Into the West Texas Sun

Walking for Groceries

2011-06-02T14:41:00.001-07:00

Jerry dreams he’s baking cookies. The smell is peaceful and inviting but as he unwisely rushes to open the oven he gets too close and the heat backs him up enough to make him quickly check the status of his eyebrows. Awake now, he peers through his fingers at the brutal west Texas sun already threatening to make a gingerbread man of him. It’s grocery day, and the clock is running.

He earned a little cash the night before by sweeping the sidewalk and a few parking spaces for a nearby restaurant. The owner caught him hanging around the dumpster in the back and decided to put a broom in his hand. As Jerry collected the ten spot he’d earned the owner also handed him a dinner to go. It was a pretty good night and Jerry thanked him in an overly enthusiastic way that made the restaurateur’s eyes cast about for an exit. “Cool it,” Jerry warned himself a little too loudly, “don’t screw this up.” Jerry got home with his meal and forced himself to eat slowly. He opened a rusty tin lunch box and pulled out a pencil. Tearing off a bit of the bag from the restaurant he carefully noted as much as he could remember about the time, day of the week, and the owner’s name from his plastic tag. Hunger made it hard to retain details and Jerry wasn’t even as sharp as his pencil these days. The pencil and scrap of paper went into the box and became part of the file that kept him alive.

This morning Jerry realized he couldn’t remember his last bath or haircut. He looked worn…feral. Unlike the crazies he often met, he was aware of how unpleasant his presence was to the soap and deodorant crowd. He kept his distance and stayed down wind when possible. He is a gentleman, which is rare for any station of life. He grabbed his two canvas bags, decorated with the pretty logos of those ever so slightly pretentious little grocery stores, and shuffled down the street: proud, because plastic is so down and out looking. He made his way down an already hot sidewalk, the heat reaching up onto the soles of his feet and prodding him to move a little faster. His normal route would take him past three churches, all locked, not to keep Jerry out necessarily but to discourage the city’s spoiled and frustrated offspring from trashing their worship space as a form of nihilistic expression.

Ten dollars won’t get you very far, even at the big box discount places that specialize in processed foods that make the poor fat, so Jerry frequents a tired old grocery store that peaked with Studebakers and movies that featured morality as a desired character trait. The checkers and baggers, who look as worn and weary as you’d expect, know him and hold back the expired, damaged, uneaten, and unsellable. They fill his bags with all they can hold and accept whatever he brings. He feels good about paying something; they feel good about feeding someone. The smiles are genuine. If it weren’t for the background noise of deep sadness the song they sing would be sweet. Nevertheless, an ancient grace attends their transaction and sings its own song:

What do people gain from all their labors at which they toil under the sun? Generations come and generations go, but the earth remains forever. The sun rises and the sun sets and hurries back to where it rises. The wind blows to the south and turns to the north; round and round it goes, ever returning on its course. All streams flow into the sea, yet the sea is never full. To the place the streams come from, there they return again. All things are wearisome, more than one can say. The eye never has enough of seeing, nor the ear its fill of hearing. What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun. Is there anything of which one can say, “Look! This is something new”? It was here already, long ago; it was here before our time. No one remembers the former generations, and even those yet to come will not be remembered by those who follow them. ~Ecclesiastes 1:3-11 (NIV)

Jerry doesn’t think much about work and toil; or even about being remembered by anyone. He does think about that scorcher of a sun waiting to liquefy him like a dropped Popsicle on an uncovered porch so he leaves the safety of the frozen food coolers and strikes out for home. Along the way he waves at drivers (who try hard not to see him but do anyway), pets dogs (who like the way he smells), and inadvertently scares children (who’ve been told they’ll end up like him if they don’t add threat here ). Jerry is not a saint, or a prophet, or even a token symptom of a broken world. He’s just Jerry; living life, waiting on God, avoiding the sun, and knowing that walking for groceries today was a blessing.

The painting is, "The Angel, Standing in the Sun" by William Turner , 1846

A note a day for Holy Week-Come Saturday morning

2011-04-23T07:00:00.000-07:00

Come Saturday morning
I'm going away with my friend
We'll Saturday-spend till the end of the day
Just I and my friend
We'll travel for miles in our Saturday smiles
And then we'll move on
But we will remember long after Saturday's gone

Come Saturday Morning
The Sandpipers, 1970
Words by Dory Previn and Music by Fred Carlin

Mark 15:42-47 (NRSV)
When evening had come, and since it was the day of Preparation, that is, the day before the sabbath, Joseph of Arimathea, a respected member of the council, who was also himself waiting expectantly for the kingdom of God, went boldly to Pilate and asked for the body of Jesus. Then Pilate wondered if he were already dead; and summoning the centurion, he asked him whether he had been dead for some time. When he learned from the centurion that he was dead, he granted the body to Joseph. Then Joseph bought a linen cloth, and taking down the body, wrapped it in the linen cloth, and laid it in a tomb that had been hewn out of the rock. He then rolled a stone against the door of the tomb. Mary Magdalene and Mary the mother of Joses saw where the body was laid.

After the horrors of two world wars J.R.R. Tolkien wrote these words:

"How do you pick up the threads of an old life? How do you go on... when in your heart you begin to understand... there is no going back? There are some things that time cannot mend... some hurts that go too deep... that have taken hold."

So... what must it have been like to be a disciple the day after the crucifixion? For Peter, James and John it wasn't as simple as returning to their boats. Three years had past. Someone else was depending on those boats to feed their own families. But did it matter? How could they ever throw a net without picturing Jesus coming to them on the waves; walking on water? Every storm would be forever compared to the one Jesus calmed with just his voice. They were marked men, forever connected to a radical prophet that was hung on a cross for blasphemy. Jesus was gone, Judas was dead, and none of those who remained were safe. No... returning to their boats would not be easy.

And the women who followed Christ, some previously tainted, now forever changed, where would they go? How would they eat without returning to the previous life? How could they? Were they to become beggars? This didn't feel like grace.

Jesus made it easy to give up the old life. At least it seemed that way. They all traveled together, and took care of each other. They were taken care of by many who had quietly hoped that Jesus would deliver Israel from political brutes and power brokers.

But Jesus had been crucified. The support would end and those closest to him would be stranded like fish in a lake that is quickly drying up: their eyes staring at the sun, mouths gasping for breath, desperately flopping about hoping to land in some bit of water... some bit of hope.

The day after was a long day for the first followers of Jesus the Messiah... a day of unquenchable thirst...

A note a day for Holy Week-The Long Good Friday

2011-04-22T14:15:00.000-07:00

The Long Good Friday is the title of a British movie about a London mobster whose desire to become a legitimate business man is threatened by a series of bombings on Good Friday. Things go from bad to worse to just awful and in the end all that he has is taken by powerful political zealots. The main character is not a sympathetic one and he deserves all that he gets and more. In the end it seems he realizes that and accepts his own death as a fitting end to a life dedicated to destruction. He is the same kind of man who hung next to Jesus on a cross - a thief and murderer given the same opportunity for eternal life that is given to you and me.

Mark 15:22-39 (NRSV)
Then they brought Jesus to the place called Golgotha (which means the place of a skull). And they offered him wine mixed with myrrh; but he did not take it. And they crucified him, and divided his clothes among them, casting lots to decide what each should take.
It was nine o”clock in the morning when they crucified him. The inscription of the charge against him read, “The King of the Jews.” And with him they crucified two bandits, one on his right and one on his left. Those who passed by derided him, shaking their heads and saying, “Aha! You who would destroy the temple and build it in three days, save yourself, and come down from the cross!” In the same way the chief priests, along with the scribes, were also mocking him among themselves and saying, “He saved others; he cannot save himself. Let the Messiah, the King of Israel, come down from the cross now, so that we may see and believe.” Those who were crucified with him also taunted him.
When it was noon, darkness came over the whole land until three in the afternoon. At three o”clock Jesus cried out with a loud voice, “Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?” which means, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” When some of the bystanders heard it, they said, “Listen, he is calling for Elijah.” And someone ran, filled a sponge with sour wine, put it on a stick, and gave it to him to drink, saying, “Wait, let us see whether Elijah will come to take him down.” Then Jesus gave a loud cry and breathed his last. And the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom. Now when the centurion, who stood facing him, saw that in this way he breathed his last, he said, “Truly this man was God’s Son!”

Friday for Jesus began very early, being bound and handed over to Pilate. It will be a long day of beatings, mocking and torture. In an attempt to be fair Pilate tries to get Jesus to defend himself. Jesus is not talking other than to confirm that he is the King of the Jews. If we were to look in Jesus eyes at that moment we may have found that he was looking past the present horrors. In direct contradiction to the London mobster mentioned above, Jesus accepts his own death as a fitting end to a life dedicated to creation. Though none can understand or comprehend it at that moment. If Jesus' three year ministry is a gestation period then the cross, his very death, is the moment of birth. Life begins for us as the curtain of the temple is torn in two from top to bottom. The mockers cried, "He saved others..." and they were right.

And now we wait...

A note a day for Holy Week-Thursday of Mysteries

2011-04-21T12:04:00.000-07:00

In some orthodox churches the day we know as Maundy Thursday or Holy Thursday is called the Thursday of Mysteries. What could be more mysterious than the language Jesus used at the Last Supper?

Mark 14:22-26 (NRSV)
While they were eating, he took a loaf of bread, and after blessing it he broke it, gave it to them, and said, “Take; this is my body.” Then he took a cup, and after giving thanks he gave it to them, and all of them drank from it. He said to them, “This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many. Truly I tell you, I will never again drink of the fruit of the vine until that day when I drink it new in the kingdom of God.”
When they had sung the hymn, they went out to the Mount of Olives.

This has to be a really odd meal for the disciples. Everyone's nerves have to be on edge. It's been an exhilarating but scary ride on which Jesus keeps poking the sore spots of the Jewish leaders at every opportunity. Now, in the seemingly safe zone of the upper room, Jesus states that he will be betrayed by one of them. He offers a really strange narration during the meal that nobody understands and tops it off by telling them that they will all scatter like sheep when the other shoe falls. Peter, known for opening mouth and inserting foot, does it again. But, for the record, let it be known that they all piped up with the same "We're here for you Jesus!"

They all go out to a nice garden and this same bunch of cheerleaders is unable to stay awake. Jesus obviously is agonizing over the path set before him and just wants someone to look like they care. Nothing doing. Honestly who knew that this was the end of the road? We're all guilty of being asleep at the wheel.

Mark 14:43-52 (NRSV)
Immediately, while he was still speaking, Judas, one of the twelve, arrived; and with him there was a crowd with swords and clubs, from the chief priests, the scribes, and the elders. Now the betrayer had given them a sign, saying, “The one I will kiss is the man; arrest him and lead him away under guard.” So when he came, he went up to him at once and said, “Rabbi!” and kissed him. Then they laid hands on him and arrested him. But one of those who stood near drew his sword and struck the slave of the high priest, cutting off his ear. Then Jesus said to them, “Have you come out with swords and clubs to arrest me as though I were a bandit? Day after day I was with you in the temple teaching, and you did not arrest me. But let the scriptures be fulfilled.” All of them deserted him and fled.
A certain young man was following him, wearing nothing but a linen cloth. They caught hold of him, but he left the linen cloth and ran off naked.

Three things I enjoy about this passage:

1. A guy gets his ear cut off. Kinda cool somebody did something other than sleep. I feel bad though for the slave. This would have been better if it was the high priest left holding the ear he didn't bother using when Jesus was teaching all last week.
2. They all deserted and fled. That didn't take long.
3. He left the linen cloth and ran off naked. Way to write yourself into the story, Mark. (Who am I kidding? I would have too, it's an awesome story.)

Jesus ends up before the Sanhedrin (read kangaroo court) and all the false witnesses take a shot at making him look bad. The high priest finally asks Jesus straight up:

Mark 14:61b-62 (NRSV)
“Are you the Messiah, the Son of the Blessed One?” Jesus said, “I am; and ‘you will see the Son of Man seated at the right hand of the Power,’ and ‘coming with the clouds of heaven.’”

At this the high priest has a conniption fit and things start to get very physical. Peter, whose been hanging about the courtyard, does what we all do at some point. He denies Christ to avoid an association that might not be good for him. Then Peter does the same thing we do when we realize the truth about ourselves. He breaks down and cries.

A note a day for Holy Week-Wednesday is plain talk, signs, and annoiting

2011-04-20T08:19:00.000-07:00

Mark 12:41-44 (NRSV)
He sat down opposite the treasury, and watched the crowd putting money into the treasury. Many rich people put in large sums. A poor widow came and put in two small copper coins, which are worth a penny. Then he called his disciples and said to them, “Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury. For all of them have contributed out of their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on.”

Jesus takes a seat across from the most important thing in the temple. Nobody actually admits this, but then as now a fair bit of grace is given in the way people live out their faith, but, there is zero tolerance for anyone who messes with the money. Jesus has a crowd and they are delighted with him. The chief priests and teachers are enraged. An important distinction is made by Jesus though; he doesn't condemn the wealthy who give generously or take issue with the gathering of gifts for the purpose of supporting the temple. This isn't going to be about greedy religiosity today. Instead he explains that we should give with our hearts fully engaged. The widow had two pennies and she gave it all. Jesus had a life and he gave it all. I think he's asking us to at least stop grumbling when we're asked to give some.

As Jesus was leaving the temple a disciple (probably one of those rubes from the sticks who is easily impressed by his first trip to the big city) starts going on about how wonderful it all is. Jesus replies by painting a fairly awful picture of what the end of things looks like. At the end of this prophetic message he tells the disciples, who aren't even aware that he is leaving, that he'll be back. Always...Jesus brings hope. All you have to do is watch for it.

Mark 14:1-10 (NRSV)
It was two days before the Passover and the festival of Unleavened Bread. The chief priests and the scribes were looking for a way to arrest Jesus by stealth and kill him; for they said, “Not during the festival, or there may be a riot among the people.”

