked into the shop delighted to see many of our friends from the drama department hanging out and eating dinner. It is nice when a village dines together -- telling stories of the day's adventures -- dreams of the future. Laughing and carrying on -- it is a beautiful thing. Village expression #2.

Generationally, the night was interesting to observe. Three generations of family sat and ate dinner at our table. I noticed several other families having the same familial dynamic mine shared. Kids, parents, grandparents, perhaps some aunts and uncles mixed in for fun. The director's parent's showed up with friends in tow. Former drama students now since graduated and moving on to professional theater opportunities came back and visited as well. A sense of giving back to the program that helped to make them what they are becoming. Village expression #3.

This afternoon, as almost something of an afterthought, I quickly sent out an email to about 50 coworkers, church leaders and friends I thought might be looking for a way to avoid cooking dinner tonight -- and help contribute 50% of their tab to the drama program. To my amazement many of those I contacted showed up to lend their support. One friend even got his meal to go and took it home, just to lend support to my daughter's interests. Village expression #4.

One of the families responding to my email petition by coming to dinner are especially dear to my heart. Their 10 month old son and I have this little thing going. I can't explain it, but there is some kind of connection there. Tonight, I was honored to gift him with his first cup of ice cream and even got to feed him a little of it. You've not seen funny until you've seen a 10-month-old kid with "brain freeze." His eyes told the whole story -- words not necessary! Hearing him screech when his mommy took a bite was priceless as well -- but again, 50% of the proceeds went to support my "little" girl who always seems to screech when I take a bite of her ice cream! Village expression #5.

For some, it may be simply a proverb bordering on the cliche. For me, it was a night well spent and I sincerely thank all my "village people" for helping to raise my kid.

Blessings to all.

The Wisdom of Coffee

I've not always been a coffee drinker. In fact by another's experiences, it might be nearly amazing I made it through a couple master's degrees and never previously touched the stuff (however, Mt. Dew was a pretty good substitute). I'd simply never acquired a taste for the bitter bean, but will admit the smell has always drawn some attention from my nostrils.

These days, I'm beginning to wonder if there is some serious dependency going on inside of me. Freshly brewed coffee is a staple around our office -- my good friend and coworker even has his own machine in his office and mixes an incredible blend of some exotic S-brand grind with a nationally known F-brand. When it is brewing it smells strangely like someone just smoked a cigarette, but man... does it taste great! He has said, "Fill your cup any time." I'm confident I fill my cup more than even he is aware. Aren't good friends great? Especially when they can brew a mean cup of java!

Just a week or two ago, our office also added this really cool coffee system that makes individual cups of coffee through these little "pods." It is really good coffee and you never have to wonder how long that pot as been sitting there or how many "alien" creatures have practiced their backstroke through it. Lately it has been malfunctioning and spewing half its contents onto the countertop, but that is supposed to be rectified soon. I sure hope so! When my friend's brew is found wanting, I'm typically found wanting!

So, the long and short of it is, I'm now certifiably "coffee-fied." I've got my own venti sized stainless steel, hermetically sealed, caribeener clip, deep burgundy colored caraffe that keeps the best brew warm for a long season of sipping. I can fairly well discern various variety of bean (Jamaican, Colombian, African, Kona Hawaiian, etc.)... can wrangle the strongest hooch S-bucks can throw down, straight up without cream or sugar -- though a "black and white" (Venti, non-fat, 2 1/2 pump mocha, 2 1/2 pump vanilla, hold the whip, one raw sugar) can really taste great on a cool early morning. If I'm not careful, my S-bucks coffee "need" can exceed my weekly gas budget (okay, before you cast the first cup of judgment, remember I ride a motorcycle most of the time -- and gas prices are recently plummeting!). And all of this in the matter of only about four years! I only started drinking coffee through the influence of a couple Christian brother's with whom I met once per week at S-bucks. Now, I'm hooked. Does anyone know of a 12-step coffee program?

Finishing one of those "black and whites" the other night -- yeah, not smart, I was up until 3 am as a result -- I noticed on the side of my cup printed "The Way I See It #158" and thought it profound enough I ripped it off the cup and have been meditating on it for several days over additional cups 'o "joe." The quote has stuck with me enough, I thought I'd share it with you...

"It's tragic that extremists co-opt the notion of God,
and that hipsters and artists reject spirituality out of hand.
I don't have a fixed idea of God.
But I feel that it's us -- the messed-up, the half-crazy, the burning, the questing --
that need God, a lot more than the goody-two-shoes do."
-- Mike Doughty, musician

I'm thinking the thought applies to this coffee-head quite well.

Just wondering what your reaction might be? Care to share?

I'll pour.

Everpresent

What I choose to do for "fun" is clearly dangerous. Admitting the obvious isn't too difficult, especially in light of an incident that occurred a few weeks ago. As the old motorcycling adage goes, "It's not 'if' but 'when' (details are merely details at this point -- and courage need not dwell on details)." But, by mysterious compulsion, all is back to normal and I'm riding again.

Yesterday's ride to the office was shrouded in surreal ambiance. Fog was heavy, near the ground and thick. Traveling from our home on the "outskirts" of town allowed the fog to gather heavily around acreage, small lakes and residential ponds. Riding ever cautiously (perhaps even more so, now) ambient transitions were quite pronounced. Enveloped from one fog bank to another provoked a strong sense of gathering in me as if I were being welcomed in by the morning mist. Was this a taunting by the sirens of danger? A quick flash of doubt beckoned the question, "Why do I do this, again?" "Back you tremptress of fear and boring transportation!" was my quick reply.

Collecting all over the front of my bike and on the helmet's faceshield, the misty experience was bordering on nuisance until a thought hit me like a 100 mph gust." He is with you -- the Lord is as everpresent as this mist." Suddenly, though nothing around me had changed, it was as if everything within me did. A rush of Divine presence swept through me as swiftly as a well executed turn. Effortlessly smooth... He is this close, always!

The envelopment of fog took on new meaning. Still riding with caution, my spirit relaxed in the present awareness that God is always this close -- I'm just too often not this aware of His presence. As fog elevates the need for a rider's attention, so does the presence of the Lord. Wider eyed, quicker to respond, God's presence should call out the best of one's heart, skills and abilities.

He is not far from any one of us. Recognizing His voice with increasing frequency requires discipline. Sensing His presence requires an ever-developing awareness. He is present -- the Everpresent -- and His love for you is "everlasting to everlasting" (Ps. 103).

Closer to the heart of the city, the mist and fog began to rise -- but I am left with this reminder: He remains everpresent.

Praise His holy name.