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."