In Verse

As far as present getting goes, I can't remember a better Christmas than this year. 3 poetry books, a couple of sweaters, handmade presents from my family, money (that my wife and I put toward the Macbook I'm now writing on), and a family trip to Gulf Shores that is mostly paid for...

Simple and awesome.

I dove into some of the poetry last night, starting with Scott Cairns adaptations of the writings of church fathers and mothers, the saints. It's called Love's Immensity, and I only made it through the first two poems before I had to stop and wonder.

First,

With love's confidence I'm asking,

if you should offer this book
to another, ask of him
as now I ask of you
to read slowly,
and thoroughly, tasting

each word's trouble...

I fear
for the reader who dabbles,
who gleans, who hurries to take
and flee, and who by doing so acquires
nothing by a novel form
of his current poverty and error.

Wow. I know that the author of those words is not just talking about poems, but the Holy Scripture itself. Slowly read it, taste each word. Don't try to just take something from it, instead with with it. I know that I've been short on my ability lately to "eat the book" as Eugene Peterson puts it. I have been into the Scriptures for what I need and then on my way. My mornings have been quick daily office readings and then on to the next thing. I've been busy-minded when I should have been slow and clear.

No more gleaning, says I, and then I move on to the next poem in the Cairns' collection, which seems very familiar...

I'll bet your wits won't let you
quite believe any of this; it is, however,
precisely so.

I know a man, a follower of Christ,
who, some fourteen years ago,
was lifted clean

to the third heaven - whether this
occurred in the body or out of it,
I could not say,

though God knows. And this same man -
whether in the body or out of it,
I do not know,

though God surely knows - was lifted
(hear me!) clean to Paradisse, and there
he heard such words

- so marvelous and grave - that no
human tongue could repeat them,
nor think to try.

That's 2 Corinthians 12:2-4 if you know it. And sure enough, at the top of the page Cairns gave credit to the author: Saint Paul the Apostle. But I remain intrigued at what Cairns had done. In putting the Scripture in verse, he must have forced himself to do the very thing the first poem asked. Slow down. Take each word seriously. In the process of writing the book, he was following the advice given.

And, as a semi-aspiring poet, what if I approached the texts the same way? What if not only Paul was a poet (though he didn't even know it), what if Matthew was too? And James! And Ezekiel! And even the book of Leviticus? Yes and yes and yes.

Scripture flows like poetry, because every word and image means so much.

Or, like Cairns and Peterson have figured out, because every word tastes so good.

Flickers of Hope

Christ is coming, Christ is always coming.

Yesterday, with the flaming end of a coffee stir stick that we ignited with one of the kitchen's burners, we lit the first Advent candle at our church. The lavender candle flickered throughout our service, at this point just one small flame to start the season. In my haste and procrastination, I couldn't find large solid columns of purple candle for the season. So, instead we have tiny sized candles sitting inside of glass jars.

Nothing about them is impressive. We joked when the first one was lit, sarcastic remarks about how it "really lights up the room" and other such quotes. The dancing light certainly couldn't dispel all shadows, but it would make it so we could see.

The first Advent candle represents hope, and it seems to me that it is really appropriate. Dropped into a dark, shadowy, swirling world, hope gives us the ability to see.

Not with sharp clarity. We don't know why Child Protective Services seems particularly hard on one of our congregants and friends. We don't know why the single mother in our church can't seem to get over her nagging kidney malfunctions and now has lung disease added to her problems despite her insistent choice not to smoke. We don't know why the bills don't seem to work out right after hours adjusting our budget. We don't know why.

But we can see light.

And during Advent, that's all we are given right now. Hope. No other candle's flame has joined it yet. Perhaps in our darkest circumstances, that is where we have to start. And perhaps that is where we have to stay for awhile. When their is no solution in sight, we hope.

Christ is coming, Christ is always coming.

Returned

I am kept unto prayer
Returned again to unbelief
- Kazim Ali, "Well"

I sat by the goalpost, cold in the October wind, crying well past midnight. My girlfriend of 4 years had finally said officially that we were on a break, and my heart was tearing straight out of my chest. The damp, dark grass wet the side of my face as I ran out of energy to sit up, and had to simply fall and curl on the evening earth. Why?

As I walked the streets of Chicago, nervous and fearful, my cell phone going off at pre-programmed times to remind me that my beloved grandpa was undergoing major surgery. Unexpected surgery. Life threatening surgery. I was on a trip to celebrate my anniversary, and he was unconscious under the harsh hospital lights. Why?

Thunder cracked through the summer air in Romania. The lightning briefly illuminating the small cell where my roommate and I fight fear by pulling the covers up to our chins and talking senseless nonsense until it doesn't even feel right anymore. Is it right to talk about girls he likes when thousands of babies, helpless, sweet, babbling babies are laying alone in orphanage cribs as the powerful storm beats down the city night? Is there an abandoned child crying under a wooden bench at the park tonight, waiting to be picked up in the morning, feeling the extremes of his unwantedness? Why?

These are heavy questions that I've asked of God throughout my life. These terrible times of stress and anxiety, injustice and doubt... these very times have occasioned my strongest and most passionate prayers. Yelling at God, pleading with God, crying with God... comforted by God.

