God graciously acquiesces on the human dung bit

I randomly picked a CD from my audio-Bible earlier this week and came up with Ezekiel, a book I actually favor – at least the  parts I can understand.  While driving with the audio going, I only pick up a passage here or there before my mind follows something said off onto a tangent.  Sometimes I get deep thoughts from what I hear, like any good Christian ought to do, but sometimes, I have to admit, the Bible just cracks me up.  (Is that sacrilegious?)

Like this passage from the 4th chapter, for example:

[Then God said, . . . ] ‘The water you drink shall be the sixth part of a hin by measure; you shall drink it from time to time.

You shall eat it as a barley cake, having baked it in their sight over human dung.

Thus will the sons of Israel eat their bread unclean among the nations where I will banish them.’

But I said, ‘Ah, Lord GOD! Behold, I have never been defiled; for from my youth until now I have never eaten what died of itself or was torn by beasts, nor has any unclean meat ever entered my mouth.’

Then He said to me, ‘See, I will give you cow’s dung in place of human dung over which you will prepare your bread.’  (Eze. 4:11-15, NASB)

Come on!  That’s priceless!

Did you catch that “Ah, Lord GOD!” response from Ezekiel?  I’m not sure what the ALL CAPS version of GOD is supposed to indicate in that context, but I’m confident it gives some insight into what Ezekiel was feeling at the moment.

“Oh!  Come on, GOD!  Are you serious?!  Human dung?  You’ve got to be kidding!  That’s just nasty, not to mention the fact that YOU have forbidden such things!  Isn’t there some other way to deliver this message of yours?”  (That’s my little paraphrase from sincere empathy with my friend Ezekiel.)

Human dung?  I can’t even imagine the logistics of such things.  When I first heard that, in the old KJV, it seemed to say that the stuff was supposed to be mixed into the ingredients of the cake.  Thank GOD, the NASB cleared that up for me.  But still!

Does human dung burn?  How long do you have to dry it?  Can you just get a bundle of such “logs” from the convenience store?

You have to admit, it sure was nice of GOD to let Ezekiel off the hook with that cow dung option.  I mean, that’s the gracious GOD we serve.  He gives us direction, we whine, he lets us off the hook, but not entirely.  Thank GOD for his loving mercy.

Ezekiel’s reaction to that is not recorded, probably because GOD had enough of the sniveling and duct-taped his mouth shut.  I can see that happening for me.

Just goes to show that answering the call to GOD’s service can be dirty business.  We assume too much when we look forward to hearing from GOD about his calling for our lives.  It’s seldom a pretty picture.

If we’re not careful, (translation:  if we’re not avoiding GOD’s beckon call), we’re likely to step in something, or cook over something, and still find ourselves smack-dab in the middle of GOD’s path.

Ah, Lord GOD!  Whatever it takes.  Whatever it takes.

nebraska, tennis, and the good life

In the middle of a busy evening last Friday, Hannah, my favorite fifteen-year-old daughter, intersected my path with a silly grin on her face and that sheepish look in her eyes, and said something like, “Dad, I wanna go to Nebraska.”

That statement was followed by a more sheepish grin, with a blush washing over her face, and braces busting out everywhere.

“What?!”  I replied in my best loving, gentle, nurturing fatherly voice.  “What are you talking about, you weirdo?”

“I wanna go to Nebraska.  Please?  I really wanna go!”

“Wha-what?!  Why?  When?”  I replied with gentleness and support for her obvious neurosis (and a growing concern about whether the therapy would cost more than the braces).

“Tonight, or tomorrow, or whenever.  Just soon.  I need a road trip with road trip music.  Please?”

So, let’s get this straight, I’m in the early stages of what will be a very late night, I have a 6am appointment for coffee, my wife will be away all day tomorrow praying, scrapbooking, and socializing through her last moments before baby 11 arrives, leaving me with the other 10 or so fabulously active children, I have a men’s-movie-night date on Saturday night, and seven-thousand-or-so minor obligations on Sunday, and my most-wonderful daughter wants me to take her to Nebraska, right?

Yes, that’s right.

Why does she want to go to Nebraska?  She wants to play tennis there.  No, she doesn’t play tennis.  Ever.  But she wants to do that in Nebraska.  And, she wants to listen to road-trip music.  While on a road trip.  No, driving to Walmart doesn’t count as a road trip, apparently.

