Superheros, Lighting, and Lions

"To infinity and beyond!" The little boy shouts this with glee as he throws up his Buzz Lightyear action figure up to the sky, screaming "Zap, zap zap!" as he pretends to annihilate all the bad guys trying to attack his toys. An evil looking Barbie with size 0 hips tries to kidnap one of his dinosaurs, but she falls to the ground silent after good ole' Buzz takes aim at her petite frame, destroying the last threat to his citizens' lives.
How many times have I seen this sight in my preschool classroom? Too many times to count, I'd answer. I can't stress the number of times I've had to rescue little girls' princess dolls from a superhero's lethal ray gun, while secretly rejoicing over the death of Barbie in my mind. I've spent many hours playing Superman, Batman, Spiderman, Captain America, etc....all the while having no clue what any of these superheros' actually do, never having seen even one of the films in my life. Even here, in college, I struggle to keep up with the boys as they discuss the latest superhero action flicks, and make references all the time to Star Wars, The Avengers, and other epic blockbusters I've never had any inkling to enjoy.
If I admittedly have no idea what I'm talking about when it comes to superheros, then why I am writing this blog about it then? Well, although I do admit no knowledge of these modern pantheons of strength, all the recent buzz about these strong guys has me nostalgically remembering a topic I used to enjoy greatly, one containing the greatest superheros to ever invade the planet: the heros of Greek mythology.
In Greek mythology, the most powerful of all the gods was Zeus. He was the one who defeated the Titans and organized Mt. Olympus with his lighting rod, intellect, and charm, reigning over the heavens and the earth. He called upon Prometheus to create mankind, then chained him to a rock to have his liver extracted daily for giving mankind the sacred fire. Not content with that however, he also gave Pandora, the first woman, a box of curiosity to punish mankind, tempting her to open this box containing evil, death, pain and everything else terrible except for the small gift of hope. Later, Zeus is depicted as causing the Great Deluge, a flood in which he wipes out all of mankind and begins again because humanity has so offended the gods. He orchestrates the Trojan War, causes mischief wherever he goes, has various affairs with human women, and has a nasty habit of using that lighting rod on any who come in his way. He demanded sacrifices from the people, and they feared his wrath greatly.
This obviously isn't a god you want in control of the universe.
We however, have the true and good God controlling the universe. Perfect, mighty, and holy, he controls the hemispheres with his love and justice, never causing mankind to sin and certainly never entrapped by the moral failures that fill the pages of Greek mythology. Our God does not require sacrifices to appease his wrath, but instead offered the sacrifice of His only Son for humanity after they constantly rejected his healing hand. This same God controlled the wind and the waves with his words, and even death itself gave way beneath His victory on the cross. He knows the number of hairs on our heads, cares for the sparrows and the lilies, and hurts over His people's stubborn hearts.
This is the God controlling the universe. Now, then, and forever more.
But we know all this right? We thank Jesus everyday for how sweet and loving He is to have saved our souls from hell, to have given us new life, and to give us streets of gold to look forward to some day.
But do we respect God?
I am not within any means advocating we go back to the obviously untrue Greek myths or worship the fictional Zeus, offering sacrifices to appease his nasty temper. But do we respect our God?
In the Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe movie version, Lucy asks Mr. Tumnus why Aslan is leaving them. He replies "He's not a tame lion" causing her to respond, "No, but he is good."
This causes me to think. Yes Jesus was the sacrificial lamb who meekly sacrificed His life for us on calvary and loves us tenderly. But he is also the Lion of Judah, soon Coming King, who will judge the nations of the earth in righteousness and truth, and who will call every knee to bow to his holiness. This same Jesus we jokingly in the 21st century call our "home-boy, best buddy, etc" who we are "tight with", controls the very universe, atoms and planets, allowing our every breath to take place. We offer him lip service, thank him for his blood, and then go out and party when we think we left Him at home, stuck between the pages of our bibles like a genie in a bottle we can free anytime we need a magic wish.
Do we respect our God? He could chose to "zap" us anytime, for we are but ungrateful Lilliputians trying to control the giant that has invaded what we think are our shores. We have forgotten however, that he's already won the war. What he wants now is unconditional surrender. If we surrender now, he will acquit us of our desertion and traitor status. If we wait to the end however...he must punish sin in his righteousness and he will.
Do we respect our God? Or do we respect Spiderman, Superman, and the Justice League far more in our daily lives then we do the king on the white horse riding down to claim his kingdom, calling us to join in his battle march?