In the opening quote, Kazim Ali's poem "Well" had two lines, one about prayer and one about unbelief. As I learn about the wonders of prayer, as I've contemplated the topic for two weeks now, something is clear to me. I think that I'd say Ali's poem backwards:

Returned again to unbelief
I am kept unto prayer

It seems to me, that in my deepest times of doubt and yes, even unbelief, I truly find my voice of prayer. This week, I am reminded of that. Faced with my weaknesses and failures as a husband, my response has been prayer. Faced with classes that are unruly, beginning to unravel, my response has been prayer. Faced with deep misunderstandings of my Heavenly Father, hurt and pain and unanswered prayer, my response has been prayer. Faced with temptation and sin, my response has been prayer.

When faced with doubt in all its forms, I am kept unto prayer. Difficulty is a bonding agent. In the story of Elijah, Queen Jezebel threatens his life, chases him into the desert and Elijah becomes so despondent that he asks the LORD to take his life from him. But notice, he asks the LORD. In other words, he prays. And then comes the beautiful story of God's reassurance, as he passes by Elijah in a gentle whisper.

I know that God is passing by me now, and all of time. This prayer thing is more about relationship than it is about my answers. That is why every time I am returned to unbelief, returned to difficulty, returned to doubt, returned to loneliness I am at the same time returned to prayer.

There is None Like You

There is such much that is unique in our world. Each snowflake is said to have its intricate design of frozen crystals woven differently than any other. Each day has its variety of interactions, conflicts and times of peace. Each person has a spectrum of looks, history and personality.

Even when resting in a field of flowers or long bladed grass, I can notice how each little bloom has its tiny leaves at slightly different angles. Each tip of the grass has varying width, height, or lean in the swirling wind. From the very large to the very small, there is uniqueness.

Perhaps the world is formed in such a way that it reflects the glory of our Father. As is said in one of the best songs of praise ever penned:

This is my Father's world
He shines in all that's fair
In the rustling grass I hear Him pass
He speaks to me everywhere.

And each tiny blossom, each blade of grass, each person, each night and day, each slowly falling flake tell of God's unique qualities. There is none like the LORD.

At our marriage retreat this weekend, we were reminded over and over that our spouse is a gift. A gift that we should study and try to understand, because they are special and unique. My love for Courtney grows when I see the talents, ideas, traits and quirks that are only hers. My love for her grows when I respond to that unique person she is in unique ways. It lets her know that I was thinking of only her, not just "women" in general.

Recognizing the unique nature of someone we love allows us to respond in personal ways.

So what of the unique nature of our God? If all of this distinctiveness reflects the will of the LORD, then what is anomalous about Him? And how do we recognize it and respond to it so that our love for our LORD becomes personal?

I don't know the answer to any of those questions well enough to type them all out right now. Somehow, I think it has to do with the personal ways God has revealed Himself to each of us. All of these personal revelations of love lead us to know His character better. But how to respond?

At the retreat, we stood watching a TV screen in a high ceilinged, white walled room. Words zoomed across the screen, people sang or didn't. The song built, had a key change, took it up another level. In the front of the room, my mom helped lead those of us willing to enter the song. Some couples held hands, some wrapped arms around each other, some put their hands on the back of the chairs in front of them because they had grown old and weak, and some turned away from the song and from their spouse. Many couples were revitalized in their love, some probably weren't. But in that moment, the Spirit descended on the whole strange scene, and as it worked in hearts and minds, we began to respond to its personal touch.

We responded simply, but together, to all the unique love that the Spirit was pouring into us at the same time. It was our start, just to sing, "there is none like You."

In the Midst of the Unlikely

I sat uncomfortably in a typical hotel room chair. You know, the ones that look nice and are probably easy to clean because they are basically well-designed and coordinated fabrics pulled over wooden boards. But I propped my feet up on the bed and read with my youngest son leaning his head back against me. In this position, with my backside falling asleep, I read an article about a poet who's work I had really enjoyed, who's work had contributed to my contemplation of God, who's work has helped lead me into prayer. I read, to my surprise, that this poet is Muslim.

And it occurred to me, sitting in my hard chair, holding my squirming son, waiting for "5 minutes" while my wife finished getting ready for our date night... in the midst of all this chaos, God had spoken to me. The message was simple, as it always is, and self-evident immediately.

"I speak out of the unlikely."

God has a history of speaking in unlikely ways. The burning bush, the gentle whisper, a hand writing on the wall. From a prophet who married to a prostitute to a prophet born to a poor teenage mother in a small cattle stall. The words that flow out of these places are generally consistent as well, "I am calling you," "I am with you," or "I love you with everlasting love."

As the evening continued, my wife and I went, as part of a marriage retreat, to indulge in some Amish-style cooking. My wife looking beautiful, my thoughts on late evening activities, God spoke again. This time, He had to cut through my thoughts. This time, he used an older married couple from North Carolina, whose southern drawls made them difficult to understand at times and whose Baptist roots (I must admit) made me uneasy at first blush.

Despite all the reasons not to listen, the LORD's Spirit was still moving. Even my distraction cannot stop Him. The speakers, Debe and Marty Tobin, shared stories from their marriage about Debe's losing a set of keys down the toilet and Marty's ability to "cover her weakness" by thinking ahead and putting an extra set of keys in the glove box. Then, another story about a lawnmower mishap that cut the line to the family's well and the grace they were able to extend to one another. Finally, Marty put it all together: "Because it's not about keys or wells, it's about relationships."

Here I am, stuffed full of mashed potatoes and roast beef, but hearing God's message of life. It is not about the little things - the stuff you accumulate, the stuff you lose, the mistakes you make, the mistakes your wife makes, the mistakes your church makes - it is about sustaining relationships.