While he was at Bethany in the house of Simon the leper, as he sat at the table, a woman came with an alabaster jar of very costly ointment of nard, and she broke open the jar and poured the ointment on his head. But some were there who said to one another in anger, “Why was the ointment wasted in this way? For this ointment could have been sold for more than three hundred denarii, and the money given to the poor.” And they scolded her. But Jesus said, “Let her alone; why do you trouble her? She has performed a good service for me. For you always have the poor with you, and you can show kindness to them whenever you wish; but you will not always have me. She has done what she could; she has anointed my body beforehand for its burial. Truly I tell you, wherever the good news is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will be told in remembrance of her.”

This anointing was a big deal. No one had any idea how much Jesus deserved to be honored in such a way. They also wouldn't know until later just how poignant and sad this moment is. As a songwriter I can tell you that some songs come easy and some songs cost me dearly. The dear songs are like alabaster jars full of the perfume of my wretchedness - all made holy and perfect as it is poured out for him. God remembers his people. He hasn't forgotten you.

Mark 14:11 (NRSV)
Then Judas Iscariot, who was one of the twelve, went to the chief priests in order to betray him to them. When they heard it, they were greatly pleased, and promised to give him money. So he began to look for an opportunity to betray him.

A note a day for Holy Week-Tuesday is for Teaching

2011-04-19T09:07:00.000-07:00

Tuesday begins with the sight of a perfectly healthy fig tree that has withered and died - literally overnight. Jesus sets the tone for the day by teaching the disciples that faith begins with forgiveness. If you long to experience great signs of faith in your lifetime, you need to forgive those you have something against. Do you consider the possibility that sometimes that someone who needs forgiven by you might even be yourself? This is a good week to give yourself a break. Like Bob in the movie What About Bob? perhaps it's time to take a vacation from your problems. Jesus didn't walk through this week so you could hoard all your junk. Let it go...

Mark 11:20-25 (NRSV)
In the morning as they passed by, they saw the fig tree withered away to its roots. Then Peter remembered and said to him, “Rabbi, look! The fig tree that you cursed has withered.” Jesus answered them, “Have faith in God. Truly I tell you, if you say to this mountain, ‘Be taken up and thrown into the sea,’ and if you do not doubt in your heart, but believe that what you say will come to pass, it will be done for you. So I tell you, whatever you ask for in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours. “Whenever you stand praying, forgive, if you have anything against anyone; so that your Father in heaven may also forgive you your trespasses.”

As soon as Jesus walks into the temple courts in Jerusalem he gets his authority questioned by the hoi polloi of temple politics. They are dripping with politeness but in reality they want to set him up for a quick finish so they can go back to being smarter than everyone else. Jesus has this way of spilling good wine on their stuffed shirts. He turns the questions back on them, features them in a nasty little story about murderous farmers, settles a tax issue, and deals with a goofy little riddle about a women who marries seven brothers who conveniently die on cue. (I wonder what her mother-in-law thought of that? Somewhere around brother #4 I might have discouraged her from dating any more family members.) After all the trick questions Jesus finally gets a real one:

Mark 12:28-34 (NRSV)
One of the scribes came near and heard them disputing with one another, and seeing that he answered them well, he asked him, “Which commandment is the first of all?” Jesus answered, “The first is, ‘Hear, O Israel: the Lord our God, the Lord is one; you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind, and with all your strength.’ The second is this, ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ There is no other commandment greater than these.” Then the scribe said to him, “You are right, Teacher; you have truly said that ‘he is one, and besides him there is no other’; and ‘to love him with all the heart, and with all the understanding, and with all the strength,’ and ‘to love one’s neighbor as oneself,’ —this is much more important than all whole burnt offerings and sacrifices.” When Jesus saw that he answered wisely, he said to him, “You are not far from the kingdom of God.” After that no one dared to ask him any question.

Now here was a scribe still willing to learn. It must have been music to Jesus' ears. I'm a musician, sometimes I play loud and boisterous, sometimes it's sweet and quiet, but, at all times, I want to please the ears of Jesus. To do that I must love God and you. Sometimes, just like the scared leaders I quickly judge, I'm guilty of trying to trick Jesus into giving me a pass. Admittedly, it's not always easy to love like Jesus did but when I fail I go back to today's first lesson and start over.

That's enough questions for today, don't you think?

A note a day for Holy Week-A Case of the Mondays

2011-04-18T09:04:00.000-07:00

I really like Mark 11:11. In scripture it stands as this pregnant pause between the exuberance of Palm Sunday and the seemingly suicidal actions of Monday. Jesus goes to the temple, scopes it out and then leaves. It feels like the hammer being pulled back on a loaded pistol.

Monday morning he gets up hungry and has a fairly unpleasant exchange with a fig tree. This passage tells us, "And his disciples heard it." I'll bet they did. I think I would have spent the rest of the day walking well behind him and trying not to do anything stupid.

Was Jesus having a bad day? I don't necessarily know about "bad" but occasionally it must have been difficult managing the universe AND walking around in skin. Just saying. What I mean is that he didn't just yell at the money changers. No, he knocked over their tables and chairs, and then he didn't let anyone even carry anything through the temple. Wow.

The priests and scribes who feared him were now set on a path to kill him before he mucked up any more of their tidy routine with the Romans... but the people were spellbound. It must have been like watching a building implode. Scary awesome. Then he leaves and you get the impression that Tuesday isn't going to be any better. Buckle up...

Mark 11:11-19 (NRSV)
Then he entered Jerusalem and went into the temple; and when he had looked around at everything, as it was already late, he went out to Bethany with the twelve.
On the following day, when they came from Bethany, he was hungry. Seeing in the distance a fig tree in leaf, he went to see whether perhaps he would find anything on it. When he came to it, he found nothing but leaves, for it was not the season for figs. He said to it, “May no one ever eat fruit from you again.” And his disciples heard it.
Then they came to Jerusalem. And he entered the temple and began to drive out those who were selling and those who were buying in the temple, and he overturned the tables of the money changers and the seats of those who sold doves; and he would not allow anyone to carry anything through the temple. He was teaching and saying, “Is it not written,

‘My house shall be called a house of prayer for all the nations’?

But you have made it a den of robbers.”

And when the chief priests and the scribes heard it, they kept looking for a way to kill him; for they were afraid of him, because the whole crowd was spellbound by his teaching. And when evening came, Jesus and his disciples went out of the city.

chat@God

2011-03-02T11:59:00.000-08:00

1 X 2 and here U r in our midst
we <3 U here @ Your house in our <3's
@ Your s3rvice no < grace = peace

∞ U r 2 us > gold or fame
we fall ____down
_______________down
____________________down on our knees 2 worship U
pick ↑ our † & follow U

teach us 2 submit our file
chat@God makes us :-)

If you'd like to hear this song go here.
© John P. Van Dusen, February 2011

Trapped Words

2011-02-05T21:23:00.001-08:00

In Marshall McLuhan’s 1964 book, “Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man” he retells the story of Prince Modupe’s encounter with the written word in his West African days:

“The one crowded space in Father Perry’s house was his bookshelves. I gradually came to understand that the marks on the pages were trapped words. Anyone could learn to decipher the symbols and turn the trapped words loose again into speech. The ink of the print trapped the thoughts; they could no more get away than a doomboo could get out of a pit. When the full realization of what this meant flooded over me, I experienced the same thrill and amazement as when I had my first glimpse of the bright lights of Konakry. I shivered with the intensity of my desire to learn to do this wondrous thing myself.”

Since its beginning the phonetic alphabet has allowed individuals to replace their ears with their eyes. We no longer need the author of a story to be present. Nor do we need to have others present. Learning eventually evolved from a community event, shared audibly by many, to a private experience rarely shared with anyone. The rate of this evolution has increased dramatically since the invention of the printing press to the point that it is nearly impossible to function as an illiterate person in our world. But wait—something surprising has happened. In the past one hundred years the Industrial Revolution, the mechanical and electronic age, and now the internet has changed the rules again and our society of individual readers is mesmerized and panicked all at once.

There are images everywhere. Once a culture of readers we now can’t wait to log on, tune in, download, and pay-per-view. We join a million other watchers as a man on streaming video attempts to give a cat a bath and we follow that with the latest protest cam of riots in London, Greece, or the Middle East. It’s all intoxicating stuff, and as McLuhan rightly stated nearly fifty years ago, it really isn’t the content, it’s the medium that has gripped us. Our laptops, flat screens, tablets, and phones rule the day. It’s a funny thing though; even as we come together around our favorite content we do it as individuals. We are separately together, and for me as a worship leader and God’s servant, that is where the mission field lies.

I have made two observations about worship services recently. The first is the return to traditional services by young families. I was perplexed by this at first until I realized that a generation that grew up in an image saturated world wanted two things: honest simplicity and as little of the previous text oriented culture as possible. The stain glass windows tell the story of faith; the best pastors are story-tellers (who create audible images shared as a group but are interpreted by individuals), and even the choir is a type of tribe—singing the story for listeners. What about the Bibles and hymnals? Honestly, most won’t turn to the passage and read it and I’ve watched entire congregations who, even if they bothered to look up the song, simply will not sing. This is not to say the experience is not real or even fulfilling. I believe for many the experience is deeply moving because the grace and presence of God inhabits our gatherings. For worship planners, however, it’s disconcerting if you don’t recognize the culture shift. The second observation is a similar shift in contemporary services. Text on a screen feels familiar to most contemporary service congregants now but I’ve noticed that even in these services the move has been away from sermon outlines and scripture texts to images and artwork that convey meaning quickly that can also be interpreted individually. And just like the traditional services, it’s not unusual to see a majority of the congregation members unmotivated to sing. In many modern traditional and contemporary services the organ, choir, band, and leader/singers have become the proxies of the congregation’s voice and it seems to be enough to let the pros handle it in the same way we appoint pastors to preach, elders to serve communion, and committees to make decisions. Most church members seem to have delegated themselves right out of the best parts of the service and church life in general.

Singing is tribal. When we are actively participating as part of a group most of us will sing along even if we don’t have much of a voice. I find it illuminating that the early church was often known for its generosity and its voice. They went about singing spiritual song and hymns. They participated and that is the key for those who intend to plan worship services in the future. Enough with the tidy professionalism we seek in order to impress our visitors. There have to be moments in the service where people are allowed to, metaphorically speaking, finger paint. You remember finger painting don’t you? It was messy, and some kids had no talent, but everyone got their hands dirty. I don’t remember ever feeling left out during a finger painting class. I remember sharing my work (awful) and laughing as we shared a moment of community goofiness. Have you read the book of Acts? These were goofy people. They spoke in tongues, had visions, got healed, sang in public, shared meals including a recurring meal based on the death and resurrection of a crucified Savior. As the gospels were written the whole experience was trapped in words for us. We need only read it, speak it, and participate in it to release the story anew.

God trapped himself in flesh that we might know him better. He trapped himself in words that we might understand him better. He traps himself in our hearts that we might share him better. It’s time for us to release our trapped God. Get out that dusty translation because Prince Modupe had it right when he excitedly proclaimed that, "Anyone could learn to decipher the symbols and turn the trapped words loose again into speech." As we do that let's engage each other in our worship services first; then we just might succeed at engaging the world. Jesus was speaking to us today when he said, “The Spirit of the Lord is on me, because he has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind, to set the oppressed free." You're free to go, Church.

Duck Butts

2011-02-01T08:02:00.000-08:00

This is an older essay from my time in Fort Collins, CO. It seemed like the right message for a blustery winter day. ~J

I live in a crowded neighborhood. It consists of duplexes, fourplexes, and large vintage 1960’s apartment buildings. It’s pleasant enough but it’s often noisy and busy. From my office I can hear children yelling and being yelled at, couples fighting and making up, friends coming and going with honks and hollers and laughter, and you can add to that dogs talking to cats talking to squirrels talking to mental health patients talking to themselves. A car is always leaking somewhere in the parking lot and my car is no exception. Leaves are piling up and for some reason one of my neighbors decided to empty their vacuum cleaner on our sidewalk instead of the dumpster which is barely thirty feet away. This entire scene exists less than a block from the helicopter pad at the hospital. Unfortunately for me, I have this thing about praying for anonymous victims whenever I hear the sad note of emergency vehicles. I am running out of creative ways to phrase my intercessory pleas and I’ve grown weary of sirens. Helicopters are a much different story. When they come in to land I rush to the window to watch like any normal five year old. The fact that I am well beyond five doesn’t bother me one bit. I fully expect to witness one fall right out of the sky because even though I know intellectually how they fly, I don’t believe they can. Faith, it seems, is a funny thing.

Faith is what brings me away from my apartment, down the hill, across the creek and along the trail to a pond created by a small dam. Like Adam trying to remember what Eden looked like, I come to this place seeking paradise lost. In summer the grasses are green and the cerulean pond smells of the riches of life. It’s fall now. The angle of the sun’s rays chase blues into grays and browns. The water only just moves and the odor of decaying leaves accompanies my melancholy. This doleful trio languishes in my subconscious as I contemplate the scene in front of me: ducks, unaware of my endless endeavor to understand life, are engaged in the good works God has given them. This consists of going butt up and head down in search of whatever it is that ducks eat in that pond. On first inspection duck butts are kind of cute. “Oh look” I say to myself, “duck butts.” The ducks here are making a living and are quite at home among the other flailing webbed feet and exposed posteriors. Ducks just being ducks which is better than being a goose. (Geese are mean.) Before long I realize that what I wanted to see was ducks swimming, quacking after each other, and utilizing their gift of flight.

In my mind I command creation to serve up the landscape I desire but instead my Creator serves up a much more sobering landscape. The pond is my church, your church, every church and God has come by to love us and be loved in return. True to our nature we are busy with our good works and we greet our gracious God to a pond of duck butts. He has told us we should look up, skim across the water, talk with Him and erupt into flight. We’re so busy pinning down those elusive works we never even notice. Were it not for His endless patience and grace I suppose His trips to our pond would be torturous.