Passenger Lessons 101

Her hands grasped the wheel, fighting for control over the fast-moving vehicle. Knuckles whitened in fear as she approached the ramp, signaling acceleration. She looked over in the passenger seat and saw a familiar face, straining to stay calm, as it clutched the door handle and readied the imaginary brake beneath its feet. Seconds felt like hours as they sped up the lane, both stretching to look back and spot the oncoming traffic. Seeing nothing, they finally merged into the right lane, both breathing a sigh of release as the tremors of the afternoon faded into the safety of new driver's best friend: welcome to cruise control.
Honestly? My poor mother had to handle much while teaching my itching feet how to maneuver a peddle and brake. From the moment I tried to drive on the wrong side of the road near our home (obviously getting in touch with my British side), we both knew a long road of memories awaited us before I received my license. From multiple "almost hits" to forgetting my turn signal to attempting to turn left on red, I can't imagine how her brain needed a rest after the conclusion of the matter: me finally passing the test to become a full-fledged driver.
Having driven for three years now, I can honestly say I somewhat have found out her pain of those months. After being behind the wheel so long, always in control of the machine pulling you at unnaturally fast speeds towards your destination, climbing in the passager seat, especially with a new driver, can be one of the most terrifying experiences of your life. Old tricks I used to see my mother use, such as the imaginary brake, and grasping the side of the door, along with quick words of advice destined to annoy said driver seem to come instinctually once one realizes the gravity of placing life into another's hands. Always one to find shortcuts to where I am going, due to a hatred of arriving late, my personal favorite tidbits of advice include things such as "You could cut five minutes off by going this way" or "This road will save you some gas since its flat." These lovely handouts, needless to say, are rarely appreciated for their innate value.
Although preferring to arrive on time, I will say speeding usually doesn't tempt me, but like all drivers, I have my flaws as well. My featured rule to break: stopping at stop-signs. I prefer just slowly rolling up to the stop, searching carefully for other cars, and then going about my merry way, a merry way that once almost cost me four tickets after a cop followed my oblivious trail.
Why all the anecdotes about driving on this Wednesday night you may ask? Some of you may see the parable coming, and so therefore I will deliver as predicted. Many times in my own life I struggle with control. Having learned to carefully control my schedule, sleep time, and classwork, any change in plans is enough to cause severe stress to descend upon my goal-oriented brain. Thus comes the clincher: I have had to give up control. When I have allowed God control of my life and stuck him in the driver's seat instead of passenger number one, I learned--I am learning-- that passenger seats can be incredibly frustrating places for those used to driving alone. They get even more disconcerting to the old control freak when one realized this driver needs no tips on safety, doesn't follow shortcuts you suggest, and prefers to test the limits by exploring new places and routes one has never heard of before, spending more time that one thinks necessary at certain attractions along the way. The worst? He always stops at stop signs in life, sometimes for far longer than the prescribed three seconds I think should be allowed. Sometimes he even ignores the rule that says to let one car out and then go, spending hours just sitting there patiently, waiting for others to go out upon their business, a gentle smile upon his peaceful face.
Am I complaining about this new driver behind my wheel? No, though it may seem like it at times. For out of all drivers, I would trust him more that any other to drive my car, even if sometimes I wish I could slam on his brake. But he urges me on, into the acceleration lane, through the traffic, until I soar on the Autobahn of life, taking a relaxing breath in as he charts the course.

Let's Go Down to the Crawdad Hole

White flecks of foam raced towards her feet as she dipped one milk colored toe into the cool liquid. Her face lit up with pleasure at feeling the water wash away winter’s gloom. It was the first day of spring, a warm day, a perfect day to go imbibe sunlight and the creek’s icy therapy. Abandoned of shoes and dignity, she jumped into the water, wiggling her toes as her feet found the soft green moss lining the creek floor. Minnows swam alongside her. They nibbled at her toes, then hid under plentiful rocks as she moved down the bends, searching for crawfish to unearth. 

Above her head, she felt the sun kiss her shoulders and nose, leaving its calling card like red lipstick upon her arms. Her hair played tag with the gentle breeze, while the soft baby gurgles of the water caressed her ears with melodies yet unsung. Frogs sang bass, birds soprano, as geese added dissonance to harmonious chorus of praise. She, she quietly sat. Silent. Inhaling the simple pleasures of life like the firefighter newly emerged from a burning building. Breathing it in as oxygen for her soul, a prescription pharmacies forgot to restock on. 

Flash back twenty-four hours and you will find the same girl frantic with worry. Her phone has disappeared, her ipod is dead, and her life is completely and utterly ruined. She feels naked, tragically alone in the world, without a friend to talk to and facebook far out of her reach. Her fingers ache with the need to communicate to her friends, to let them know she still cares, still lives, still remains part of the community she has so carefully built up. She wonders how she will ever make it in this foreign land, far from home, without the modern necessities of the college life. 