I admit, I wasn't expecting to hear such a powerful reminder from a Baptist couple at an Amish dinner while I was thinking of sex. And I admit, I didn't think a Muslim poet, in an uncomfortable chair, in a rushed atmosphere could turn my prayers to the true and only LORD.

But God continues to speak in the midst of the unlikely.

We All Wanna See God

We finished up the simplified tale of Mary and the angel last night, and as I flipped the brightly colored pages and went to close the "Baby Bible" Gideon rolled over and looked at me.

"Daddy," he said in his voice of wanting, the voice he uses when he wants a stuffed animal to spend the night with him in bed, or a last drink of milky, or one more kisses.

"Yea, son," I said stroking his hair and looking down at the tiring eyes.

"I want to see God."

It was shocking coming from a two (almost three) year old. I don't know how serious he was, considering he was using his whiny, "I-don't-want-to-go-bed" tone, but still. The Bible says that God has ordained praise from the lips of babes, but this is a much deeper request that a simple acknowledgment of praise. This was like the longing prayers of the greatest prophets.

Moses, on the mountain of God, bargaining with God for the lives of the people. Moses lays himself out as an offered sacrifice for the people, negotiating with God. I imagine this to be a passionate conversation, because both of them were dealing with a lot of anger. After all that God, Moses, and the people had been through - seas splitting, clouds of smoke and fire, miraculous food and water - the people had built an idol of gold! God the angry Father, Moses pleading for mercy. As God's anger calms, he agrees to Moses' request. Then, exhausted from the interaction, Moses emotion and love well up inside him: "Now," long breath, deep longing, "show me Your Glory."

But Moses is not to see God's face. Later in the story of Scripture, Elijah stands on the mountain, again worn and torn from his zealous service for the LORD in the face of the obstinate people. He prays with passion for the LORD to take him, to remove his loneliness and seeming failure. God answers, not in the wind, fire, or earthquake, but in the gentle whisper. This is the closest that someone has been to God since Moses on the mountain, but still, Elijah does not get to see God.

Gideon's request struck me as odd for his age. Others come to this place of want and desire after lifetimes of service to God, and Gideon is saying it at two. But the request itself isn't odd. For whatever reason, we all want to see God.

The first thing to pop into my head, after Gideon repeated himself several times, was a song by Legends of Rodeo.

And down on the corner of Olive and Queens
we talk about things that we've never seen
like the Sistine, and the heart of Spain, and God.
We all wanna see God.

There's a majesty and a mystery to God. Like the Sistine Chapel, a pinnacle of art that I have to see some day, because it's brilliance is so intriguing. God is the same way. Intriguing.

But what makes God even more of a must-see is love. I've been in a long distance relationship of sorts (two hours) in college. My wife and I spent hours on the phone, about an hour every night really. I know the longing to see, feel, touch someone who you are without a doubt in love with. The LORD God has revealed his ravenous love over and over again in my life, and I want to see Him.

There's a third story of Scripture that takes place on the mountain. I'm looking at it a new way today. Jesus takes Peter, James and John, and they hike to the top of a mountain. There Jesus takes on a radiant brilliance, he is surrounded with God's glory. The gospel writers try and describe this change that Jesus takes on, but I imagine that their images fall short of what that glory must have been like. I think they fall short because Peter loses his mind in the midst of the glory. The gospel writers make it seem as though Peter is overwhelmed and his way of dealing with it is blabbering. This was immaculate, unmeasured, powerful. It was as if God had broken through to the world and shone His face.

Because God had broken through to the world and shown His face.

And who was there to witness it? The LORD's two faithful friends, finally having their prayers answered. Moses and Elijah stood with Jesus on the mountain. They saw God in Jesus.

I'll have to remember to remind Gideon of that next time we lay down to read the "Baby Bible." You see, our next story is Jesus birth.

"Gideon, you wanted to see God? Well, let me tell you the story of how He came to see us..."

"I'm Thinking of You"

I Said to God, "I'm Thinking of You"
Nevertheless, the rain continued.

Christopher Howell

A simple prayer, please God don't let it rain. A simple prayer not answered, the drizzle slowly covered the tips of the grass, the concrete parking lots, the local tennis courts. A simple prayer God didn't seem to hear. Then, weeks of broken relationship.

"Struggles with God," the name given to the people of God, seems very accurate most of the time. Though I know the Old Testament story well enough to understand the fatal flaw of the Israelites, which is that they let go. Nothing is ever easy in the God-to-human connection, but I know that it's too important to let fall aside because one prayer goes completely unnoticed.

Yet, when these things happen, it does feel like a punch to the gut.

If there is one part of practical theology that I could use a primer on, it's prayer. First of all, it's awkward and I'm not very good at it. What I mean is, I feel like I repeat the same things all the time. Things like "bless my family" or "be with us today." Requests that aren't very concrete, not very visible.

Then the real problem comes when I do pray about concrete things. Do I hold God accountable? If I pray for my wife to find a new job that allows her to stay home with the kids, what if that doesn't happen? Or simpler, what if my son wakes up in the middle of the night wailing and I pray that he could just go back to sleep, but instead I spend the next 3 hours cradling and consoling so that he can fall asleep just before I get going to work? Or what if four senior tennis players, myself, and all the rest of the team's season rests on whether it rains or not on an October Saturday morning, and it painfully drips and mists and all the work, effort, hours turn into tears as the end comes unfairly?

What good is prayer if I can't get God to do what I want?