“Look ducks, Thanksgiving!” He cries. We don’t even pretend to hear, we’re too busy preparing for Christmas.

Later, with great joy He shouts, “Ducks! See the angels! See my baby boy born to save you?”

“Oh, Lord, we are too tired and really wish it was all over so we can rest” the duck butts reply.

Later still He presses us, “Beating, blood shed, cross, victory over death and redemption.”

“Sorry Lord, its Holy Week and we got swamped.”

Nice move duck butts.

As bad as we are as a people it pales to my own insensitivity. Every week I am offered an opportunity to come to His table and receive His blood and His body. How often, I ask, have I come to this lavish banquet thinking about the next song or who I must speak to after the service? Instead of offering up my smiling grateful face I present nothing more than my inglorious backside busily engaged in yet another good work.

Woe is me. Woe is me.

And yet, Jesus has made it clear that He died purposely for duck butts like me. I am undone, even as I write this. Weep Church, for you worship the works of your own hand. Rejoice Church, for Jesus Christ has covered you with His righteousness anyway.

I hope to forego that next bite to eat in my pond. A little hunger makes the senses sharper. If I look up, swim around, and quack a bit then maybe Jesus will take me flying today. I don’t deserve to rise up on the wings of eagles. After all, I’m still a duck. For now . . .

Perfect Gifts

2011-01-03T12:09:00.000-08:00

Finding the perfect gift is a passion for some and a pain for others. Most of us are somewhere in the middle, not worrying too much either way, but, we all know the perfect gift when we see it. Being human, we all have those “I’ve got to have it!” moments but the sensation of having to get it for someone else is a compelling one. There is a delicious agony that builds through the procurement and on through to the delivery into the hands of that unique recipient you have on your heart. The satisfaction and sweet release gained from their response is priceless.

It is safe to say that God, the lover of our souls, is passionate about gifts. His grace and mercy are just the beginning. To Adam, he gave Eve and a garden to enjoy together. Moses got a shiny face, an awesome staff that came in very handy, and two stone tablets written by God’s own finger. Sarah, Hannah, and Elizabeth were all miraculously given sons. Throughout Biblical history people are healed, restored, and blessed. No charges were applied to their accounts; all were gifts from the hand of our loving Father.

The Apostle Paul tells us of the specific gifts God has given us like the Motivational gifts (Romans 12:6-21), the Spiritual gifts (1 Corinthians 12:1-11) and the Ministry gifts (Ephesians 4:11-12). All are measured out perfectly to each of us according to our need and ministry. Used properly, they bring great joy to us and those we serve. Some gifts like patience and poverty are difficult gifts but they bring illumination to those wise enough to offer them back to God. Anonymous gifts that are given to us encourage us in our work and remind us to be kind to everyone lest we offend the giver with our harsh and ignorant words.

One of the more interesting accounts of gift giving is found in the second chapter of Matthew. The account of the three wise men is a story known by every child who ever participated in a Christmas pageant. Although I’ve read many attempts at explaining the rather odd gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh, the best explanation I’ve ever read was included in an article on the finishing of fine guitars written by R.E. Bruné, a respected maker and restorer of fine quality classical guitars: “The varnishing of guitars is of course very closely related to the varnishing of wooden items of all types, and formulations for these finish coatings abound in historical documents. In fact, the Biblical account of the gifts brought by the three wise men to Joseph and Mary are related to this. Joseph was a carpenter and the gifts of gold (i.e. money), frankincense (a resin extracted from trees of the Boswellia species of East Africa) and myrrh (another resin extracted from the members of the Burseracae species of trees) represented important and expensive varnish components used in making spirit (alcohol-based) varnishes. These would have been obvious gifts to someone engaged in the trade of carpenter/cabinet maker.” R.E. Bruné, Vintage Guitar, April 2001.

I cannot say with any certainty how much finely made furniture or cabinetry would be appreciated in ancient Israel but I can tell you that where Joseph and his precious family were going it was essential. Immediately after the wise men left an angel appeared to Joseph in a dream telling him to flee to Egypt. Now consider for a moment, in the light of R. E. Bruné’s observation, the perfection of the gifts given by the three wise men. They themselves simply brought the best of what they had to offer from their homelands, but God was providing Joseph with a way to provide for his family in a place with people who appreciated fine things. While we know more about Mary and her response to God, it is clear that God’s relationship with Joseph, as it is with us today, was also perfectly beautiful.

Of course, the most perfect gift ever given was Jesus Christ, Emmanuel. He was and is the sacrifice given for our sins. God’s perfect gift comes bringing with Him the perfect gift: salvation. God gave His own Son, a priceless and extravagant gift of perfect love. The perfect gift, given in bittersweet agony that built through its procurement and on through to the delivery into the hands of that unique recipient God had on His heart: you.

Copyright January 2011, John P. Van Dusen
The painting "The Adoration of the Magi" is attributed to Joseph Highmore 1692-1780

A Christmas Song

2010-12-03T08:21:00.000-08:00

A hoary frost clings to the inside of the window, muscling it's way in - unwanted, unwelcome - but altogether familiar. Mixing with the summer's untouched dust, it over ripens into winter's dirty complaint. A box below holds the reminders of Autumn: bats and baseballs, footballs, and tetherballs with frayed ropes. Faded red rubber kick balls, deflated by the cold, sit quietly like old pumpkins. The winter sun is a primeval bachelor today that illuminates without warmth, casting shadows so puny as to be chased away by a warm smile.

Nonetheless, warm smiles turned grim as the children filed past the ball room and shuddered. Normally they would look longingly at the box of fun pursuits but today there are no takers. They shuffle along, single file, through the doorway into the gymnasium. One little boy jumps doing his best to slap the top of the doorframe and catches nothing but air. He is simply too small but he is unaware that he is too small on this day. Clearly he was too small yesterday but perhaps not today. No matter, tomorrow he might just be tall enough. His attempts are always met with the now weary warning of some adult. He's been told a thousand times about the boy who caught his ring on a nail and pulled off his own finger. A gruesome tale indeed but he's noticed at least a thousand jumps by the other taller boys, some with rings, who all have ten fingers. In fact he has never met a nine fingered boy; besides, wouldn't it be easier to just remove any nails above the doors? Nothing to hang up there anyway this time of year but Mistletoe and the school regards kissing in the same manner as doorway jumping: unnecessary fun. Once, in the first grade, he was kissed on both cheeks at the same time while standing in line for lunch. Two girls had each claimed him as their boyfriend and were willing to prove it. He was flattered, but somewhat unnerved, by their giggly aggression. Too much of that kind of thing can make you twitchy so he opted to avoid standing between girls. Not a bad policy.

Today is the last day of school before the Christmas break. No real learning takes place for the time is set aside for room parties with cupcakes, cider, red and green hard candy and little gift exchanges. Teachers and students alike bury old grudges replacing their stinginess of spirit with compliments too warm to be true anywhere but in their hearts. Our little boy, unmoved by the generousness of the season and unaware that he is supposed to compliment the fourth grade's evil Ice Queen who often sends him to the hall to sit and ponder a wasted life, instead is pleased to have solved his candy cane problem by hanging it on his ear. Absentmindedly taking his place in the middle of the gym he plops down with his red copy of Christmas song lyrics and watches the coach and principal wheel out a piano. The coach is a muscled guy with a goofy sideways smile. The boy likes him and the principal too, who looks a lot like Mr. Magoo. They are followed out by the boy's old nemesis: the music teacher.

(There was an incident once involving her precious records and his gum which earned him a week with Mr. Magoo. What began as punishment turned into a pretty good week of duty as an all-around office boy and the principal's new best buddy. Having to go back to music class was a dear price to pay, the punishment mitigated by a knowing look and a teary "chin up" speech. The principal took it like a man and did his best to soldier on alone.)

The music teacher pounded out various Christmas hits - a few hymns (you could do that back then) and the classic songs kids could holler out with enthusiasm. But when the music teacher came to A Christmas Song a strange transformation took place. She played beautifully and tenderly. The old girl played like she had once dated Mel Torme and every lovely note was a kiss blown his direction. God smiled, and that was the moment our little boy fell in love with song. The room of peppermint scented mouth breathers fell away and there was no one left but the little boy and his song. He sang of chestnuts and carols, Eskimos and sleighs. His little heart swelled with feeling and for the first time understood why the music teacher sometimes got this dreamy look and seemed to not be aware of the kids bouncing off the walls. Now every song had new meaning and when they finished with Silent Night his soul got very quiet.

In the years to come the little boy would finally slap the top of the doorframe, sing in choirs, look for good songs and write the ones he couldn't find. One Christmas he wrote his own song:

See the frost that grows across the window

Delicate traceries etched in ice

Soon it will go, for He made it so

This is Christmas joy for me

I take my hand out of my pocket

And take the tiny hand of a child next to me

I know that I care; it feels so good to share

This is Christmas joy for me

Perhaps you find me simple minded

Better simple than wrong

For I have found a joy that lingers,

All year long

See a babe lying in a manger

Then a boy astounding in the temple

He's there by the sea, again at Gethsemane

Then on the cross at Calvary

I spend my time with people who know Jesus

I guess it's because they seem a lot like me

We lift up our voices in these Christmas hymns

Hallelujah our Joy is born in Bethlehem

He would often be lonely but never alone. He would love and be loved. He came to know the grace and mercy of God and that was the song he loved most.

Royal Service

2010-11-16T09:23:00.000-08:00

The Feast of Christ the King (properly the Solemnity of Christ the King in the Latin Rite of the Catholic Church) is the last holy Sunday in the western liturgical calendar. We usually shorten that to Christ the King Sunday in the Protestant Church. In 1925 the Pope established this Sunday as a response to nationalism and secularism. I would say that on balance, and a quick review of 20^th Century history, that it did not work. That’s not to say it wasn’t a great idea. I personally think it’s a great idea but for reasons more important to the common man than to governments and earthly kingdoms. Here in the USA it’s a great day to bring out the big anthems and get on board with the whole concept of the royalty of Christ. I find that concept particularly interesting because as a general statement of truth Americans are fairly uncomfortable with the idea of being ruled by anyone. Over the years a few have tried to ascribe some sort of royalty to the Kennedy family but it has never stuck. No doubt the Kennedys have enjoyed being treated like royalty, but normally most working class Irish would be the last to advocate bowing and scraping to anyone with a title.

When I was a young man I worked with a guy who by all accounts was a good old boy. We didn’t seem to like each other much and as my boss he made sure that if a hole needed dug I was the one handed the shovel. Every once in a while he would leave his office and come out to see how the work was going. We worked for a utility company and I often had to dig things up to repair them. On rare occasions he would pick up a shovel and join me in the trench. His transformation back into the man he was before they chained him to an office was always instant and surprising. Digging and getting dirty, he would laugh and encourage me and even take an interest in whatever band I happened to be in at the time. I could see in him the man he used to be, the man he was meant to be. His title was “Manager” but he never wore it well. I think his real title was “helpful friend.”

Anyone fortunate enough to have a title should spend a fair amount of time wrestling with whether they are living in to it and up to it. I’ve had various titles ranging from service tech to store manager. Musically I’ve been a band leader, worship team leader, and my current position as Minister of Worship and Art. I come from two working class families and I have good reasons to be proud of both. My heritage is one of service, and if you know me, you know that I function best when I am assured that I am doing a good job and that I am a help to those I serve. Biblically I can relate best to David, the shepherd boy, and Peter, the fisherman. I serve by teaching and pressing those who work with me to strive for their best. Often my service requires grace and patience when they fall short. Honestly, like most of us, my success can sometimes be measured by the number of times I fail and fall, but I am determined to fall forward. Falling onto your face isn’t as bad when you start from your knees. Humility goes a long way as does a sincere apology. Don’t misunderstand me, you should know fully who you are in Christ, but that very knowing allows you to go forward in strength while at the same time recognizing your own need for grace.

As always our great example is Jesus Christ, the King of kings. What did our King do with his title? He served. He taught, prayed, comforted, fed the hungry, welcomed the little children, invited the sinner, healed the sick, raised the dead, washed the very feet of those he ruled, allowed himself to be humiliated and scourged, and ultimately gave up his life. All so we could see the Father and enter into the only royal kingdom that has ever mattered. Jesus is the King Eternal (1 Timothy 1:17), King of Israel (John 1:49), King of the Jews (Mt. 27:11), King of kings (1 Tim 6:15; Rev. 19:16), King of the Nations (Rev. 15:3) and Ruler of the Kings of the Earth (Rev. 1:5). John the Revelator describes a new song lifted up to our King in chapter 5 of the book of Revelation:

“You are worthy to take the scroll and to open its seals, for you were slaughtered and by your blood you ransomed for God saints from every tribe and language and people and nation; you have made them to be a kingdom and priests serving our God, and they will reign on earth.” (NRSV)

We are a royal priesthood and that’s a title worth living into. We didn’t earn it, and the point is we couldn’t earn it. It’s been given to us by grace. Each year, as we move from Christ the King Sunday and begin to sing the songs of the Advent of Christ, let us remember that Christ Alone is worthy. May our royal service be a sweet perfume, a new and lovely song, an offering to the Lion and the Lamb, our King.