Yet twenty-four hours later, one charged ipod laying idle on the shelf, one found phone sitting listless in her purse, she still breathes.

This is not my typical allegory you may remember from previous entries. It includes no  deep philosophy or intellectual achievements. It simply stems from a forced technology detox and a quiet trip to the creek to remind us that even the trees of the fields and the creatures of the land sing praises to the Lord with the voice He has given them. The bird’s song and the wind’s whisper all reflect the image of their Creator in the unique way He created them to sing. Maybe, its time we start getting back to our own voice, the voice God gave us, to praise the Lord instead of relying on the latest Jesus Culture album or biblegateway.com. Maybe by simply inhaling the beauty of His creation, whispering a prayer of thanksgiving as we bask in His universe, we can truly be still and know that He is God. Maybe then we would remember what it is to simply give thanks for being alive, instead of needing all of the latest consumer gambits to satisfy our old natures.



 “Be still, and know that I am God;
   I will be exalted among the nations,
   I will be exalted in the earth.”
Psalms 46:10

Maybe this is the sweetest praise offering of all.  

Let Go of Pretend

The young girl walks slowly onto the scene, her eyes flirting to the man on stage left. She empties her mind of all pre-concieved ideas, all thought-out movements and simply thinks upon the words she will say. She lets them rise up within her spirit as she imagines once again all the wrongs this man has done her. As the lights come up she walks cooly across the stage and hurls her first dart directly in his heart, using the words to direct the torrent of emotions flooding her soul. She allows her hands to hang loose at her sides, only moving when her body chooses the expression of her anger. Suddenly, as she tells the man goodbye for the last time, her eyes well up with genuine tears and she runs off stage, shaking from the most realistic work she has ever done.  

“The reality of doing.” My drama professor’s favorite definition for good acting. None of the pretending, fake crying, limp noodle stuff preformed at your local theatre by a low class operation. He believed instead that one should not attempt to conjure up emotion from a storage room next to your heart, but that each time you walked out on stage, the emotion should be fresh, real, and a hundred percent energy. It took awhile for us to understand what he meant, but the lessons I learned from his class impacted not just my acting methods, but the way I viewed my spiritual life as well. In this highly unusual blog I would like you to examine with me some acting techniques and their worship applications for the church. 

The first thing our dear Professor taught us seemed highly unconventional compared to my other directors, but revolutionized all of us by teaching us that the lines were not our focus. In fact, for the first part of rehearsing scripts we simply had to say our parts in our own words instead of memorizing them, concentrating on what lay behind those pesky phrases. We quickly learned by this that in order to express ourselves, we had to realize the words weren’t the lock to a great performance, they were only the key we used. The emotions, the passions behind the words that moved the lines through the currents of the scene, those would open the audience’s eyes to the realism we conveyed. When we  learned this, we could finally allow the words to touch our hearts, not just our heads from memory. 

Once we learned this however, a new problem arose as we quickly shut the lock after discovering that true emotion does not allow for control and habit. Instead of a clean performance every time, each time the words came from our hearts something different could happen because we let them speak for themselves. In a nervous twitch, not accustomed to the power of feelings inside us, some of us (myself included) would use body movements such as pacing or arm-flailing to release some of the pent up things within ourselves. Only when we learned to be still and wait for the emotion to dictate our movements, giving up control again, did we realize our natural human reactions would not steer us wrong if we let them lead us to a heartfelt action instead of a pre-planned habit of movement. Acting became reacting to our hearts, not simply a mind-control trick to convince ourselves we were someone else. We learned reality in the world of make-believe.  
Now one may say, I am not an actor. This blog is useless for me. However, what if we, as believers, applied the same principles to worship? What if instead of treating worship songs as words that we have memorized and sing out in carefully choreographed dances of deception did we allow them to become a tool for our actual worship instead? What if we realized that the words themselves were not the worship? The truth behind the songs, the raw emotions that come from the depths of our hearts when we allow those words to guide us to a place of complete vulnerability, that is our offering of praise to our Savior. Raising our hands in praise is all well and good, but we still are in control of ourselves by choosing to preform the action. What if we could finally stand still and know that God is God and we are not, allowing His Holy Spirit to take charge of our worship and direct our conduct? If we truly trusted in His presence we would not be afraid of what He would do through us, for the Holy Spirit is a gentleman and will not allow disorder in His work. We must stop "trying" to worship God deeper; just do it by allowing ourselves to lose control, getting lost in His glorious presence in the present.
Yes, the words of our songs are powerful and effective. But they are merely tools we use to touch our core spirit and connect with the face of God. If we could just simply allow them to penetrate our tough skin, and let the Holy Spirit control every part of our being, we could truly worship God in spirit and in truth, letting the world see how real our relationship with our Father is. It's time to stop pretending and just start letting the reality of doing shape our worship to God. 