The poem at the top of the page jolted me into this post, and posting again in general. It ends with these lines (not exactly an answer...)

I said, "Dear God, if you remember
me, remember us."

The italics there are mine. If you remember. At times, prayer seems like a big "if." And that's the problem. If it's just an "if," my very practical side says, "I can control it better than God's 'if'." Then, I go about controlling the problem, taking care of things instead of leaving it in God's hands.

I suppose the question I should be asking though, what is the purpose of prayer? And what is the nature of our God? As I begin to think through these questions, one thing becomes entirely clear. My focus is always the wrong place. My focus is always on me and what makes things easier for me, it is never on God.

If I could focus on God, maybe I'd remember things like the way He saved my uncle's life. Or the time when my grandpa had emergency surgery and God protected him. Or the way that little prayers are answered throughout the day. Or the fact that God always answers the broad and general prayer that I spew out of ritual as much as anything: "Be with us."

Is prayer a practice of answering me by giving me what I want? Sometimes. But if it were always that way, I would own the power in the relationship. I can't own the power to simply boss God around, and that reality means that God will not answer every prayer the way I want. That's a tough reality.

Yet, the practice of prayer is much more about presence. Presence and relationship. Remembering that God is with me. Remembering that I can trust God, because of all that He has already done for me. Perhaps He will remember me. But at least he will stay with me.

"And we wrestle in the mud and in the blood...
Break my jaw, I don't care
Just stay with me, stay..."
- Blindside, Fell in Love with the Game

There may be pain of "unanswered" prayer. But we should talk about it, because You are right here waiting to do that.

The Hands of Joseph

The outward looking Joseph statue on my nightstand spent the first 5 months of his stay with us being terribly misunderstood. Then suddenly, this month, I got it.

He stands with his hands folded over his heart, head slightly down. I imagine that for Joseph there was a lot going on in life. His wife-to-be was pregnant with a child that was not his own. And what does Joseph do, he decides to quietly divorce her and therefore, quietly carry the weight of her supposed indiscretion and perhaps, even after the angel, his twinges of doubt.

And then, he is to take a journey with her, a journey with a nine-month's pregnant woman on donkey-back. I understand this, as I see my own wife in this condition currently. If my wife asks for back rubs every night, what would Mary have hoped for after her bumpy ride? But Joseph takes the weight of this responsibility and heads off.

Then he can't find a room for them. He carries this disappointment. Then the baby is born. He carries the joy. Then the reality sets in... he's supposed to father the savior of the world. He carries that weight. Herod wants to kill Jesus, carry that weight. And then, after seeing, carrying, supporting, he just fades out of the story. He's gone through the rest of the gospels. Dead? Probably. Life had been heavy.

I saw his figure on my nightstand, holding his hands to his heart, as a symbol of his grabbing and accepting all the responsibility of the family and taking that into himself. Taking responsibility and being persevering. And I think that I am right.

And I think that I am wrong.

The gesture of holding his hands to his heart is actually the middle of a gesture. I think that previous he had his hands out, accepting all the responsibilities. Then I think he drew them to himself, accepting the weight of all these situations and difficulties. But then, I realized the hope that was in his eye. He wasn't just holding his hands to himself, with all the difficulties, treacheries, and depression that could bring. He was acknowledging his part and then...

he was going to give them to God.

I see now. He's just pausing, but he's getting ready to spread his palms into the air and let God be in control. Joseph's task was constantly figuring out his role in relation to God, and this simple placement of a figurine's hands is helping me figure this out to.

You take all that is around, the weight of others, the choices you make, the responsibilities you have. You prepare yourself to sacrifice, to give, to be there for them, to make the right and responsible decisions. And in all of this, you keep lifting your hands up to God.

Because you are not going to do it on your own.

Breathing Life into It All

Psalm 150

"Praise the LORD.
Praise God in his sanctuary;
praise him in his mighty heavens.

Praise him for his acts of power;

praise him for his surpassing greatness.

Praise him with the sounding of the trumpet,

praise him with the harp and lyre,

praise him with timbrel and dancing,

praise him with the strings and pipe,

praise him with the clash of cymbals,

praise him with resounding cymbals.

Let everything that has breath praise the LORD.
Praise the LORD."

One grey tipped sock after the other, he turns a little circle on the kitchen floor. Through my iPod comes a song of rejoicing, and he belts out the words in a voice the is not quite in rhythm, not quite in tune, and much more of a yell than a singing voice. As this little wobbly boy rocks back and forth, around and around, I notice the way that God pulses through all that allow him in. Gideon loves God, and knows nothing more than to embrace him with all his voice.

In Gideon's right hand, he holds the yellow handle of his brilliant green golf bag. Inside, some upside-down and some right-side-up, clubs stick out at crammed angles, clattering against one another as he spins, jumps, and sways.

He has made them his dance partner in this wonderful action. "Oh praise Him!" he calls with his mouth wide, now stomping his feet on the kitchen tile in his circle of praise. But it isn't necessarily a declaration is it? Oh praise Him is a commandment, a statement of calling forth a response. Coming from the lips of this two year old, it sounds more like a sweet invitation.

Look at me, his mannerisms say, I am lost in the love of God, in the beauty of today, in the happiness of this moment! Join me! Join me in this praise, this brilliant dance, the revelry in the joy of life!

It's an invitation given long ago as well. Psalm 150, it ends the great book of ancient hymns and prayers with a similar declarative line: "Let everything that has breath praise the LORD." It invites song and dance. It invites all life inside the very moment of praising God.