We left the house at 10am on Saturday for adventures unknown in Nebraska and returned 7 hours later after adding almost 300 miles to the odometer.

Apparently, they don’t much believe in tennis in Nebraska, at least not in Kimball or Sidney.  The kid we stopped to ask on the street in Kimball said they mostly just play football.  Hmmm.  Should have known.

In spite of the adversity, we did find an old tennis court – at least the mostly faded lines on the concrete seemed to indicate the ruins of an ancient field of battle that must have had rules similar to tennis.  (Maybe Nebraska boys play football on a miniature concrete field?)  There was no net.

We had one tennis racket and two racquetball rackets and no tennis balls for the 11 of us (9 of my kids, our friend, Paul, and me.)  We figured that with only the relics of a tennis court to be found in the whole state (or, at least the part we saw), it would be difficult to find tennis balls.

The dollar store had some.  They were dog toys, and they didn’t bounce much, but we got a pack of 3 for a dollar.  We played tennis.  All of us, and, yes, we fought over the rackets.  Some of us cried.  Most of us were just cold.

So, I ask myself, in retrospect, if there’s a possible connection here to anything like what Jesus had in mind (yes, I’m bringing Jesus into this mess, now) when he had these gentle, loving words for his friends, the Scribes and Pharisees:

“I’ve had it with you!  You’re hopeless, you religion scholars, you Pharisees!  Frauds! Your lives are roadblocks to God’s kingdom.  You refuse to enter, and won’t let anyone else in either.” (Matt. 23:13 MSG)

I mean, who am I to stand in the way of a 15-year-old on an important, impossible-to-understand mission?  What, you don’t get the connection?  You can’t imagine Nebraska having anything to do with God’s kingdom?

I think there are a few places in scripture which make obscure references to God’s people being like gates or doors.  Every door I’ve experienced is intended to move upon request.  Otherwise, it’s not a door, it’s a fence or a wall.  Some doors need keys, or lock picks, but still.

Jesus seemed to think his little friends weren’t very good doors.  They were just in the way.  They were barricades.  They were bouncers with bad attitudes.  They missed the point.  They had the keys to the kingdom, but they weren’t using them.

In their stubbornness, they ruined themselves and oppressed the people they were supposed to be supporting and stewarding.

Is anyone waiting for you to move out of the doorway?  Are you an obstacle?  Did you throw away the key?  Are the hinges rusty?  Have you imposed your own boundaries in areas intended for open range?

I mean that in the nicest possible way, of course.

Do you have to go to Nebraska or be impulsive to be a good door?  No, probably not, but rust and bad habits form slowly, and sometimes you have to open wide, using a little WD-40 when necessary, just to be sure you still can.

You have to be careful to avoid getting stuck in the shut position.

All I know is that I was trying to be a barricade, but I failed and succumbed to the pressure, and the momentum took me to Nebraska.  I don’t get it right most of the time, I guess, but I think I got it right that time.

I can’t imagine a more rewarding experience.  Have you seen Nebraskan tennis courts in November?  I highly recommend it.  Get the tennis balls with the paw prints.  And tell them who sent you.

Thanks, Hannah.  I love you, too.

the weight of it all

I know I keep dropping the ball, here.  But, it’s so heavy sometimes.

You know what I hate about lifting weights?  They’re heavy.

Especially on a Monday, too.  I know, I know, Monday’s so stinking cliche, it’s ridiculous for a grown man to even bring it up, but still.

Everything seems heavier on Monday, or on any other day that acts like a Monday, and so many of them do these days.

The weight of things, life things, is heavier on those days. 

I’m rambling, but it’s been a while since we just talked.  I’ve had a lot on my mind, heavy stuff, and I’m sure you understand, even though we don’t really talk about it.

Like, why is it that no matter what ungodly hour a kid wakes us up on Sunday morning, we’re always rushing at the last possible minute to get loaded in that bus we drive to get to church?  How is that possible?

All of those kids are so cute and cuddly at 7am, and such monsters at 10am.  How does that happen?  Maybe it’s the cocoa puffs.  Maybe it’s just me.

Anyway, lots  of people were reaching for the Kleenex on Sunday as our pastor talked about caring for the orphans.  I just wiped my nose with my fingers then wiped them on my pants.  But it’s the same effect, I guess.  It was a weighty topic.