Baby Possum Tale

"Daddy can I please keep it? Please?"
My first words as I trotted down the hill carrying the furry ball of varmit in my arms.
It was a cool summer day in the foothills of West Virginia. While visiting my grandparents, my uncle had asked me (the six year old version) to go check his traps with him. I agreed warmly, eager to escape the stuffy adult conversation surrounding the old kitchen table and danced out the old white door, my short crop bouncing in enthusiastic meter behind me.
We climbed up the treacherous trail by the old creek bed, and walked about a half of a mile until reaching one of his traps, used to catch coons and other small creatures inhabiting those ancient conifer homes.
Imagine my surprise when a whole litter of adorable baby possums and their mama lay quietly in the wire mesh surrounding their temporary cell! My uncle quickly bent down, not wanting to hurt a mama and her babies, and sprung open the cage door, allowing them a speedy exit. We turned, ready to trek back down the monster hill, when I heard the faintest sound, almost like the meowing of a kitten just born. It came from the wire cage we thought, until now, had emptied itself of its prisoners.
There, huddled in the corner all alone and forsaken, lay a tiny baby possum about as big as a grown man's fist. It complained loudly, waiting for its mother's rescue to appear, but the mother and other babies had already disappeared into the forest, leaving the young one behind. We tried to coax it out of the cage, but it wailed in terror at leaving its familiar prison alone. My uncle finally shook the cage until he caught the trembling creature in his fist, and handed him over to my eager arms.
Soft warm fur assailed me, and I wrapped the shivering baby up in my t-shirt as he clung desperately to the thin fabric. I had adopted the little pet for better or worse when I stared into those helpless blue eyes and knew I could be its new mother. All I had to do: convince my dad.
The reply came swiftly as you probably have guessed dear reader. "No." So, I found myself trudging back up the hill to abandon my poor baby possum, crying loudly all the way, bemoaning the injustice of it all.
Yet, standing on top of the hill, waiting patiently among the trees, stood his own possum mama, waiting for her prodigal son, waiting for him to come home to his real family as his adoptive one left him there wishing that for once, she could have been a mother.
Now to my ever present analogy in the mix: How often do we as Christians trap ourself in cages of sin and despair because we refuse to follow God's will for our lives. We build our own prison walls, seal them, and then bury ourselves in a corner, dreaming of seeing the light of day once more. Then, when someone comes to let us out of our prison, often instead of following our Father out into the light, we instead have become so comfortable lying on our prison mats, stuck in an endless drudge of complaining and apathy, yet never realizing the door is open for our release. There lies the truth my friends. Forgive me if I preach a little, but our Savior Jesus has opened the door of our prisons. We no longer have to lie in our filth and rags. He wants to lead us into the light of day once more, and he waits patiently for us to follow him, even if we take some detours along the way. Are you ready to trust him to lead you through the door to freedom today

The Notorious and the Needy

The sound of drunken revelry fills the air. Cups clang together in high-pitched choruses of joviality and frivolity as men throw back earthen goblets of sweet crushed grapes. From in the midst of the crowd reclining around wooden tables filled with stale bread and sour figs comes the solitary wail of the flutist, soon joined by the jingle of bells as a figure slowly untwines itself from the huddled mass. Flashes of red shoot across the open air as she dances graceful with her ringing cow-skin to the front of the crowd, writhing, weaving, jubilantly expressing her rebellion against the empty heart she wears on display. The men applaud enthusiastically and the women turn away with disgust at her public spectacle. Flute’s sad screams and bells’ merry rings come together in an antithetical dance of desire; her desire to free herself from the opposing longings within her heart. 

Suddenly, however, she gets a glimpse of a man who has now joined these social vagrants of the lowest rank. He walks in with many others, some more attractive, others bearing the weight of muscle gained from their days aboard a boat, yet he alone attracts the attention of the crowd, and her sudden interest as her ankle bounces beneath her surprise. What could he possibly be doing here? The words cause her to lose focus as she struggles mightily to continue her dance. Obviously he is not one of this crowd. 

As she continues the host stands up, a paltry man who weaves as he greets the newcomers with surprising decorum, considering his reputation as a fink and angry drunk. The man embraces the host, who quite silently returns to his seat, now devoid of his drunken roar and boast he once displayed. 