But Gideon, I'm pretty convinced, is interested in more than that which has breath. He's looking right at his jostling golf clubs and telling them to praise God, for He is holy (yeah...) He intent on getting the inanimate to join in his praise of God.

And why not? If David could praise the LORD with harp and lyre, trumpets and timbrels, then why can't Gideon praise with the rhythm of golf clubs in a plastic golf bag. He's breathing life into them, turning every little piece of the day into a praise, showing an understanding of Scripture much beyond him but teaching it plainly to his wonder-struck father.

Diet of Perserverance: Part Two

A week ago, I wrote a post about what students in my class chose to eat. The idea is that we, as Christians, often love the foundations of the faith but never really want to struggle any further, gain any more depth, etc.

As I have reflected on these thoughts, two stories have come to my attention. The first story was from the "Parchment and Pen" blog. It told the story of a group of people in a town of apathy hearing that there was going to be a big race, with lots of prizes for all those who chose to run. Most people didn't believe there would be a race, but a good number decided to go and run. Some people trained hard, some didn't, some just showed up out of curiosity. When the race began, people acted very strange. Many would cross the starting line, turn and celebrate the fact that they were racing! Then they stopped and encouraged all the bystanders to come cross the starting line as well. They would celebrate, and then stand in circles talking about how great it was to start the race. But obviously, they were missing something.

The other story that caught my attention is much older, it is by St. John of the Cross, called The Dark Night of the Soul. This classic considers what happens when God chooses to move us into a deeper walk with him, often by trying to get us to focus on Him rather than the pleasures and blessings He brings. For St. John, spiritual activity that is motivated by the feelings of comfort, consolation, and pleasure it provides is very immature. Instead, it is through facing the dryness and the difficulty that we walk closer to God.

And of course, that is Biblical as well. James, the book I treacherously traverse each spring with my 8th graders, begins with an admonition to take on an attitude of joy in the face of many trials. The reason why? Trials develop perseverance. In other words, there are reasons to face the dark, dry and difficult things of the world... they help you develop, instead of just stand at the starting line.

My students, I often wonder if they wish to develop. They avoid difficulty like they avoided the nuts and the cibiatta bread I offered them. It's funny, the nuts signified difficulty and the cibiatta bread was a symbol of sacrifice. Not the most enjoyable things, but things that lead to maturation.

Which brings me to me. I spend a lot of time during difficulties and dry nights trying to figure out how to get out of them with the least amount of pain possible. What does that escapism develop? Nothing most likely. When I don't know what to plan for church on a Sunday morning, I take thirty minutes and figure that whatever I come up with will be good enough. When I can't hear from God, I don't still myself more and listen more intently, I immediately take up my same old complaint chorus.

So maybe I am like my students, always grabbing the M&Ms and pushing aside dry nuts. I need more of a diet of perseverance, one that faces all the hards and softs of life, the sweet and the bitter. Perhaps then I might be "mature and complete, not lacking anything."

Diet of Perseverance: Part One

A week ago, I celebrated a worship day in Bible class by bringing food for my students. Oranges, breads, trail mix, BBQ potato crisps... all sorts of goodness. Each of the foods represented something about our faith in Christ and who God is to His people. The students' response was intriguing.

First of all, they just ate. No thought, no pause to take in the words that I spoke about our Lord, no silence even. They ate and talked as if our devotional time was just another meal in the cafeteria. Of course, this was a first run through the experience, and I'd change some things for next time, but I was surprised at how little attention the students have for the sacramental, the symbolic. Food is food.

But even more surprising was their choice of what not to eat. More than a handful of students chose not to eat two specific items out of the offerings, a wonderfully fresh Cibiatta bread and the nuts that were in a trail mix of M&M's, raisins, and nuts.

What did they eat? Well, they gulped down greedy handfuls of cheesy garlic bread, cheddar and BBQ potato chips, and they specifically picked out all the M&Ms in the trail mix to eat those. It seems the unhealthier the food, the more it appealed to the average student.

But this becomes really interesting when I started looking at what the foods symbolized. The cheesy garlic bread symbolized that Jesus declared himself the bread of life, a staple of an everyday diet, a foundation. Students readily ate the bread, and I have found that students in my classes here would readily recognize Jesus as a reality. They believe in God, cognitively, they mostly haven't found the actions that show they are following. But as far as belief as a foundation? Sure, they've got that.

The potato chips symbolized saltiness, and our need for God. Salt makes you thirsty, and God is the "living water." So, again, this is a truth that many of my students understand. They go to the old floral-patterned Sunday school rooms of their traditional Mennonite churches, and they hear the words repeated to them again and again. Jesus is Savior, we all need God, God loves all of us. They hear these words and memorize them, then spill them out in my class thinking they've got all the answers to faith. Again, they've got the foundations, but they don't want to move past that.

And finally, M&Ms symbolized hope. The sweet goodness that tells us that God is using all things to bring around for the good. Yet, students don't see hope that way. They don't hope that God can use all things, they hope that God will make everything perfect and easy. But that's not the way God usually works is it?

My students loved the food's that symbolized God's importance and goodness, but they lacked a fullness of understanding. They have a foundation of faith, which is so very good, but they lack the maturity to see that built on. This is a generalization, but I've often seen it as true throughout the years.

But does it hold true for me too? Do I love God's goodness and have no desire to see the full picture of how God works? Do I want the sweet, but none of the bitter? Do I want to pick and choose the flavors that God adds to life, to make it full, abundant and true?