We had good conversations with friends afterward, relating some pretty deep things that had transpired in our lives – Renee and me – in the last week, and it felt good in the context of the weight of that sermon to share the load a bit and invite a little help and some understanding.

People’s hearts shift in such settings, I think, and mostly in good, though deeply disturbed, ways.

Obviously, though, our response shouldn’t just be limited to the emotional.  The seeds have to go deep, and that’s more than a Kleenex or a shirt sleeve should be able to wipe away.

Beyond that, though, it’s just the life stuff that gets heavy, don’t you think?  I mean, it’s nearly suffocating sometimes, the weight of it.

Somehow, that weight must be a sampling of the burden that Jesus carries and has carried on our behalf.  Like the way he looked at that fig tree and cursed it for not bearing fruit when it was needed.  That’s a sad story.  So many things are needed.

I think it’s important for us to carry our share of that burden.  To hear the groaning in the hearts and tears of our communities – the people with whom we share life – and to just let the weight of the burden do its work on us and in us.

Not that it should be depressing us or crushing us.  God knows we can’t do this alone and we can’t carry much.  We’re wimpy and we need lots of breaks and lots of help.

But we can do some things, and we can do things beyond just the obvious.

Some days, like Mondays, I just wish we’d get ahold of the idea that Christ is in us.  Whatever that truly means must be more than we’ve taken it to mean.

In the moments we do feel that, we ought to act on it, and maybe that looks like listening intently, and maybe that’s like saying the words that need to be heard, and maybe that looks like crossing the false boundaries our friends have erected in defense of their little facades, or maybe those are our own.

Either way, it’s heavy.

So, in my Monday morning staff meeting, as I tried to believe the events transpiring were important and worthy of my attention, I failed and got distracted, and wrote this in my day-planner:

weight of it all

weight of glory

weight of condescension

weight of existence

weight of obligation

weight of dis-unity

weight of weariness

weight of overwhelming need

weight of the cross

I’m not sure what that means, but I just thought you’d like to share the load.  It was like a Monday morning weight-lifting session, if you know what I mean.  It can be exhausting.

Hannah told me tonight that she read my last few posts on this blog today, and she thought they were kind of sappy, “but in a good way.”  I’m not sure what that means, but I suppose she would say this fits in that category, too.  Next time, maybe we’ll talk about football or something.

on the brink

From here on the brink, the cool, clear water,

gently lapping at my feet and the earth beneath,

draws me sincerely into its shallows

and still beckons me come deeper.

 

I am loath to follow,

for in the midst of the rushing water is a torrent of lost control

from which the overwhelmed struggle to upright themselves,

though the hearty welcome submission to the mighty flow.

 

As the flood meanders its too-seldom-mapped course

and rushes to an unknown but surely glorious abode,

endlessly drawn by love unfeigned,

those taken by the wiles of the ever-widening and rising way

undulate through the ebb and flow of ecstasy and desperation in the pools and the foam,

some even finding a way of escape to the imagined freedom of the shallow edge.

 

But those who through unworldly perseverance find peace in the arms of the current,

ever directed by the sovereign and invisible majesty of this winding tributary,

find themselves at the last precipice of wonder

with fear consoled wholly by the destiny’s splendor.

 

That place is where the water falls,

with those carried by it,

beyond the rock to a depth unmeasured and unseen by those entered before,

where the fate of vessels yielding to its call is only truly known by those beyond,

and here we woefully attempt to comprehend the inexpressible glory.

 

Yet here I stand,

confounded in vanity by questions unworthy of response,

nonetheless unable to betray the power of my love.

 

The deep, the Deep, Oh! the Deep is my home,

and how I long for grace to go where the blessed hearts find Him.

sunrise

What, then, ought we to think, seeing that the darkness comes at the end of each and every day to fill the vacancy left behind by the departing light of the sun?

The earth turns its face, my face, to the rising of the sun each morning, to soak up the warmth and allow the light to bring clarity to the way through another day.

The contrast is overpowering.  The world performs with graceful inspiration under the spotlight.  Anything is possible in the full light of day.  Confusion hosts a drowsy fear in the limited visibility of the deepest moments of the night.

What, then, ought we to believe, knowing the world turns, and the dizziness and disorientation will come with the motion, and the light will fade then burn bright again, and fade?

Perhaps, maybe just perhaps, we ought to be resigned to the ebb and flow, seemingly more ebb than flow, knowing the sparks that fly, bringing inspiration and assurance of hope, will fade into the powder of ashes.  Perhaps.