Copyright November 2010, John P. Van Dusen
The painting is, "St. Joseph, the Carpenter" by Georges de La Tour , ca. 1640's

It Isn't Always Pretty

2010-10-21T13:36:00.000-07:00

I've done some odd things and been to some low places; the oddest and lowest being the opening act/assistant for a Christian magician. I had driven him and all our gear which included: my guitar, various small animals (i.e. rabbits, rats, and doves), boxes, handcuffs, flowers from nowhere, endless handkerchiefs also from nowhere, decks of cards, and a six foot guillotine—out into the middle of a flat and quiet land to bring the gospel to entertainment-starved farmers. In their defense, it was years before the satellite dish made them all the savvy hipsters we know today—but I am following a rabbit down a top hat and I need to get back to my wretched tale of artistic misery. The morning service went like this: after a few hymns, announcements, and prayer we were introduced as the Great Alleludini (I changed his name to protect my own fragile innocence) and that guy over there on the chair trying to tune his guitar in this poorly heated room. I sang two songs; each followed by soul crushing polite applause, and then transformed myself into a magician's assistant. Now normally his wife assisted him and she had a really nice sequined leotard thingy but she wasn't my size and I was spared having to wear the obligatory fishnet stockings. Do me a favor; stop picturing me in this outfit. Thank you, now let’s move on. Properly adorned in my sweater vest, mullet, and shame I assisted with various tricks, sleight-of-hand maneuvers, and the kind of misdirection only a politician's press secretary can truly appreciate. The good news is I now know how many of the tricks are done. The bad news is I now know how many of the tricks are done. Sigh. Continuing on . . . truthfully, he was very good and the gospel message he wove into his presentation was well thought out. As for me, well, I can sing a little and when pressed I can make a quarter appear from behind your ear. The big moment of the show was all mine however. While the children sat in stunned silence the Great One bound my hands and lowered me under the blade of the gruesome guillotine. The adults smiled and clapped, perhaps they thought this meant I would not return for a musical encore, and greedily licked their lips in anticipation of the pot luck dinner waiting in the fellowship hall. The shimmering blade dropped and all eyes watched to see if my head would drop into the basket. It did not, of course, this was church not Las Vegas and I had been saved from sin and death. Praise God! I stood up and sang two more songs, occasionally rubbing my neck for emphasis.

We had a nice lunch, drove to another church twenty miles north, and repeated the whole thing that evening. On the way home, while I drove in silence wondering why God seemed so intent on humbling me, my friend no longer seemed so great. His joyous tone faded as he told me about how hard things had been and how badly he needed the gig I'd set up for us. I don't know if you've ever ridden in a dark car for nearly a hundred miles with someone who is pouring their heart out but I knew what I had to do. Here's the point; I'm not normally a sacrificial giver. I'm not sure what my financial situation was at the time but I can assure you that if I was willing to lose my head in that contraption I probably needed the money. Nevertheless I told him to keep all that we had been generously given. I did it all for God's glory and a laugh, and that was true too. When I got home I tried to explain why I was broke and the gas tank was empty but my gracious wife cut me off. She was going to have me give it all to him anyway.

In the sixth chapter of Luke we read this simple truth: "Give away your life; you'll find life given back, but not merely given back—given back with bonus and blessing. Giving, not getting, is the way. Generosity begets generosity." (The Message)

This sacrificial generosity that multiplies itself isn't always pretty. It doesn't always come neatly together like the feel good movie of the season. In this lifetime you may never see the direct result of giving that hour you didn't have time to spare, that apology you didn't think was warranted, or forgiveness you're pretty sure they won't appreciate. It doesn't matter. You and I have already received life—life with bonus and blessing through Jesus Christ who knows all there is to know about sacrificial giving.

Some time ago I was part of a band and we had booked a concert at a beautiful little mountain church. Each of the band members stayed with different host families. Kerry and I pulled up in front of an Alpine A-frame home fully expecting a nice evening. To our initial horror we were put up in the extra room that usually held their two large dogs. It had not been cleaned. We pulled down the bedspread on the single twin mattress and found that the blanket was reasonably clean so we just laid on top of it all night, fully dressed, curled up giggling like two little monkeys humored at the truly ridiculous turn our lives had taken. The following morning's concert was one of those perfect times that seemed choreographed by heaven itself. People came up afterward sharing how God had spoken to their hearts. As I overheard one woman tearfully tell of how she had been considering taking her own life, a member of the congregation turned to me and told me the crying woman was the pastor's wife. No, it isn't always pretty, and it certainly wasn't the night before, but I've been willing to sacrifice at least one good night's sleep, if not my head and pride, in a low place to help win a life back. I'll bet you have a story too. I'd love to hear it.

"What I'm trying to do here is to get you to relax, to not be so preoccupied with getting, so you can respond to God's giving." (Matthew 6, The Message)

Copyright October 2010, John P. Van Dusen
The painting is, "Polichinelle with Guitar Before the Stage Curtain" by Pablo Picasso , 1919

Aequus Nox

2010-09-23T10:49:00.000-07:00

And if Pera is having difficulty today relating to those around her what does it matter? Today she turns her head upward and drinks in the last of the summer sun. It’s moved away toward the equator and the angle of its once brutal rays now only has the power to project a gauzy silence in the orchard’s treetops. Insects, quieted a bit by the change in season, busily finish their life’s work knowing time is short. The earth explodes upwards and calls for harvest. Pera, feet on the ground—head in the sky, always the dreamer. Around her a slice of humanity seems to race about picking out boxes of apples, pears, and peaches. Some in hand, gobbled up greedily, the goodness trickles down the throat and slops onto t-shirts but most will become jams, ciders, and pies; their benefit realized in the dead of winter. Today is marked by smiles and laughter, a joyful gift from God. A cool little breeze, a reminder really, causes Pera to shiver as it rustles through her greenery. Content in her place, she lifts a song to her Creator:

I looked up the other day

To see the birds had flown away

Fall had come and brought a winter chill

Left her signature on the windowsill

Windblown messengers, red and gold

Repeat the story yearly told

Fragile acrobats in the sky

Twisting, twirling: they dance, they die

Born in the air to catch the sun

They return to earth when their lives are done

Much like the one who knows Christ the Son

Must lose their life to know He’s won

How beautiful when life begins

How full of grace when near the end

This is the day, she reminds anyone willing to listen, that the Lord has made. Rejoice and be glad in it. Grace abounds, let it saturate your being—draw it in like rain. Lift up your eyes to the hills. And where does your help come from, O man? From the Lord of course, He’s been there all along. Through winter’s bitter crush and summer’s lightning the Lord has brought you through to peace. He will again, you know.

A happy farm dog, tired of chasing about the feet of customers comes and lies at Pera’s feet. Panting and grateful for a little shade, he doesn’t stay long. In the dirt parking lot a whole caboodle of children, spilling out of a station wagon, needs to be met with his doggy smile and wagging tail. There might be faces to lick or carelessly dropped bits of food to eat. Everything about him says, “I’m on it!” and so he is, giving up his respite in favor of the promise of treats. Pera tolerates him at best and doesn't mind his quick departure.

The owner of the orchard looks up from the cash register and with a sigh looks out beyond the open doorway. Pera is beautiful. Not because she stands out as such but just the opposite. How beautiful to be in the place God intended for you. Pera, seemingly unaware of the owner’s gaze, is just happy to be. The owner’s wife gives him a playful poke in the ribs and directs him back to his customers. She knows his heart is in the orchard.

And if Pera is having difficulty today relating to those around her what does it matter? Distracted Pera, the birds in her thoughts raise their carols declaring their Maker's praise. Quietly engaged in the scene about her yet apart in their songs, she drifts on an ocean of green that stretches across the valley floor. The mountains and hills roll in like breakers, slow as glaciers. Her silent praises go out with joy. The Comforter, her comforter, walks in this orchard. He sings, the few remaining birds hush recognizing the melody He gave them. Hearts ring and He tarries a moment. And all the trees of the field clapped their hands.

Loved Enough

2010-08-27T15:37:00.001-07:00

Sidda: Daddy, did you get loved enough?
Shep: What's enough? My question is, did you?

I caught this dialog in the middle of Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood and it has stuck with me, worked at me, and shaped me poco a poco. I hardly noticed how much this simple question troubles us all until I sat down and tried to answer it. The easy answer is, “Sure, I think so” but it’s that “I think so” lingering at the end that causes me to pause. In the movie, Shep, who had endured a long, stormy, and seemingly loveless marriage with Sidda’s mother, wonders what enough is and I do too. As if that weren’t enough of an unanswerable query, I began to ask if I myself had loved enough. And that is where I began writing today.

Anyone who has seen the paparazzo swarming around the rich and famous knows it is possible to be loved too much, but, to be loved enough is a much more subtle distinction. One might say that a stranger would be unable to love you enough but then you might remember help with a flat tire, a kind word standing in line, or coming home to find that the contractor you hired really cared about doing a good job. I would say in each instance that though they were strangers you would feel loved enough that day. I am often surprised at the simple things that cause people to become friends. If you have a good friend I imagine it’s because once, probably when they weren’t even aware of it, they loved you enough.

The apostle Paul described love for us in his letter to the Corinthians: Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. The interesting thing is that the love Paul describes is not the love that is clamored for by our culture or sold to us in endless ads. The love Paul describes can be, and often is, unnoticed but beautiful, tender but powerful, patient but insistent, bearable, believable, and hopeful. When I feel loved enough, this is the love I have received.

The summer I knew that God was bringing Kerry and me to Midland, Texas I wrote a song I am only now beginning to understand. It’s called I Am Standing by the Sea. I had been reading the account at the end of the book of John where Jesus really leans into Peter and asks him to feed his sheep. Looking through Peter’s eyes I wrote these words:

When I was a younger man

A life of ease, I walked where I pleased; now I follow you, follow you

I am standing by the Sea

And you look at me, right through me . . . feed my sheep, feed my sheep

More and more, as I look out on a sea of pump-jacks and red dirt, I realize that being loved enough and loving enough are two sides of the same coin. There is not one without the other. Jesus is telling Peter and us that in order for us to feel loved enough we have to extend enough love just like the Good Samaritan or the father of the Prodigal Son. When we do we, in turn, will feel loved enough. Jesus is instructing us to love our way through a difficult work situation, an ungrateful child, people that cut in line in front of us, people who don’t dress well enough to suit us, or those who failed to attend the right school. If we can’t love enough then we will never feel loved enough. This is the simple reality of the One who was beaten, spat upon, scourged, and shoved down a rough street to a certain and painful execution. He hung on a cross, looked down and loved enough to save us.

Near the end of Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood, Shep’s difficult wife comes to him seeking his love and offering her own. In that moment Shep looks like a man who is loved enough and he might say to us, “If you want to be loved enough then love enough.”

Times

2010-07-28T07:52:00.000-07:00

A cheerless little dust devil picks up the white chalky dirt of a rundown tract of Oklahoma panhandle and does its best to feign a sleepy god stirring his tea with his pinky. Losing energy quickly, the swirling updraft lets the tiny thrill seeking bits of dirt and leaves and bugs settle back to the stillness the blazing midday sun imposes. The misshapen roadway serves as the driveway/parking lot in front of a house begging for a bulldozer. It wasn’t much of a house even before the Great Depression rolled through. Afterward, as the dust bowl receded from most other places, the dryness settled here and never left—tormenting the homestead like a no-account hobo poking an ugly old dog with a stick. Uncut prairie grass skirts the edges framing the very picture of despair. I drive north out of Boise City putting quick distance between me and the most disgusting truck stop bathroom imaginable. The AC is full on, a salve for my insulted senses and insulating me from the waves of heat shimmering up from the ever warping asphalt. I fly by the old homestead, look to my right, and the world goes into slow motion. There in the dirt, shoeless and playing with a faded toy, sits a small boy. “Geez, what a life that kid is going to have.” pops out of my mouth and the sound surprises me because I thought I was only thinking it.

“My times are in Your hands.” ~ Psalm 31:15a (NIV). I’ve often thought about this small portion of verse ever sense I heard a man speak about a medication he was on that took away his short term memory. Every few minutes he had to start over again forming a memory of who he was married to and what her name was. Eventually they put him in a cabin in the mountains to recover without stress and without that particular medication. What he took away from the experience was the plural “times” of his life that he kept placing back into God’s hands.

Myself, I am predisposed to dividing my life into times. I have strong memories of places and smells and sounds, even from early childhood. It’s a funny thing that I struggle with names and the lyrics to my own songs when I clearly remember my second grade classroom, my teacher, and that she smelled . . . well, “safe” for lack of a better word. She made me cry once but it was my own fault. I had to stay after school and learn how to spell—bulb, B U L B. The picture in my spelling book looked like a light to me and I couldn’t figure out why light was spelled B U L B. See what I mean? I get a little teary just thinking about it.

Good times, hard times, trying times, lonely times, plentiful times, blessed times, hopeful times, forgotten times, old times, educational times, boring times, goofy times, sacred times, and prayer times are all the times of our lives. There are also the days of wine and roses, a New York minute, livin’ on Tulsa time, and, of course, a time for everything according to Solomon. At the beginning of Ecclesiastes he writes:

A generation goes, and a generation comes, but the earth remains forever. The sun rises and the sun goes down, and hurries to the place where it rises. The wind blows to the south, and goes around to the north; round and round goes the wind, and on its circuits the wind returns. All streams run to the sea, but the sea is not full; to the place where the streams flow, there they continue to flow. All things are wearisome; more than one can express; the eye is not satisfied with seeing, or the ear filled with hearing.

What has been is what will be, and what has been done is what will be done; there is nothing new under the sun. Is there a thing of which it is said, “See, this is new”? It has already been, in the ages before us. The people of long ago are not remembered, nor will there be any remembrance of people yet to come by those who come after them.

I, the Teacher, when king over Israel in Jerusalem, applied my mind to seek and to search out by wisdom all that is done under heaven; it is an unhappy business that God has given to human beings to be busy with. I saw all the deeds that are done under the sun; and see, all is vanity and a chasing after wind. What is crooked cannot be made straight, and what is lacking cannot be counted. I said to myself, “I have acquired great wisdom, surpassing all who were over Jerusalem before me; and my mind has had great experience of wisdom and knowledge.” And I applied my mind to know wisdom and to know madness and folly. I perceived that this also is but a chasing after wind. For in much wisdom is much vexation, and those who increase knowledge increase sorrow. (NRSV)

He paints a hot, windy and desperate picture not unlike the Oklahoma homestead and he may have felt a lot like the young child sitting in the sun and dirt but here is some good news: Your times are in His hands. Don’t worry about the sun drying out your opportunity at a great life. The Psalmist tells us that the sun will not harm us by day, nor the moon by night. I see, all too clearly, myself in the little boy. What chance does he have? Who possibly sees him in his low estate?