Trinitarian Parenthood

This past Sunday, Gideon was coughing and sneezing and constantly stopping his play to look up at us with two streams of snot dripping out of his nose so long they looked like tusks to say, "Need Kleenex please!" It was a great Sabbath day, where his illness made us stay and simply enjoy the company of one another.

Courtney rested on the couch, and I crawled around to play with Gideon, every now and then sneaking over to the couch to steal a kiss from my bride. At one point in the day, Gideon asked, "You love Mommy?" I pulled Courtney close and said, "Of course I do, she's the most beautiful Mommy in the world, isn't she?" And I gave her another kiss.

"Do you know who else we love," I asked releasing Courtney and moving closer and closer to Gideon. "Gideon?" he responded, and I responded by giving him a tickling kiss underneath his chin. "That's right!"

In this joy of family togetherness, it is hard not to thank God for what I've been given. And so I gave thanks to God and let Him know just how much I love Him. And then it occurred to me...

I once heard the Trinity (Father, Son, and Holy Spirit) described this way (paraphrased):

The Trinity should blow your mind. If you follow through the Scriptures, you'll find examples of the Father giving to the Son, the Holy Spirit giving to the Son, the Son giving to the Spirit, the Spirit interacting and giving to the Father, the Son giving praise and glory back to the Father. It is an endless community of giving and love.

Three "pieces." An endless community of giving and love. And out of that endless community of giving and love, God gives to his children... us. There is a three-fold community that practices love, generosity, and all goodness between themselves and then it flows out of them into love, generosity and all goodness onto humankind.

Shouldn't this be the model of Godly parenting? Three "pieces" (husband, wife, and God) sharing generosity, praise, service, affirmation, goodness, selflessness and more... basically a three-legged community of love. Then, this pours out into the husband, wife and God all sharing these with their children.

That's why it's a good weekend when I can paint the bathroom door to show my wife I care about what she cares about. When I can praise my heavenly Father on a Sunday morning. When I can give my wife sweet kisses and meaningful looks throughout the day. When I can teach my son the Word of God. When I can share and give to the three-fold-chord that is my marriage, Courtney, God, and me.

And then, filled of love and goodness I can read Tough Trucks to my son. I can tell him stories about the pictures etched on his building blocks. And I can tell him about the beauty of his mother and of his Father.

That is the sort of parenting that blows my mind.

The Kingdom in a Cookie

It's really best when it is warmed up in the microwave for 20-30 seconds, dropped soft and warm into a cold bowl, then covered up with vanilla bean ice cream. Finally, put some of Grandma's homemade chocolate sauce over the top. A perfect desert. The Kingdom of God.

Well, okay, not the sundae itself. But I'm not going as far to say that the whole situation isn't a sweet taste of the Kingdom.

I went over to my Grandma's house last night to pick up Gideon. With Courtney out of town, in New York City on business, I've needed help watching Gideon while I attempt to teach the Bible. Gideon spent the day joking with Aunt Becky, telling her that she was "mommy" or "Jonathon," all the while obviously knowing who she was and laughing at her. But in the afternoon he went over to Grandma's house, while Becky headed north into the falling snow to watch her daughter Amy's basketball game.

So, while I suffered through P90X with a smattering of 8th graders for after school fun, my Grandma welcomed a walking mess-maker into her home. He got out all the toys he could find upstairs, and when I got there to pick him up the floor was littered with interlocking blocks, plastic horses, wooden fences, tractors, and Captain Kangaroo was playing on the record player.

My grandma let a two-year old destroy her living room in just over an hour. And then she gave us chocolate-chip cookies.

In the Lukan version of the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus builds the Kingdom on the image of a merciful and giving Father. The Father is inviting his family to act as he does, and the way that he acts is extravagant. When he gives to others, he packs their bags full of goodness, shakes them around, makes more room, packs some more in and then lets some run out over the sides. There is no thought of holding back.

That's what my grandma did. There was no thought of holding back. She even invited us over for dinner after giving us the cookies to take home. I was really grateful. But it led me to another thought about God...

The other part of the merciful Father? He doesn't give just to "his family." Jesus specifically notes that the Father extends mercy to the "ungrateful and the wicked." Those who operate in the realms of indifference and opposition. And this is the Father we are supposed to be like?

Simply, yes. I am suppose to act toward my enemies as my grandma acted towards me. So, I guess I'd better get the recipe for those cookies.

Oh, Etymology!

I named this blog "Forge Hosannahs" from the line in Maura Eichner's poem that reads:

Forge / hosannahs from doubt...

That line caught my attention since the first time I read the poem. I always thought that it was awesome, to make praise out of your doubt, to turn the things that make you pull away from Jesus into things that draw you closer to Him. It's a very difficult thing in practice, but I liked the theory, and thought that I would really dedicate myself to that task here on this blog.

But then, I found out what "hosannah" actually means. It's a Hebrew rooted word, and it translates to "deliver us" or "save us." That is completely different than what I thought. The way I'd heard the word used was in upbeat and exalting songs: "Sing hosannah, sing hosannah, sing hosannah to the King of Kings!" To me, this roughly translated to: "Sing praise, sing praise, sing praise to the King of Kings!" Turns out I was all wrong.

No wonder the "Triumphal Entry" was a political event. Israeli citizens lining the pathway to the capital city, lying down the palm branch (Israel's national symbol, the equivalent of a national flag in the modern world), crying out "Son of David" (meaning, "you with the rightful claim to our throne"), and asking him to "deliver them." The people blessing Jesus as he came into the city were essentially saying, "We recognize you as King and want you to deliver us from the Romans." No wonder Jesus weeps for Jerusalem after this. The people don't understand.