Perhaps, the nagging doubts, the ever-encroaching darkness of the unknown, certainly coming to disperse fragile certainty, indicate open-minded intelligence, full consideration, rational thinking, leading the way to a higher ground of moral certitude and enlightened spiritual depth.  Perhaps.

A transcendent light shines, though, outside the night of my turned-away face - cooled by the shadow imposed over me.

The light shines.  If my perspective will allow for it, look for it, pursue it.  The darkness cannot prevent it.

“If I say, surely the darkness shall cover me; even the night shall be light about me.  Yea, the darkness hideth not from thee; but the night shineth as the day:  the darkness and the light are both alike to thee.”  Psalm 139:11,12 (KJV)

“Then I said to myself, ‘Oh, he even sees me in the dark!  At night I’m immersed in the light!’  It’s a fact:  darkness isn’t dark to you; night and day, darkness and light, they’re all the same to you.”  Psalm 139:11,12 (MSG)

higher education

Katie goes to college

Just for the record, I’ve never really been the father of a college student before.

I’m not sure how this is supposed to go.  I’m not sure how I’m supposed to act.

We’ve had some difficult conversations as we’ve wandered through the ideas about Katie leaving home and finding her way in life beyond us.  How, where, when, why?  Questions simultaneously bitter and sweet on the tongue.  Answers weakly discerned and hardly articulated.

Most of the difficulty comes from my own dying.  Kids are good for that – helping parents with the dying.

Plenty of me still to go through the dying.  Dying to live, dying to live.  More of him, less of me.  I hope.

Life fights to get out through the dying.  I die a little and life bears much fruit.  Like giving birth, I suppose.  Renee knows.

Like Katie going to college.

So, we visit six schools in five days, far from home, and cry a little and laugh a lot and try to see the path designed for a girl old enough to go but too young to go, searching for the light, the voice, the best cafeteria food, and the comfort of the inspiration.

We grow weary, and use harsh words, feeling the desires and fears, and speaking only the mumblings of the pain of stress and anxiety and the dying.  But, we’re bound to each other, bound to the purpose of finding the way together.

So, we don’t stop with the dying, we have to push through to the living.  So we dig deeper, discovering the feelings and the real words to describe, and to understand, the struggle, knowing its fountain is life.  The muddy silt, stirred by our intrusion and disrupting our vision, will settle again as it flows.

Finally, we get back to the bottom line; the ultimate measure of a college, a life, beyond the pressure of deadlines and tasks, of emotion and dying.

Finally, with tears and weariness, at the bottom of the hole, standing on something firm again, we get back to this:  “Honey, please, push everything out of the way, give yourself some space, tell the world to go away, and just find Jesus.  He knows.  If you find him, if you’re with him, it won’t matter if you know, or if I know, of if you go, or if you stay, or where, or how.”

We say “thanks” and “sorry” words, and “love” words, and “please” words to each other, working at going places we’ve never been before.  Our hearts surge and fail, then surge again.

It’s the dying we see and feel and express most often.  But it’s the living that matters.

Only the living matters.

I’ve never really done this before – being the parent of a young woman in a far away pursuit of higher education.  I’m not sure I’m fit for it.

handing out tent poles and starting bonfires

Today, I’ve been imagining people entering a place of worship with large, sagging blankets draped over their heads.

I know.  Pray for me.

Pray for me, though, as you follow me in this little metaphorical adventure.

(Tonight, and several nights recently, I’ve entered my home to find piles of little moving blankets just inside the front door, with all kinds of strange noises issuing forth from under them.  This is a pleasant way to have your patience tried when you’re just home from another blah day and your hands are full of heavy things, and Ayda just wants you to hold her, too.)

Imagine growing up and learning to cover up (yes, like I posted about Ayda) with one patch of a quilt at a time.  We start handing kids quilt patches every time they sport something that embarasses or inconveniences us.

“Here, kid, stop acting like such an idiot!  Here’s your patch.”

It’s cute for kids.  “Ahhh, isn’t that cute, she has a little blankie.  Ahhh.”

Then, as we grow up, we sew the quilt patches together – it’s just more convenient.  Giant squares of learned vanity and superficiality.  Some of us are far better at quilt-making.  Some of us have very attractive quilts.  Some of us have given over caring to futility.