God pointed him out to me so I know that God does, hallelujah—great day in the morning, God does indeed see him! If He sees the panhandle ragamuffin then He sees you and me too. Put every “time” into His hands. Patiently await His response and rejoice at the sound of His call when it comes. Stand up, Church. Brush off the dust, shake off the heat, and look up. The best “times” are now for the tired, poor, hungry, thirsty, sick, unloved, and forgotten in our midst if we have the courage and faith to live into God’s promises. These are our times, placed in His gracious hands.

The painting is, "Boy Seated" by Yictor Borisov Musatov , 1901

Broken

2010-06-28T07:40:00.001-07:00

Many of you know that for nearly seven years in the 90’s I had a music store. Although I carried everything from grand pianos to clarinet reeds my favorite things were (surprise, surprise) the guitars. I imagine customers watching me remove new guitars from their boxes was akin to a parent unveiling their seven year old's refrigerator art on unsuspecting neighbors. While I would ooh and ah over their curves and tone, my customers, for the most part, just wanted to get their valve oil and leave. The smell of fresh glue and lacquer at places like Spotlight Music or Guitar Center can still send me tripping through their aisles like a child on an Easter egg hunt. At my store I would polish each one, check their intonation and tuning, and then lovingly hang each one up for display like the treasures they are. It is no small thing to take bits of wood and glue and steel and then fashion something so beautiful to look at and hear. Some musicians take the fact that they can play lightly, but me, I think it’s a bloomin’ miracle every time I pick one up and something comes out that is far more wonderful than my puny ears ever imagined.

Because I was miles away from any repair shop, and I was willing to do it, I fixed a lot of broken guitars. One day a gentle old soul came in with a small Gibson that had a badly splintered side and an avocado sized hole in the top. It was the tragic victim of the end of his daughter’s marriage to the fool who decided that trashing her father’s old guitar was the adequate pound of flesh needed to mask his own inability to actually be nice and not hit girls. The damage had clearly been done years before the old man had brought it to me but for a long time all he could bring himself to do was occasionally get it out, stare at it a bit, and then put it back. Repairs can be made anytime but healing takes longer and I guess he just needed the memory to recede a bit. I couldn’t promise him much but I thought I could make it playable until he had the time and money to send it back to the factory. Most of a bottle of glue, clamps, a patch, some sanding, refinish, and a coat of spray on lacquer were needed but in the end it actually played kinda nice. I won’t kid you, it looked like Frankenstein’s Monster and I was a little nervous to hand it over to him but when I did he cried. He played a little tune and lovingly set it back in the case. He never sent it back to the factory. He told me he had learned to love the imperfections.

Every time we celebrate communion the words of institution include a simple yet profound statement by Jesus that the bread we are about to eat is his body broken for us. In a period of my own brokenness I wrote these verses:

Honor abducted

Stolen by Pharisee’s words

Hot days shrivel fruit

Leaves fall on cold grass

Their worth spent on yesterday

I lie among them

Reputation dies

Frost kills the former lifetime

Withdraw to find warmth

God heard me weeping

Old tree bursts forth with new buds

My redemption comes

It occurred to me as I wrote them out again that these verses are his words, his story. He lived them out far in advance of my life and therefore was perfectly suited to receive me in my brokenness, perfectly suited to repair my damaged life.

I knew an over-the-road trucker who bought a beautiful Guild 12 string guitar in Nashville and was so proud of it that he brought it into my shop to get my opinion. While I was a little annoyed that he hadn't bought it from me, I did have to admit it was very nice. A couple weeks later though, his wife came in looking like a women who had not slept well. She opened up the now familiar case to show me the guitar with it's headstock snapped completely off. She had bumped her husband's pride and joy while vacuuming and the rest of the story was a slow motion nightmare as it toppled over and snapped like a skater's forearm. While she prayed for a hole to open up and swallow her, her husband went directly to his truck and drove away. She hadn't seen or heard from him for three days and she hoped I could fix it before he got back. The repair, nearly invisible, was one of my best and the added mass of two screws embedded in the joint improved the tone. He returned, they reconciled, and I credited myself with one repair and one saved marriage. All for under $50.

It is possible to just quietly drive away from our brokenness but in our absence Jesus may be repairing the visible in order to heal the invisible. And who knows? You may find a way to love the imperfections.

The painting is, "Still Life With Guitar" by Pablo Picasso, 1922

The Remarkable Dreams of Pondus Pectus

2010-06-01T09:29:00.001-07:00

Huge cumulonimbus clouds built up over head and rolled in on his little town like lawyers, guns, and money featured in low budget action films. The flash of a nearby lightning strike startled him into spilling a little of his coffee and the resulting crack made him spill a little more. Still wiping French Roast from his shirt, the hail began pelting the window and all he could think was how sad it was that a little rainstorm was the most interesting evening he’d had in weeks. The rain continued for an hour and eventually tailed off. Pondus Pectus, truly a heavy heart, fell asleep in his chair to a pleasant pinging on the roof and the smell of coffee drying under his nose.

Dream #1

He was sitting on a couch talking to the man who had led him to Jesus many years before. In midsentence Pondus turned and was surprised to see water rising outside the window. Before he could mention it though, the water had begun to pour in the doorway. All of this didn’t seem to bother his friend who calmly suggested they go upstairs to the main level of the house. Once there, Pondus was again surprised to find the water had now risen to the level of a dock that ran out and away from the house for a hundred feet or so to what used to be the edge of the river. He followed his friend out on to the dock where he discovered a number of people floating by. Bile rose in his throat. This deep water was tinted a sickly green, it ran slow and was clear to the bottom. At first it was easy enough to take people by the hand and pull them to safety but after a while he saw it was necessary to jump in and go further each time to pull them out. Not only was he upset about having to swim after those who didn’t seem to even want to help themselves but he was disgusted to find that many of those he had previously saved would suddenly go limp, roll off the dock and back into the water. In the midst of his frustration he began to notice that there were many more now deep in the water, their silent lips mouthing cries of anguish. Taking a deep breath, he dove in and made his way to the bottom. The man he grabbed seemed unaware that a rescue was taking place and offered no help toward his own survival. Halfway back to the surface Pondus ran out of air and strength. He was left with the grim choice of letting go or dying with the man but then a voice came to him, Trust me. He held on and in what seemed like only a moment he popped to the surface. Face down on the dock, chest heaving, he refused to look in the water again. He told the voice he couldn’t go back. The reply was immediate, In quiet and trust shall be your strength but you are often unwilling.

A long and low brontide signaled the storm wasn’t finished yet. Pondus woke thinking he should go off to bed but he was comfortable where he was and perhaps a little sad remembering his dream. Murmuring a prayer of repentance he quickly fell asleep again.

Dream #2

He could feel his strength. He was a man’s man, God’s man. His armor was beaten but intact and was adorned with the beautiful scars of many battles. He stood amongst his soldiers and knew that they loved him. In his hand he held a mighty sword. It was well made and sharp. It had enough weight to send a shock wave through the enemy but was so well balanced that it took no effort to wield it. He loved the sound of the battle horn, the blast that marshaled their courage. This very moment it sent the warriors onto the field and Pondus Pectus ran with them like a man running to meet his love. Together they met the enemy with a yell and the sound of a thousand cymbal crashes. The effort felt good.

At the peak of the battle, when sweat and noise and strength come together to form the symphony of impending victory, Pondus looked down through a forest of limbs and saw a baby. He was repulsed. This was not a pretty baby and may even have been his enemy’s baby. This baby was course featured, dirty, and runny-nosed. Its cheeks streaked red as it screamed up at a world of violence. Pity, not love, moved Pondus to scoop the child up and continue fighting but it soon became clear that there was no way to fight and protect this child at the same time. The voice returned, What will you do now? Pondus felt nauseated. The voice continued, Whoever welcomes one of these little children in my name welcomes me. Pondus dropped his sword, curled himself around the child, sunk to the ground, and the warrior became mother.

Pondus woke disoriented and thinking that he had somehow managed to lose a baby and develop a hole in the roof right over his head. As the fog of sleep lifted he soon realized there was no baby and the only wetness was his tears. It was still dark. Now, a little afraid of sleep, he grabbed a blanket and returned to his chair determined to wait the remaining night out. Two minutes with a warm blanket was all it took for the gentle rain to sing him back to sleep.

Dream #3

They wheeled him into the hospital room, arms tied to the bed. He was wrecked and wretched. He felt he had no more to give and was not inclined to give anymore even if he did. They left him staring out the window, watching the rain. He cried for some unknown loss. He couldn’t remember what he had lost, just that something was gone and its absence left his soul deflated like an old car tire hanging on to a rusty rim.

After a time another man was wheeled in. The voice shook Pondus Pectus from his stupor, Speak to him. Not now, Lord, I have nothing. Speak to him. Pondus mentally dressed himself in the garments of his faith. It was slow and every muscle ached. He turned to the man sharing his room and by faith shared the story of God’s love. The man cursed and rejected every word. Pondus wondered why he had even bothered and turned back to his window resigned to another sleepless night. His long dark night of the soul was interrupted by screams. The bed next to him was completely engulfed in flames. Pondus lunged against his restraints and a primeval cry came from a deep place within that he didn’t know existed. A wave of guilt swept over him as he remembered his tired old attempt at loving the lost. The voice however was clear, Whenever your heart condemns you know this, I am greater than your heart. I know everything. Still, Pondus thought that he had done nothing of any value for the pitiful creature next to him. The voice continued, I am the only God! There are no others. I bring about justice, and have the power to save.

Pondus, sad little sleeper alone in his chair, slowly became aware of light and morning sounds and the good smell of life in his nose. Still half asleep the voice called to him one more time, First the wind blows, then the rain comes, and then all is made new. And all was new. Pondus Pectus, remarkably, was at peace.

The painting is "The Lark's Wing, Encircled with Golden Blue, Rejoins the Heart of the Poppy Sleeping on a Diamond-Studded Meadow" by Joan Miró 1967.

Hole in the Middle

2010-05-03T08:21:00.001-07:00

My last year in high school I had this friend. I don’t think we even liked each other but we had mutual friends and occasionally, when everyone else was unavailable, he and I would hit the local streets together. It was awkward, but all relationships are awkward when you’re a teenager so we went with what we had. He was cleaning his gun one day and managed to shoot himself straight through. Fortunately for him he didn’t hit anything vital and ended up spending a week or so in the hospital with a hole in the middle and an unused ticket to the Eagles final concert tour. (Yeah right. At the time we believed it was the last one.) The concert was on a beautiful Colorado day at Folsom Field in Boulder. Joe Walsh came out and sang Life’s Been Good . . . and it was. Sorry, I got distracted there for a minute. Anyway the point being is that in offering his ticket to me I felt obliged to go visit him in the hospital. Nobody ever accused me of gushing sentimentality when I was seventeen or even now for that matter. Just ask my band mates who insist I was tragically born without a mercy gift. Nevertheless I showed up and even stayed awhile. I made him laugh, which looked painful, and it seemed his brush with death softened us both enough to have a real conversation. At one point he removed his bandage and let me look at his wound. For a guy, I know this is difficult to understand ladies, a bullet wound is pretty cool as long as it doesn’t kill you.

I was impressed but I wasn’t about to put my finger in it and I was thinking about this when I reread the passage in John where Jesus asks Thomas to put his finger in his side. Now I know that artists, Caravaggio in particular, like to picture Thomas poking around in there but seriously scripture doesn’t tell us he actually accepted the invitation. In fact he exclaimed “My Lord and my God!” which seems like a much more appropriate response.

Jesus had a run in with the world and it left him with a hole in the middle. Life is a gift but sometimes it’s dangerous to be alive. We get wounded. Sometimes it’s our bodies but often our hole in the middle goes straight through the heart. I have several friends whose hearts ache for grown children who struggle to find their way in a complex and often unforgiving world. How do you fill the hole in the middle of a child who no longer wants the life you gave it? I pray for these friends and their children but I am so inadequate in my ability to share or express anything that resembles hope. All my “Sunday school” answers, while correct and true, seem trite and powerless in the face of such despair. Diane Scanlon and Greg Smith wrote a wonderful song beautifully recorded by Eva Cassidy called Time Is a Healer. The chorus tells us: Oh if time is a healer/And all hearts that break/Then all hearts that break/Are put back together again/'Cause love heals the wound it makes. Lately I find myself praying for time. Time for the hurt and lost to be healed, time for the wound to close, time for Love to fill in the hole in the middle.

In the far Northeast corner of Colorado, below the Nebraska panhandle there is a plateau. When it doesn’t rain it dries up, turns brown, and the ranchers in the area have to buy hay for their cattle. This added financial burden caused the ranchers in my church to include rain as a prayer request nearly every week. One Sunday afternoon in a rare moment of clarity and, dare I say it, compassion, I called a rancher I knew well and told him I had an idea. I filled two jugs with water, grabbed my guitar, and drove out to the ranch. When I got there the rancher, his two sons, and I went to the driest part of his pasture that overlooked the valley below. We sat in the dust and prayed. We sang songs of worship and poured out the water I had brought. It might seem a little odd but it felt obedient and it felt healing. The boys eventually took off to walk the pasture and my friend and I settled down in silence, enjoying the overlook and the presence of God in our midst. After a time he turned to me and asked me if there were some scars that never went away. I imagined some long ago hurt still bothered him enough to ask me what I thought about things that never seemed to heal. I told him that Jesus experienced total victory over the hurt He received at the hands of man. Even death could not hold Him but surprisingly, when meeting Thomas, He still had the scars and made a point of showing them to everyone in the room. His scars bought our lives and I can see why He would choose to keep them. He slowly nodded, in that relaxed tempo only farmers and ranchers seem to have, and said that my answer seemed reasonable to him. The boys came back making a lot of noise about something and the moment was over. I went home and it rained several times that summer. The plateau turned green and stayed that way.

Given enough time a scar fills the hole in the middle. My scars are teaching me to love the unlovely, forgive those who hurt me, and pray prayers that are no longer trite and powerless. The hole in the middle is a part of life; the power of a scar that bears the healing mark of Christ is a part of living in victory.