But that is not the word "hosannah"'s fault. With this new meaning though, I see "forge hosannahs from doubt" in a whole new way. It's not so much turn your doubt into praise, it's turn your doubt into a request.

In this way, it reminds me of the story in Mark 9, where a man exclaims to Jesus, "I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief!" To forge hosannahs from doubt is to become active with your doubts, instead of sitting in them. Instead of letting them bog me down and worry me, I'll extend my doubt into Jesus hands. Forging hosannahs is a way of saying I believe in Christ, but I don't know what to do with this situation. So help me.

And where do I form the most doubts? In my everyday routine, when I don't recognize God at work. So here on my blog, I'll continue to look for the Spirit working through everyday things, be it music, juice, babies or words.

I'll continue to cry, "Hosannah! I do believe; but help me overcome my unbelief!"

Happy Inside

As I peanut-buttered Gideon's "toastie" on Saturday morning, he demanded (in a special, sweet, two-year-old way) music. So I pulled my iPod out of my jackets inner pocket and began to scroll through artists. I knew what Gideon wanted: Veggie Tales. But I wasn't feeling like "Who built the ark?" this morning. Plus, I want Gideon to grow up somewhat cultured in music.

So, I asked Gideon what he wanted to listen to, except that Veggie Tales was not an option. So he opted for "Strength will rise..." which is not actually the title of a song or an artist but instead the first line to one of his favorite songs. Gideon was born during advent season, the season of waiting. I had begun to sing to him, at just days old, and my favorite song at the time was "Everlasting God." I'm not sure who originally wrote it, but the lyrics fit Advent so well...

Strength will rise as we wait upon the Lord
Wait upon the Lord, we will wait upon the Lord
Our God, He reigns forever
Our hope, our strong Deliverer

Anyways, Gideon loves it. So we listened to the Chris Tomlin version, which is okay (which is kind of how I feel about Chris Tomlin in general). While we listened, I decided to make myself a special breakfast. Some Pineapple Orange Banana juice, blended with yogurt and half of a cut up banana. Gideon laughed as the blender roared to life and spun the drink around. "Do it again!"

I poured it out into a festive summer glass, one that was made for sun tea or cool lemonade. I use it in the middle of winter as a defiance. It made be cold and snowy all around, the sleet may be turning everything to slush and mud, but I am bright as these lemon slices. Cold outside, happy inside.

"Everlasting God" ended and I was ready for a different song, so I switched to Brooke Waggoner. Courtney and I missed her in concert with Denison Witmer back in September, when we went on one of my favorite dates that I've had with her. We had walked into the basement of a college classroom building to find a dark, old auditorium. The two college activity council girls taking tickets didn't even know who was playing, for how long, or when it would start. By the time we had run to get dinner, at a local restaurant on the water, Denison Witmer was already 2 or 3 songs into his set. Courtney and I had been the oldest people in the audience by far, and there were only 40-50 people at maximum. We sat in the back row, held hands and sung along with the songs that we had loved when the other concert goers weren't even out of the single digits in age. That was a night for feeling happy inside.

I had remembered Brooke Waggoner's name from the concert though, looked her up on iTunes and downloaded an album, "Heal for the Honey." It's great, I really enjoy it, but I'm just now getting to know the songs. I'm just starting to understand the words, feel their meanings, and be able to recite them. My favorite melody was on the song "Tender Meaning," so I cued that one up for Gideon and I to listen to.

"We nailed a bunch of pictures onto the wall

Wiped up all the kitchen countertops

Lit a lot of candles on the table outside

To show our happy guests that we were happy inside"

Gideon bounced back and forth in his chair, I danced with my smoothie in one hand, kicking my feet out towards him and then back behind me like I was "skanking" to the Supertones. My arms windmilled in the air and Gideon smiled a sticky peanut butter smile. I learned the words the first time through the song, then replayed it. I sang right to Gideon, leaning in for a kiss on the nose in between verses.

And I couldn't help but think of the Jewish way of blessing God. Here I am, wonderful son, beautiful morning, tasty pineapple orange banana smoothie, dancing and singing... what more do I want from a beautiful God? So I decided to say some Jewish-style blessings in my joy.

I know that neither pineapple, nor orange, nor banana comes from a vine... but in the Jewish tradition I joyfully lifted up: Blessed are You, LORD, our God, King of the universe, who creates the fruit of the vine. Then I added one of my own: Blessed are You, LORD, our God, who has given me a joyous family.

God is good, and because he is, there are a lot of mornings and evenings that I truly can say I am happy inside. I pulled Gideon's highchair across the tile floor, gave him a kiss on top of the head, and then pushed repeat.

Arms of Warm Water

The Indiana winters are still. The snowflakes have blown around the streetlights every night for the past two weeks, but banks and drifts have not significantly increased. School days are rarely canceled on our well shoveled streets. Winter just falls and sits here for a while.

Our house stays a cozy 63 degrees during the winter. Before our son was born, we would keep the temperature at 60 or so, perfect weather for snuggling up close and keeping each other warm. I loved to lay my head in my wife's lap or relax with her gentle sleeping on my shoulder. I wrote a poem back then called "With Her Head on My Shoulder..."

Splitting the living air, this silence that grows;
The rumbled breath of the plow through the snow,
The rustling breeze of the cars and their beams,
The name of the Lord on your lips as you sleep.