Heck, by the time you’re my age, your quilt is hanging over your head and dragging all around you, with the corners and ends stained with forensic evidence of everywhere you’ve ever been – adding to the stigma.

We seldom stick our heads out from under the darned things – it’s bright and cold out there.  Ewww. 

People get more used to seeing the shrouded look and we seldom show our faces.  We just don’t know how, much less why we’d bother – and everybody’s doing it, anyway.  The air under there is stale, moist, stagnant and causing our skin to become pale and clammy.

So, we enter our selected worship facilities each weekend, sporting our fashionable bondage blankets like so many ghosts of Christmas future, all hunched over from the weight of it and hoping no one notices the most recent additions.

Okay, pause the metaphor for a second.

We need freedom to worship.  We need to be free to respond to Christ with open hearts.  We need space.  We need to be looking for opportunities to give each other that space.  We need to exalt God, in spite of the garbage.  We need a large space.  We’ve got to thow off the junk of self-consciousness.

Okay, back to the metaphor:  We need to throw off the dirty, heavy, wet, suffocating blankets of garbage, at the very least when we enter the courts of the King, for crying out loud.

Somebody’s got to hand out tent poles – at least if we’re going to stay under our blankets, we could get a little room to move.

Somebody’s got to start a guilt/shame/vanity/crap-blanket bonfire.

Somebody’s got to exalt Jesus to his rightful place among us and in us and through us.

We need room, and when room is provided, when space is aplenty, we’ve got to take advantage of it.  We need to sing loud and long, we need to dance in the rain and dry off in the sunshine, and we need to worry less about who’s watching and what they think.

We need to allow our hearts to be caught up into the power and truth of Christ in our midst.

We need fewer blankets over our heads, and we need more tent poles and bonfires.  We need big-tent revivals.

What would the world be like if God’s people really gave themselves to Him, if we really believed all of that stuff he says about how we’ve been made free, and if we really lived like we mean it?

Let’s try it.  Want to?

joining the same old song and dance

My soul is singing a bit today.  I’m pretty sure I overheard the angels singing these words as the sun rose.  I just thought, maybe you’d like to join us.

You dance over me, while I am unaware.

You sing all around, but I never hear the sound.

Lord, I’m amazed by you.  Lord I’m amazed by you.  Lord, I’m amazed by you.  How you love me.

How wide, how deep, how great is your love for me.

(by Jared Anderson, Vertical Worship)

naked I came, naked I go, but in the meantime

Ayda doesn’t understand that it’s not acceptable to go about the community naked, acting like she has no shame and nothing to hide.  To her, the only practical purpose for covering up is for warmth, though a cuddle in Mom’s lap adequately meets that need to her mind, even without clothing.  She has no bearing on what others think of her blatant exposure.  On occasion, she has even been discovered dancing, singing, laughing and generally frolicking without a stitch of clothing, much less inhibition.

Don’t worry, we’ll straighten her out.  We’ll teach her propriety.  We’ll teach her to hide that stuff.  We’ll make her understand.  Thanks for your support and prayers in this endeavor.

incomprehensible

Oh my Lord.  Oh my God, can you hear us?

Who are you?  Where are you?  What are you like?

With so much ascribed to you, can you possibly meet that, be like that, exceed that?

You are our answer to every “why” question that we can’t answer.  You answer the mysteries of “how” questions.

We see and do not perceive.  We hear and do not comprehend.  And all of those areas get filled in with you.

Some of that is not you.  It’s our own accepted, unchallenged ignorance – willful ignorance.

We attribute our weaknesses and consequences to you.  We attribute everything beyond the boundaries of our subjective knowledge to you.

All of that is not you.  Some of it is.

If anything is you – if you are anything – some of that must be you.

If that truly incomprehensible is you, how very incomprehensible you must be.

I can nearly inexhaustibly argue for you in those spaces – it is easy to argue for the incomprehensible, as if it is all “make believe”, just trying to make someone believe.  As Katie says about Alice in Wonderland:  logic within the impossible.

I can also, though I haven’t really, nearly inexhaustibly argue against you – also seemingly with logic within the impossible.

So, which are you really?  Who are you?  Where are you?  What are you like?  How are you?  How is it between us?

I want to know you, Jesus.  Truly know you, beyond knowledge, beyond the comprehensible, beyond the logic.

Will I ever?  Are you to be known by one such as me in such a manner?

It’s incomprehensible.  I know so little.