The picture is of Willie Nelson's guitar "Trigger" which has an extra hole in the middle too. Nevertheless it still plays and sounds beautiful.

Saturday Songs

2010-03-29T19:40:00.000-07:00

That specific Friday was not a good day although much later in her life she would come to see it as good. On that day she had thought about going down to the street and watching for him to pass but in the end decided to stay home. Now it was Saturday and she remembered a day, not long ago, when she had been talked into going to hear him speak. She sat on the grassy hillside with several thousand other curious listeners and later, when they were hungry, they all ate. Someone said something about a miracle but she chose not to hear it. No, she had other things on her mind. It was peaceful, even pleasurable to hear him speak but when she thought about what he was actually saying she found herself troubled. She went home that day fairly sure that people were going to get hurt. Now, the Saturday following his death, she was one of the hurting ones.

She believed him. It was that simple. Friday was indeed dark and scary but today she found herself weeping over everything. The smell of fresh bread, the laughter of neighborhood children, a friend waving hello from the street, all brought tears and a runny nose which left the back of her mouth salty and bitter. She would grunt and busy herself all day in an attempt to get a grip on her emotions but now as the sun dipped lower and the shadows grew longer she found herself in a corner making herself as small as possible. Maybe pain couldn't find such a tiny quivering target she thought, but love can and did and it gave her a song to sing, a Saturday song.

We understand

The hardest part of any plan

Has been . . . the waiting

We know You know

It broke our hearts to let You go

But still . . . the waiting

We heard You say

Your time had come to go away

And so . . . we’re waiting

If we must cry, then we will cry

If we must wait, then we will wait

If we must love, then we will love

For we are the ones, You love

For we are the ones, the ones You love

Elsewhere in the city Saturday songs were quietly being lifted up.

Saturday songs are not loud but they are powerful. They are healing. Everyone who has ever lost a loved one knows a Saturday song. Our hospitals, schools, courts, and churches hum with the continual pleas silently sung by the lost, lonely and afraid. The weight of so much heartache is too much to bear so we do our best to filter them out but occasionally the filter fails and every Saturday song in the room is given its voice. We pray for each other and hold tightly to our emotions lest we come completely undone. We begin as tiny quivering targets but as we pray we are emboldened by Christ who knows the Saturday song is only a prelude.

Saturday songs are always preludes. As Israel went into captivity the psalmist tells us that the people hung their instruments in the willows and then sat down by the river to cry. This passage from Psalm 137 is almost unbearably sad but it is only a prelude. God promises more than a life of Saturday songs. Christians are a people deeply familiar with the Saturday song but we are a body of believers who live by the Sunday anthem. We know Who rises early in the spring morning and shakes off death like an old winter coat. His Sunday Song trumps all other songs, weeping may last for the night, but joy comes in the morning.

Back in the city the world withdraws to rooms of flickering flame. She finishes her Saturday song and eventually slips off to sleep. Our gracious God, never too busy to attend to one of His children, eases her troubled mind and gives her rest. She awakes the next morning to shouts in the street: He is risen!

© March 2010, John P. Van Dusen

Young Girl Struck By Sadness by Pablo Picasso, 1939

Smells Like Heaven

2010-02-26T21:02:00.000-08:00

One evening, not too long ago, Kerry and I went to visit some friends who live in a newer area north of town. We found ourselves circling the same streets over and over trying to locate their house. We got frustrated and then got the giggles as our friends kept texting us with new and better directions and the promise to get on their bikes and come find us. Finally, at one point Kerry said, “Hey, there’s a skunk on that porch.” So we stopped and watched him/her for a while. Sorry, but I can’t tell the boys from the girls when it comes to skunks and I’m not about to get close enough to learn either. The reason is simple and everyone knows it. If you get too close to a skunk you end up smelling like a skunk; which is awful to anyone other than a skunk I suppose. When the little creature became aware of us it jumped off the porch and took off down the street with us in reverse tagging right along making comments and generally forgetting why we were out in the dark to begin with. Eventually our little Pepe LePew turned off into the bushes no doubt seeking “l’amour” from a West Texas version of Penelope Pussycat. Returning to the task at hand we looked up to find ourselves right in front of the house we were looking for. “Sacre Maroon!”

Smell is a powerful sense and it’s surprising how much we depend on it to complete the pictures our eyes give us. In the Old Testament book of Genesis we find Isaac, quite elderly and nearly blind, being fooled by Jacob who was wearing his brother’s clothes. Isaac begins his blessing with the words, “Ah, the smell of my son is like the smell of a field that the Lord has blessed.” (NIV) When I held my new grandson for the first time I couldn’t keep myself from smelling his little head, taking it all in and creating a powerful memory. Likewise I can’t smell a pickle without remembering the sandwiches I ate at the counter of our kitchen in Fort Collins which in turn reminds me of the smell of pine coming down off the foothills following an afternoon rain. There are certain types of candy smells that can set me down in a theatre seat for a Saturday matinee or peanut butter that brings me back to a grandmother who passed away when I was five.

Scripture gives us a fair amount of detail about how heaven will look but there is little reference to how it smells. The apostle Paul in his second letter to the Corinthians makes an interesting statement when he finishes his praise to God with a question, “But thanks be to God, who always leads us in triumphal procession in Christ and through us spreads everywhere the fragrance of the knowledge of him. For we are to God the aroma of Christ among those who are being saved and those who are perishing. To the one we are the smell of death; to the other, the fragrance of life. And who is equal to such a task?” (NIV) The triumphal procession I tend to associate with Christ is his entry into Jerusalem. The fragrance of fresh cut palm leaves still permeates our churches at the beginning of Holy Week. Are we taking the time to notice that? Are our actions and services filled with the fragrance of knowing Christ? I encourage you, dear brother or sister in Christ, to not just taste the bread and wine but to breathe it in and let it saturate you. Thank God with your nose, too.

Just like we can’t serve two masters we also smell like one or the other. Ever hear the phrase “it smells funny to me” to describe a situation that isn’t right? Visually it looks okay but our deeper senses tell us to be careful. Long before we see evidence of wrongdoing we pick up the scent. Veteran reporters can smell out a story and follow it to the truth. Our eyes can be fooled but our noses know better. Seeking forgiveness isn’t about an outward “looking better” to others as much as it is about smelling better to God and ourselves. Confessional prayer should start with the admission “I stinketh.” Christ’s resurrection allows us to be washed in His blood and wear the clothes of Christ’s righteousness so that God can say, “Ah, the smell of my child is like the smell of a field that I have blessed.”

As Paul said, we are to God the aroma of Christ among those who are being saved and to those who are perishing. We should smell like hope, joy, peace, forgiveness, friendship, laughter and most of all love. When those around us join us for coffee, a meal, or worship, let’s pray they say it smells like heaven.

Painting: Sense of Smell by Adriaen van Ostade c.1655 (I used it because I thought the subject funny.)

I Am Standing By the Sea

2010-02-25T20:59:00.000-08:00

Copyright July 2008, John P. Van Dusen
When I try to stand but fall
I look to you
Look to you to steady me
Oh steady me
When I fail to heed your call
As I often do
Cry out to you to rescue me
Come and rescue me

You're all I've ever wanted or needed
I can see it
You're all I've ever wanted or needed
I believe it

Jesus, hear my only plea
Jesus, give me eyes to see

When I was a younger man
A life of ease
I walked where I pleased
Now I follow you
Follow you
I am standing by the sea
And you look at me
Right through me
Feed my sheep
Feed my sheep
Feed my sheep

Painting: The Sea. The Crimea. (1898-1908) by Arkhip Kuinji

Five Advent Ghazals

2009-11-23T09:18:00.000-08:00

A Ghazal may be understood as a poetic expression of both the pain of loss or separation and the beauty of love in spite of that pain. The form is ancient, originating in 6th century pre-Islamic Arabic verse. It became popular in English language poetry in the late 1960’s. The story of the advent of the Messiah, Jesus Christ, is one of sadness, love, and ultimately joy. This form strikes me as an excellent way to express our beautiful account of Emmanuel, God with us.

Birth of Jesus Foretold
Creation weeps and heaven hears the cry
One will hold the Son of the Most High

Sin presses down and crushes human hope
Of those who seek the Son of the Most High

Oh Mary, don’t be troubled by this word
Your son will be the Son of the Most High

No nothing is impossible with God
Infinite in flesh—Son of the Most High

Perfect Love will serve even unto death
The worshiper yields—Son of the Most High

Mary’s Song
God knows there isn’t much she can afford
She lifts her praise to glorify the Lord

Merciful to those who know to fear Him
Her humbleness will glorify the Lord

Holy is His name, Great and Mighty One
Scattered children now glorify the Lord

Rulers on their thrones are brought to nothing
The hungry eat and glorify the Lord

Awesome are the deeds of His mighty arm
The worshiper bows, glorify the Lord

The Birth of Jesus
The noisy streets prefer the laugh of death
A young mother waits; heaven holds its breath

All that is made compresses down to this
Immortal, mortal; heaven holds its breath

A quiet place for beasts to rest their heads
A Savior, too, and heaven holds its breath

The time at hand, eternity is born
A groan, a cry and heaven holds its breath

Behold the Son; pain and joy coalesce
The worshiper looks—heaven holds its breath

Angels
Heaven exhales a host, a joyous call
Angels worship and on earth peace to all

Don’t be afraid, don’t let your heart back out
Reach beyond sheep for news of peace to all

Shopkeepers, landowners, mothers and kings
Sick, pitiful, depleted—peace to all

Born to you is Christ the Lord, Son of God
A babe, a child, a Savior; peace to all

Heaven opens up and angels withdraw
The worshiper comes undone; peace to all

Shepherds
Hands push jaws back in place, how can this be
Plain shepherds elect, let us go and see

The first invitation to Christ the King
Hurry simple herders, scoot, go and see

Young mother invites them, come closer in
Joyful are those that choose to go and see

Now spread the news, the word about the Word
In flesh, amazing! All must go and see

In her heart Mary treasured up these things
The worshiper too—come now, go and see

© John P. Van Dusen, November 2009

Now it’s your turn to write a Ghazal. Here are the rules: Every line has the same number of syllables, you get to choose how many. I chose ten which seemed awkward at first but helped me shake off a rhyming cadence. A Ghazal is a series of at least five couplets but there is no upper limit. The first couplet rhymes. The closing words of the second line are repeated in the second line of each succeeding couplet. This is called the “radif.” The remaining couplets don’t have to rhyme, and can shift around in subject and tone. Due to the Advent story being so well known I chose to stay closer to home. Last of all the “makhta” or poet’s signature should appear somewhere in the last couplet. In case you missed it I’m the worshiper.

I hope this blesses you this Advent season. Remember to slow down and savor the precious gift God has given us. ~John

Why I Love the Church.

2009-10-05T07:59:00.000-07:00

Attending a church can drive you insane. There, I've said it.

People say things that make you wonder if they've ever read their Bible. Every church or independent ministry thinks they hold the key. Bomb throwers, who are often former church members, stand outside the door and lob solutions that few listen to because there is no relationship in which to cultivate a reasonable dialog. The powerful divide up grace like the spoils of war and hand it out in small portions. The thirsty, hungry, and naked are still thirsty, hungry, and naked. The prophets are frustrated and congregations go home empty, longing to be filled.

New idea? Nope. I could be writing about the Great Schism of 1054 - or yesterday.

And yet, I love the church in all it's forms. I love how Pentecostals throw their lives in the air and expect God to catch them. I love the Baptist's burning desire to bring everyone into the kingdom of God. I love the Presbyterian mantra to do it right, do it well, do it because it matters to God and all His creation. I love Catholics, Episcopalians, Lutherans, and Methodists who quietly go about the business of loving even when judged lacking by their own members. I love the home church folks who provide a warm room, a cup of coffee and an opportunity to experience God with a few friends. I could go on but hopefully you get the idea.

I love the church because Jesus loves it. It's that simple. Everywhere God leads me I find that at the core of every church there are people just like me who long to get it right but fail in small and big ways everyday.

Here I'll take my stand. When someone cries out for a dying loved one, or weeps in the presence of God during a song that speaks to the poverty of their heart I don't care what building I'm standing in. From Cathedral to living room my voice and my praise is lifted up. The church is the body of Christ and I love it.

Autumn Song

2009-09-22T09:16:00.000-07:00

I looked up the other day
To see the birds had flown away
Fall had come and brought a winter chill
Left her signature on the windowsill
Windblown messengers, red and gold
Repeat the story yearly told
Fragile acrobats in the sky
Twisting, twirling: they dance, they die
Born in the air to catch the sun
They return to earth when their lives are done
Much like the man who knows Christ the Son
Must lose his life to know he’s won
How beautiful when life begins
How full of grace when near the end

Thus far the Lord has helped us.

2009-07-09T21:11:00.001-07:00

Our Ebenezer Raising

So many losing hope; we even stop our trying
Having lost our way; so set our hearts on dying

Here comes the Son
He's the only One
That can save us, redeem us, restore us to faith
He saves us, redeems us, restores us to faith in God

Lift up the tear stained face; a sacrifice of praising
In the shadow of His wing; our Ebenezer raising

Here comes the Son
He's the only One
That can save us, redeem us, restore us to faith
He saves us, redeems us, restores us to faith in God

Lift your voices sing, sing
We're human bells that ring, ring
Salvation has found us and shields us in peace

Lift up the tear stained face; a sacrifice of praising
In the shadow of His wing; our Ebenezer raising

I wrote this piece the other morning. I guess I was just feeling the need to stop and remember God's provision. Sometimes the prayer requests at the Bridge overwhelm me. Maybe I'll teach the congregation to sing it with me.

Update: We finally found the right time to introduce this song to the congregation on February 14, 2010. Sometimes you just have to wait until God is ready, lol!!