Speak out of the space that surrounds my time,
As salvation and righteousness mingle inside,
The movements of spirit are grounded in place,
Those high and holy and those low and base.

Winter is a time for simplicity it seems. With snow falling, snow plows roaming the streets, darkness falling over the city in the early evening, my attention can easily be turned to the most important things: my son hunched over his wooden train tracks or my wife taking a Sabbath's snooze on the couch. As we spent the evening together, there is a warmth of company, of family, that winter chills and icy precipitation simply cannot break through.

Right before bedtime, I wrapped my arms around Gideon and read him a story. More like 15 stories. We read Cat in the Hat, Snowy Day, Even Firefighters Hug Their Moms, and on and on. Gideon pointed out with exuberance whenever he saw golf clubs, or a tennis racquet, or a train; one finger pinched by his thumb rapidly extending to the pages. "Oh, dere it is," he would say as he found what he was looking for. But my favorite thing about reading to him is holding him. He doesn't squirm, doesn't kick, doesn't fuss to be still, he just sits with his head on my chest, with wide eyes looking at the pictures, listening to his daddy's voice.

My image of God right now has really been shaped by the metaphor of a fatherhood. A couple of nights ago, I read the story of the prodigal son. What an image of God! Often, we are so familiar with the stories of Scripture that they are never considered at an emotional level. But God charging out to wrap his arms around a penitent son, and reading this right near Ash Wednesday? It registered with me emotionally.

In this cold of winter, I want to feel God's arms wrapped around me. We used to sing a song at River Oaks, with the youth group, that went like this:

"Take me to that place, Lord,
to that secret place where
I can be with You,
You can make me like You.
Wrap me in Your arms, Lord,
wrap me in Your arms.
Wrap me in Your arms."

I wanted to feel the love, the arms, of the Father in a physical way. And the other day, I found my secret place. The shower. It has always been a place where I've talked to God. Quiet, secluded, no external distractions. Many people sing in the shower, I pray. But the other day, I just contemplated in silence.

The warm water washed the chill of my skin, the shower began to fill up with steam, and I thought about how the heat had enveloped me. Then I thought, these are my Father's arms.
This is the warmth of embrace as we run back to Him and He comes running out to us. This is the release of tension when He declares us forgiven, and pulls us tight to his chest. This spray upon my head is his fingers, rustling my hair and telling me, "I love you."

I turned my face into the warm flow. I let it pound across my chest and then my back. I could not help but smile in the knowledge that my Father was smiling in embrace of me.

In Praise of a Name

"Everybody has a middle name," sings Chris Staples, "that they are not using." But laying across our queen bed last night, my netbook warming my wife's side, I searched for middle names. Monday, in a similarly dark room warmed by the glow of electronics, we saw the "boy parts" of our little one on the ultrasound. With the first name long decided, the middle name became our next parenting task.

On our Valentine's car ride to Mishawaka, we had tossed around the middle name question. What was in the question? Well, meaning. Why do anything "just because?" I'm not like Lady Gaga who is okay with saying her songs don't mean anything. Everything we do in life has meaning, I want to be aware of the meaning that my choices carry. I want to be intentional.

So, sitting in my grandparent's old Montana we began to decide what meaning is important to us. Was it tradition? Both my wife and I have the same middle name. Our first son, Gideon, has the same middle name. Do we pass it on?

Or do we just show how cool we are and give our son a middle name that is hip? Problem being that we're only part way hip. Listening to Brooke Waggoner while making this decision? Hip. Riding in a mini-van, going to shop at Old Navy... not so much. So a cool name like Aiden or Nevaeh isn't going to make our list.

What we finally landed on was that the meaning itself would be important to us. Why? The name that we decided on for the first name was Judah. Judah means "praise." What I want as a middle name is to know what kind of praise, who is being praised, how are they being praised. I want my son to be a man full of praise, and I want his name (middle name included) to be a part of that.

It's like that in the Bible. Jesus name means "God saves" and through Jesus, God saves. Moses means "deliver" or "draw out." Moses delivers God's people from Pharaoh and draws them out of Egypt. I want Judah to follow in these traditions, and to follow God.

So now, I'm sitting with my wife watching the Olympics, seeing people whose middle names I don't know win golds on one leg, crash spectacularly and get their skis torn right off, and cry out screams of praise at the finish line. We don't have a middle name yet for the little guy who is kicking my wife in the abdomen. But we know what we're looking for.

We're looking for meaning.

Introduction

What My Teachers Taught Me I Try to Teach My Students
by Maura Eichner

A bird in hand
is not to be desired.
In writing, nothing
is too much trouble.
Culture is nourished, not
by fact, but by myth.
Continually think of those
who were truly great
who in their lives fought
for life, who wore
at their hearts, the fire's
center. Feel the meanings
the words hide. Make routine
a stimulus. Remember
it can cease. Forge
hosannahs from doubt.
Hammer on doors with the heart.
All occasions invite God's
mercies and all times
are his seasons.

-----------------------------------

This blog is a space where I will try to live one of my favorite poems. Here is where I will make the routine, the mundane, the everyday, a stimulus. Here is where I will attempt to forge hosannahs from the things that make me doubt. Here I will take a large hammer and pound open anything that encases my heart.

And here I will recount my days, I will make meaning of words, pictures, interactions that I have with my wife, son, mom and dad, friends and family, students and strangers. All I am trying to remember is that "all occasions invite God's mercies and all times are his seasons."