Light and Shadow

2009-06-18T09:21:00.000-07:00

My dear friend, Ron Morgan, asked me to post my recent essay and I gladly do it. May it bring comfort and "peace that passes all understanding" to all who trust our God's unfailing love.

Vaporous and gloomy makes for a “glass half-empty” kind of day. The Carpenters Rainy Days and Mondays is hovering right off the tip of my tongue and the weight of the soggy heavens even seems to be slowing the traffic lights. It doesn’t matter; no one seems interested in punching through those overripe yellows anyway. The morning may seem half-empty but I like a gray day. Sound is slowed and dissipated by a million tiny droplets who exchange it for peace and quiet in our lives. A buttermilk sky is appreciated in the hot places of the world.

The shadows are all short today. Normally they would stretch away from us like cartoons connected at our feet but for now they stay close by and unnoticed; vague outlines as undefined as the memory of a childhood friend. It takes light to make a shadow and it’s interesting to note that it also takes something material, something physical in the middle. Our singular moon comes between us and the sun and great expanses of the earth are thrown into shadow. Clouds throw shadows at the ground and as a child I was fascinated by the sunlight slowly inching toward me as the breeze took the ephemeral billows away to places I hoped to visit someday. Light and shadow give depth and dimension to a painting and also to our lives.

There’s an extraordinary little snippet of scripture I’ve always liked in the fifth chapter of the book of Acts that just floors me every time I read it:

Many men and women started having faith in the Lord. Then sick people were brought out to the road and placed on cots and mats. It was hoped that Peter would walk by, and his shadow would fall on them and heal them. A lot of people living in the towns near Jerusalem brought those who were sick or troubled by evil spirits, and they were all healed.

A shadow that heals; it heals because the light behind Peter is the light of largess. It carries with it a grace so generous that it spills out and heals the just and the unjust. It’s like an artist that throws gallons of paint at his canvas. In the end everything in the room is spattered but the picture is beautiful. Peter is a walking canvas on this day and all who come near become part of God’s masterpiece.

One who walks in darkness casts no shadow, but one who walks in the light of God’s glory casts a shadow which represents their godly influence on His creation. We cannot influence where our shadow falls or how far it reaches. That is determined by the time of day, the season, and the direction God points you. Our only choice is whether or not we will walk in His light. And this is a difficult thing. Walking in the light requires time spent in shadow. I’m not talking about darkness. No, shadow is a place of rest. The psalmists knew this. Think of all their references to rest, refuge, and even singing in the shadow of God’s wings. Who doesn’t appreciate a cloud on a hot day or the evening shadows that come as the sun slips over the horizon? God told the Israelites, “I have put my words in your mouth and covered you with the shadow of my hand.” God is so tender and loving with us. He knows that His light exposes our shallowness and sin but the good news is that in our weakness His love is magnified. It does more than empower us, it spills out onto the sick and troubled and it heals all of us. Our willingness to walk in His light creates shadow in which others can find rest.

If I were called upon to prove the existence of the sun I might point to shadows and ask my inquirer to explain them. Peter’s shadow was a powerful proof. Years ago I met a man who had been raised in the church. As an adult he converted to Orthodox Judaism. He rejected that and moved on to become a Buddhist, finally rejecting everything completely. I was a fairly vocal Christian in my community and one day he came in to my work gunning for me. The conversation started pleasant enough but it wasn’t long before I realized that he was an angry man who planned to prove to me how wrong I was. Over the next three hours everything I believed was called into question. When I responded with scripture he quickly let me know that he believed all scripture was written by men to manipulate each other and maintain power. Besides he could quote it better than I could. Eventually, exhausted and out of defenses, I silently asked the Lord to help me. His answer was a simple one, “Don’t tell him about me, he’s angry with me. Tell him about you.” I began to share my testimony of all the wonderful things God had done in my life. I could feel myself light up as I remembered and retold the little miracles only I knew. In less than fifteen minutes he fled the room with me following him to the door trying to finish one last story. In the end I understood that while he rejected my Savior as a Jewish hoax and me as a weak-minded person who needed a religious crutch in order to get through life, it was my shadow that pinned him down and then chased him as he left flustered and agitated. It’s hard to argue with a shadow whose testimony is the brilliant light of perfect love.

I stand silent in the sun
but my shadow is the crazy one
He runs up and touches you, goes beyond enjoys the view
I could make him come to me if I
should step
beneath
a
tree
But mostly I just let him run, truth be told: I’m the crazy one

Blessing looks like humility

2009-06-07T18:52:00.000-07:00

Today was not my best effort. Oh, I tried mind you but it wasn't meant to be. I left the input level on my effects processor at zero and spent two full songs wondering why my guitar sounded so thin. I also managed to type the wrong words to the opening song so while the band was singing "meet with me" the congregation was singing "rescue me." The rest was okay but I never fully recovered. Fortunately God isn't slowed by my little train wrecks.

Don't worry, I no longer beat myself up on days like this. I have learned to appreciate that a good dose of humility is a great blessing. A band member turned to me later and said it was good that we didn't have to be perfect but I told her I wanted to be perfect. If I didn't want to be perfect I never would have lasted this long or stayed the course that led me here. A desire for perfection is not the enemy of humility because humility is a necessary step to achieving any worthwhile goal. Perfection itself is unobtainable but the desire for it is within my grasp. My willingness to reach as far as possible is a measure of my character.

The picture is a self portrait from 1918 by Chaim Soutine. He looks sad. His own brothers beat him on several occasions because he wanted to paint. Shortly before he painted this he was working as a ditch digger. He loved to paint but painting was hard on him for a long time. He held on, eventually got a benefactor who bought many of his paintings, and, by 1923, he no longer had to worry about financial deprivation. Sadly some years later he had to deal with bullies who didn't care about his gift so much as his heritage. Being chased by Nazis gave this humble Jew an ulcer and an operation to fix it killed him in 1943. What I find remarkable was his determination to reach; even from the bottom of a ditch. His desire to reach beyond the bullies and thugs of life gave us paintings that are wonderful and lasting. Come to think of it maybe he looks more determined than sad.

We should reach as far as possible because it matters. Eventually even a ditch digger has to crawl out if the ditch is going to serve its purpose. True humility and a desire for perfection might be the hand God is offering you. You've been blessed to do your best.

Doctor my eyes

2009-05-07T11:22:00.000-07:00

Cause I have wandered through this world
And as each moment has unfurled
I've been waiting to awaken from these dreams
People go just where they will
I never noticed them until I got this feeling
That it's later than it seems
~Jackson Brown

My return to playing the electric guitar during worship has been fun and interesting, and to be honest, an epiphany of its own. I'm not a "twenty something" and neither are most of the people in my bands. For several weeks I've been talking to them about the movie Hook. The story line is simple: Peter Pan does indeed grow up to become a lawyer and forgets how to fly. Only after his children are kidnapped and he is forced to save them does he begin to remember the person he once was. At seventeen I flew with Les Pauls, Strats, and powerful amps by Fender, Vox, and Marshall. Then I married young, settled into my acoustic world, and began a lifelong attempt to express my faith and heart through beautiful and mostly quiet songs. Now here I am many years later, gravel back in my voice, happily distorting my way to God's pleasure.

On my way back I pulled up short and took a good look in the mirror. I'm not seventeen. Perhaps I just look silly, or indulgent, or . . . old.

Then Jesus, the Balm of Giliad, doctored my eyes. In fact it was my eyes that he pointed out to me by reminding me of what I had seen. In my life I have watched the funeral processions of JFK, MLK, RFK and Elvis, astronauts on the moon, disco *shudder*, and the rise of the digital age, but more importantly I have witnessed thousands of people come to hear me sing and leave changed forever by a Presence far greater than any song. My eyes are healed everyday watching my beautiful wife of the past thirty years rediscover her own ways to fly. My eyes reflect the laughter and tears of two daughters who came to me as babies and left me as young women who love God.

My entire face tells my story. My hopes and dreams have brought me more pain than joy and it shows in the often cynical way in which I withhold my smile. My face knows the inner ugliness Jesus washes away with his blood. My eyes, my face: every wrinkle, spot, and blemish is a powerful testimony to God's grace in my life. I am his and this is who I am.

True, it may be later than it seems, but I plan to rock on till daylight. My eyes have seen the Glory and I wouldn't give up a moment of it.

Someone's knockin' at the door, somebody's ringing a bell . . .

2009-04-20T13:05:00.000-07:00

One of the more simplistic songs ever written that managed to become a big hit was a song by Paul McCartney and Wings called Let 'Em In. It starts with the doorbell ringing and proceeds to inform the listener to open the door . . . over and over again until you just want to scream, "Open the dang door already!!" The little chorus bit even suggests who might be at the door with obvious names like Martin Luther to less obvious like Phil and Don, which I assume to be the Everly Brothers. Back when the only time you called a radio station was to request a song this was a very popular little ditty. I admit it's catchy, and it is on my iPod, but, to be honest, Wings did some much cooler stuff.

All of that was a bit of background for you so you would understand what went through my head when this past week I went strolling down to The Bridge and was met with the plywood barrier pictured here. I actually walked up and knocked on it, whistling (you got it) "Do me a favor, open the door, let 'em in."

The short answer to the mystery is that the building maintenance guys took the door to refinish it along with some other undone items in the room. But it got me to thinking about how available we make ourselves to each other. I am seriously introverted. I'm a door locker and a window shutter upper. If I don't recognize the number on my caller id I may not answer it. While I may argue the merits of a personal life that is lived with an eye to privacy and safety, I don't think we want our churches to appear boarded up. Even at a new service or ministry it doesn't take long for those on the inside to forget about those on the outside. It's easy to say, "I like it just the way it is." But we really don't have that option and even when we are selfish enough to opt for it we really can't afford the luxury. To remain the same is to invite peril and suffer loss far greater than our comfort.

The next phase for The Bridge is to reach out into our community and start inviting them. There's room. For heaven's sake, let's let 'em in.

We made it to Easter!

2009-04-16T08:25:00.000-07:00

Last weekend I turned to Donna, one of our keyboard players and one of those who have been praying for a contemporary service for over ten years, and said "Can you believe we made it to Easter?" I think she looked a little overwhelmed with it all. I know I was. A year ago I was in Colorado minding my own business. I knew that a position in Texas was out there but I hadn't put much stock in it yet. Now here I am standing in a room that has dramatically changed since then. (If you go to the beginning of this blog's posts you can see the transformation.)

The room has become a place that people are gravitating to during the week just to hang out with what one person described as "a sense of peace and the presence of God." To me this is the more permanent and dramatic change. We have new faces combined with the regulars; joined in worship. The space feels hungry for God and the yearning for His presence in those who meet here is real.

Dare I say there should be more? I think so. We've only begun to establish relationships with each other. And what about a much larger world out there who thinks Christianity is no longer relevant? There are many plans for church growth but I still think that Jesus gave us the best one. "Go and make disciples" he said. Genuine concern, friendship, and a little love will do more to fill our beautiful spaces than any advertising campaign. God has begun a good work in us. Our work is just beginning too.

Resurrection

2009-04-07T13:52:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time First Pres built a new and larger sanctuary with a fantastic organ and beautiful stain glass windows. Suddenly the former sanctuary which had heard so many prayers and hymns was silent; set aside for smaller meetings and quiet times. Still, it held a great number of cherished memories of moments spent with Jesus, baptisms, weddings, and the bittersweet times of having to let loved ones go.

One of the more satisfying things about The Bridge has been the resurrection of this original space which I have found has gone through many changes even during the years of its use as the main worship center of the church. Many people have come in and told me how it looked during their special event and it seems to be a little different each time. It clearly was a room well spent. Each one has told me that its current use is a wonderful thing and that it is good to hear worship flowing through the doors and down the halls again.

Resurrection is a particularly satisfying thing to do. I've resurrected a few guitars in my day. Gluing bridges back in place, re-stringing, oiling frozen tuners, and polishing the finish gives me a sense of putting things right. I've helped resurrect the dreams of soon to be friends who longed to be in a band or who longed to worship singing a new song. Always there is the sense of putting things right. Admittedly, I can grow weary of the week to week demands of my work just like everyone else but mostly there is something that needs put right each week and I don't mind doing my part. I rather enjoy it.

If I am happy just making an old guitar right, then how satisfying must it be to set the world right? And what better way than to resurrect the only One worthy of our praise? A giant sigh must have fallen over the world that first Easter morning. As Grace came home to send the Spirit on His way the Maker of the universe set to work putting us right. Selah

Christ is risen indeed.

The Rocker

2009-03-26T09:06:00.000-07:00

I have two bands which rotate; one serves the first two weeks and one serves the last two weeks of each month. This week is the first service for The Bridge that lands on the 5th Sunday of the month. My plan has been to either have a pared down unplugged type of service with just me, a guitar, and maybe a auxiliary percussionist or combine both bands and have a free-for-all.

I opted for the free-for-all. ;)

I pulled out my Variax electric and we all just went to town during rehearsal. What fun! I might not ever play an acoustic again. Not only was it fun to play the big songs with distortion but even the quiet pieces seemed richer with chorus and delay. I'll keep my eyes open during the service and see how it all falls into place.

Last week at The Bridge we focused on gentleness and meekness. The ability (and willingness) to stand in front of a large crowd and invite people to sing doesn't always go hand in hand with meekness as the world defines it. Meekness as Jesus defines it however is probably the perfect trait for a worship team.

This coming week the theme is patience. I can't wait.

Spring Break

2009-03-17T13:42:00.000-07:00

The start up of The Bridge was a time filled with practical decisions. Which microphones provided the best quality signal for the money? Should we carpet or leave the floor raw? What about the offering, prayer, or communion? Most of those questions answered themselves but some still need tweaking.

To not put too fine a point on it, Kerry and I landed in Midland in the middle of a boom. My time has been preoccupied with a myriad of details all coming around the idea of a vibrant and relevant worship service. Not a bad way to view a new service but I could not have foreseen a looming recession/depression and the effects it would have on the community here. Two things have worked in my favor though. First, this town has gone bust before and the people here just square their shoulders and meet it straight up. Second, for several years now, I've already been choosing and writing songs that are a response to the prayer requests during the services and other events at the church. The requests usually are for sick family members or struggling co-workers but they all boil down to a desperate need for hope.

One of my favorite pieces is by Caleb Clements called Come Unto Me:

Come unto Me all who are weary
Come unto Me all who are weak
Come unto Me all who are burdened
And I will give you rest

The second verse invites all who are thirsty, faint and sorrowed to receive rest, peace, and joy. There is a hope, his name is Jesus. Rich or poor, we are all weary of the stresses of life we carry but Jesus longs to give us respite in the midst of the storm. Myself included, it's time to turn from the plow and rest a bit; maybe look up and enjoy the sun by day and the stars by night.

Spring break could not have come at a better time around here.

Texas Hill Country

2009-03-08T19:37:00.000-07:00

I spent this last weekend at Mo Ranch in the Texas hill country with a lot of the leaders of the church. What a blessing it was to lead them in worshipful singing and participate with them in meaningful conversations while we planned for the future. Despite concerns about the economy and our culture in general they were genuinely excited about what God would call them to next.

I had a great time and got to enjoy "real" Texas B-B-Q for the first time as well! The ride there and back was sweet with a couple good friends who made the four hour trip fly by quickly.

The Bridge was as sweet as ever today. I can't get enough of hearing the congregation sing. We serve a gracious God. (sigh)

Newspaper article

2009-03-03T15:06:00.000-08:00

Here is a link to an article in the Midland newspaper about the beginning of The Bridge. I think it gets pretty close to the hopes and vision many people in the church have had for a number of years. Some of them have been very patient. It feels good to see their smiles during the service.

A bridge to joy . . .

2009-02-22T19:51:00.000-08:00

What do you say when the young people lift their hands and spin in place, when their parents and grandparents sing like heaven just opened up, when your scripture reader begins to weep halfway through the passage, when the pastor tells a story so personal and real you feel like someone had trusted you with a great and hard won truth, when communion made you tingle with sacredness, and when the final song was sung with such authority that the ending was exhilarating and sad (in that it was over) at the same time?

You'd say it was a pretty good day to be a follower of Jesus Christ.

The end of one thing and the beginning of another.

2009-02-19T16:02:00.000-08:00

This past week Ross (the new AV guy) and I replaced the audio snake that has been giving us problems from the get go. We also installed all the wireless gear I've waited to order because I had to be careful not to get into the other wireless frequencies in the building. I do believe that other than routine maintenance the sound is complete. It is always a much more complicated process than most people think. Thinking back it seems that I first unpacked the gear early in January. That makes it two months from "ohh this is pretty" to "leave it alone it's fine."

One of the last things I did today was hand over the system to Ross. The church charged me with the research, purchasing, and installation but in the end it isn't mine to keep. Ross has it now and will continue to train AV techs in the future. I'll be there to help and ask for changes now and then but like everything else it's time to move on and concentrate again on new music.

Of course, I do have to order a video camera. ;)

Shake, rattle, and hum

2009-02-09T10:59:00.000-08:00

The Bridge is an interesting place to be. I continue to hear stories of different people who come by to visit (and I hope stay) with the idea that they need a place to land. A place to love and be loved. Our ability to do that will be the only measure of success that matters.

On a more earthly level we seem to have developed a hum in the system and I suspect it's in our faulty cabling from the mixer to the band. Fortunately I have a replacement snake in hand. I far as I can tell our sound is still good in the room but I can't hear my guitar or Chip's mandolin very well. The piano sounds gorgeous and the bass is deep and full. The kick drum is balanced well and the vocals are even better with the new reverb unit I installed last week. More adjustments are on the way. ;) Can you tell I love this kind of thing?

As for me, it seems that it is time for me to stop "owning" the service. I've been so focused on details and preparation that I have failed to really let go and be a worshiper. I prayed about this the night before this past service but some last minute problems snagged me right at 10:59. I got shaken and lost my way. Truth is I am every bit as vulnerable to distraction as everyone else in the room. Knowing this helps me emphasize with moms who struggle with getting the kids ready, people who walk in still trying to make their budget work while debating their tithe check with God, the lonely, the lost, and the bored. God hears us all. His grace covers all.

The gospel is still good news.

New item: Follow this blog

2009-02-03T20:15:00.000-08:00

If you would like to get an e-mail when I update this blog you can click on the "follow this blog" link in the column on the right. I publish at odd times so this might work for you.

The Bridge +1 week

2009-02-01T19:36:00.000-08:00

Well one week later and the service was just as packed as the first week. There are children who sit on the floor in front of me, the youth have expressed their approval by showing up in numbers, and we have a decent showing of Boomers and Seniors. For me it doesn't get any better than sincere cross generational worship.

Both bands have now had a chance to lead and it remarkable how strong they are in very different and distinct ways. The good news is that the new congregation has accepted each band as viable leaders.

I do have a few odds and ends to clear up. I need to purchase a digital recorder to capture the sermons and I still need to settle the wireless issues so I can order those units. As far as the room we still need to install the art installation (pictures will be coming) and we are going to have to pull down the foyer wall to buy a little space for more seating. It's all good.

Jesus, there's just something about that name. Today it rang out in song and word and sermon.

The Bridge begins!

2009-01-25T18:14:00.000-08:00

Everything worked! People sang and prayed and it was all good! God was glorified and his presence was everywhere.

The young children were my favorite part of the morning. A dozen or more stood at the front and sang their little hearts out.

This was a half hour before we started. We set up 149 chairs, which was all the room would hold, and the final count was something over 250. That's a pretty good jumping off point. The band just sat on the floor under their mics during the sermon.

In the quiet before . . .

2009-01-24T20:42:00.000-08:00

It's late Saturday afternoon. The carpet is down and all the band's gear is set up. Cables are routed and bundled. There are still things to do in this space like a new row of lights and the art installation but it's as ready as it needs to be for worship tomorrow.

Now we learn to lead by serving.

Emerson once said that he liked the silent church before the service begins better than any preaching. I would have to agree. Still, for someone as introverted as me, I manage to make a lot of noise each week. According to Psalm 150 God enjoys a little noise now and then too.

It's all in the details

2009-01-23T13:04:00.000-08:00

This gentleman has been installing the six panels on each wall that help to brighten the room. Behind each wall treatment is foam to help cut reflections in the sound. I can tell the difference already and I'm very happy considering that the room was a huge echo monster for a while.

Rows of new chairs. There is another batch in the hallway. I'm praying they are all full come Sunday!

Website

2009-01-23T12:28:00.001-08:00

You can get to the new website by clicking here. I like the concepts we are using in establishing this service. It's easy to be "to cute by half" when it come to this kind of thing and churches are especially prone to it for some reason. Our approach is pretty straight forward, interesting but not too fancy. Just the facts, Jack!

AV and carpet!!

2009-01-23T09:55:00.000-08:00

It's crunch time for The Bridge and it seems like everything is happening at once. The screen and projector went up Tuesday morning and I couldn't be more pleased. The image is big and sharp even with daylight streaming in through the stain glass.

Late yesterday afternoon the carpet layers showed up and began their work. The band pulled all the sound after rehearsal and when the carpet guys finish that side of the room I'll put it all back and and run the cabling properly. Our chairs came in this morning and the only thing left is a laptop to tie it all together which is supposed to be here today.

Give me strength, Lord, I'm wearing a little thin today!

Outdoor artwork

2009-01-20T08:32:00.000-08:00

This is a shot of the banners that were hung yesterday for The Bridge. Just in time for 20,000+ people to drive or walk past them to hear President Bush give a farewell speech to his supporters in the Midland/Odessa area this afternoon.

The times are indeed changing for both the church and the world. I pray it's all good.

Trust God!

1st practice service

2009-01-17T20:29:00.000-08:00

This is our first practice service. We have a "seed group" who came to worship, ask questions, offer suggestions, and learn their role in the new service as greeters, worshipers, runners, helpers, and generally be friendly and helpful to any that God sees fit to send us.

We are still waiting for our laptop, projector, and screen so we are singing off of lyric sheets for now. The carpet and wall treatments come later this coming week.

Progress

2009-01-12T20:49:00.000-08:00

The Bridge
New worship
ancient faith

I've started setting up the sound and an early sound check really sounded good. The powered Mackie 12's w/horns plus the subs pack a lot of sound in a smaller package. You can see by the size of the room that we need as much space for chairs as possible. Also in the pictures you can see the built in cabinet for the sound board and PC. The lights for the entire room are built right into the facing panel with faders for each set of spots. The cabinet is built smaller but the 20 channel Yamaha mixer has plenty of room. I purchased every piece with the idea that I wanted optimum sound with the smallest profile possible. The wall behind the band will have a 10 x 8 foot screen and the opposite wall will hold the projector with a special long throw lens that will cover the 35 feet without losing any clarity. I'll add more pictures when I finish setting up the sound and more when we have a couple practice services next week. The carpet goes in on the 22nd, the walls will get a muslin treatment, we have a muti colored art installment that covers the ceiling, and on the 25th we launch!

It's official!

2008-12-10T11:51:00.000-08:00

Since September a group called the New Worship Service Design Team has been meeting and hammering out all the details for the new service. The new service will be called The Bridge and it will start up at 11 am on January 25th, 2009.

There's lot to do yet. The bands still need work (of course, a lot of music/leadership things can only come together with a congregation in place) the Chapel build needs finished and cleaned up, the place needs decorated, lights installed, a screen and projector in place, a new laptop set up to handle video and sound, the PA needs to be set up and tweaked, and a whole lot of promotional materials need to be designed and agreed upon.

One thing at a time. All will be fine. ;)

Work continues . . .

2008-12-09T13:14:00.000-08:00

The new floor in the chapel is coming along just fine. The electrical has been run and it's beginning to look like we''ll be able to have a New Year's Eve service in this space.

Chapel floor

2008-11-20T14:31:00.000-08:00

Jeremy and Ross are giving the Chapel a level floor and I ordered a new PA system for the service today. The lights will need to be reconfigured as we rotate the room and additional power outlets that will safely handle the bigger load. Eventually I'll order some spots and filtered lighting but this will be enough to get started.

My bands sound really good and so far it looks like we'll make it to January on schedule. Everyone is excited and ready to see the new service start. Me too!

Abatement part 2

2008-10-23T09:00:00.000-07:00

In the pictures below you can see how they wrap everything up like a Christmas present. It's kind of cool how the only way in and out is through a shower unit. The exhaust air is filtered and sent out through a couple door windows they removed. In the ceiling shot you can see what needs to be removed and after that is done then they will unwrap and remove flooring materials. Interesting work but I'm glad I don't have to do it.

The guy with the shaved head is Todd, my new bff from Lubbock, through Cali, now in Midland.

Abatement!

2008-10-23T08:48:00.001-07:00

Moving forward

2008-10-18T08:20:00.000-07:00

Even as I write this a crew is pulling the asbestos out of the chapel. The carpet and pews are out and I've gotten a chance to see the empty room. It's going to be a cool space. I'll get a picture up this week.

In other news my bands are getting better each week and they are pretty excited about it. I like seeing the looks on their faces when a song comes together. It's fun envisioning a congregation as excited as the bands. This fall is going by really quickly!

Counting down to a new worship service!

2008-09-29T15:12:00.000-07:00

I now have two full bands ready and lined up to go. Due to our schedules I'll have to rehearse them back to back from 7:30 to 10:30 each Wednesday night. Whew! That's gonna be a long haul. I am looking forward to the late night group in that cool things happen when people get sleep deprived!

Eyes on Christ

2008-09-15T13:32:00.000-07:00

Auditions are over, the bands (two of them) are lining up, and details are starting to come together as to when, where , and how. I'm having a good time and feel God's presence while I do my part. Although issues have come up I have refused to worry about any of them. Life is short and God is great. I'll let Him deal with it. lol!

The people here make me feel like I can walk on water. I figure that means I better keep my eyes on Jesus.

Auditions

2008-09-11T14:07:00.000-07:00

I held auditions for the bands last night. This was first for me and it was fun but also harder than I had expected. In the past I was more or less forced to use whoever was available and in some cases actually teach someone to play an instrument. I now have multiple choices for each position (except bass guitar, go figure?) and I will actually have to tell some that they won't make the band. There are some tough calls to make and I do have help from two other volunteers but still, ouch.

Lord, help me to be wise and kind.

Steeples

2008-08-23T17:06:00.001-07:00

If I lean all the way back in my chair I can see this view of the Church's steeple from my office. According to The Shaping of Things To Come by Michael Frost and Alan Hirsch church steeples were designed to say, "Here we are, come join us!" This is called the Attractional model. In other words we invite people to join us in our space to build relationship and ultimately faith in Christ. The Missional model is one in which the church is based out in the culture without a defined space. In other words each church member is a little steeple drawing people to faith in Christ through relationship.

While there is a great deal of debate over which model is best, I've come to the conclusion we need both, and should have both running concurrently as part of our complete vision for furthering the kingdom of God in our lives. Think of it like our bicameral goverment. Each side provides checks and balances for the other. As simple as this is I'm dismayed at how intense the debate is in the Western Church. Lord knows many of us have seen the worst of both.

I'm ready to experience the best.

My new stapler

2008-08-20T11:34:00.000-07:00

The church here is just really nice. When asked if I needed a stapler I joked and said yeah a red Swingline. As you can see it is now sitting on my desk.

The people here want me to succeed. I know that sounds odd but before I've always had the feeling that I needed to prove myself before people would get on board with my ideas. For some wonderful reason they are already on board with me before I've done anything of any consequence. I would have to prove myself unworthy which I don't plan to do.

Anyway it's all good.

I need a chair

2008-08-14T13:43:00.001-07:00

Tomorrow I'm getting a new desk chair but for now I just rest my chin on the edge of the desk and try not to bite my tongue when the phone rings.

Not really.

I am getting a new chair.

Update: Where's Waldo?

Further Update 8/15 : Got my chair!