Intrigued by this strange man, she begins to dance like she has never danced before, hoping she can impress him, maybe win his approval, though she can't understand why. Yet she has lost her audience, for everyone in the crowd's eyes remain fixed on the man who now converses quietly with two notorious prostitutes and a wretched beggar. At that instance however, she happens to catch his eye, and instead of the lust and desire she usually sees in men's eyes, her heart stays suspended in time as she catches a look unlike any look ever before seen. It is a look mixed with disapproval (her feet fall), understanding (her eyes begin to fill) and pure, wholesome love (the tears overflow). The look sends her to her knees on the floor as the carousing crowd freezes, whispers filling the air like mosquitos at noon. 

She stays huddled in a contorted mass of shame on the dirt below, the red of her dress now streaked with brown. She suddenly starts, looking up to see tan, leathery feet in front of her as a tear- stained hand thick with calluses reaches down to pull her up from the ground, up into new life. 

This is the Jesus of Scriptures from my understanding. The Jesus who didn't sit on the curb waiting for the paparazzi because he advertised free healing or a fish bake at noon on Saturday. The Jesus who didn't have his committee to form a calendar of events but simply instead went to where the people were and loved them, truly loved them whether they . In Luke, it says that Jesus went to Zacchaeus's house to eat with him and "the people were displeased. “He has gone to be the guest of a notorious sinner,” they grumbled." (Luke 19:7) Yet time after time in the gospels the authors record him eating with sinners, fellowshipping with them, and loving them right where they were. Luke never records Jesus condemning and lecturing Zacchaeus over his shady past, yet Zacchaeus suddenly stands up and makes everything right simply by sharing a meal with one who loved him in spite of himself. 

Now please, I am not saying Jesus did not condemn sin. He did most ardently indeed. Yet, the facts still remain that notorious sinners are recorded being changed simply by seeing love in ways they never knew existed. Jesus never required the woman caught in adultery to repent before he saved her life. He instead said he didn't condemn her. He saved her, loved her, and then told her to sin no more. 

What if we could say the same about how we witness to those on the outside of our faith? What if we went to them where they stood in their sins, and loved them so desperately and purely that they could want to repent simply by seeing the love of Christ we bear. Yes we must disapprove of sin, but making sinners pariahs because we might catch their sin never saved anyone. Instead, we must go forth shielded in the love of Christ to a world lost and broken and extend our hand into the fire, bringing up the sinner and ourselves unscathed by His mercy, grace, and unfailing love.  


Note: This is not a story contained in the gospel. It is based on Mary Magdeline, but really could be any woman whose life Jesus could have touched. Remember John said that there are more stories about Jesus than could fill many many books. 

Swings and the Spirit

First a confession: The blog you, dear reader, are about to ingest is personal rather than profound. I know, you hoped for a literary leap into some deep allegory, or a ocean's worth of political commentary, but sadly, tis not possible today. Instead, allow me to take you back to the years of braces, ugly hairstyles, and annoying opposite genders-- let us journey to the swings.
The bell rings loudly in my eighth grade classroom. My feet hit the ground as I make my way quickly towards the door without appearing to eager to leave my favorite teacher's world of knowledge (West Virginia history). I tug my jacket on and turn to a thin boy with glasses and mussed brown hair. "Bet I can go higher this time," I throw out, waiting for him to catch the challenge. He sticks his tongue out like most junior high boys do and sprints out the door to recess (freedom) yelling "Yeah right!" as we both bolt for the metal towers of danger and adventure.
I run for a short distance, then slow down upon approach as I reach the sacred spot, showing my respect for my favorite friend. Second seat from the right, the one with my initials carved everyday in the dirt beneath it. I look at my partner in exploration, my best friend and most competition, and grin as we thrust off into uncharted skies. My feet leave the ground and I toss my mane back in the wind like the wild stallions of Chincoteague Island do after being released back to the beaches every year. My feet paw the air as I struggle to gain altitude, desperate to beat my long-legged contender. Finally, after gaining advantage, I relax, close my eyes, and listen to the North Wind sweep her long graceful fingers through my hair and strum the chords of my soul, relaxing all the stress mounting within. She whispers peace into my confused existence as I let her catch up the fragile seat and carry me through her transparent self. I allow her embrace to enfold me until the bell rings once more, this time a harsh sound, unwelcome, as I head to Alcatraz's cousin Algebra, her sweet voice still whispering in my ear.
Now, I am somewhat grown up I suppose, yet I still love the freedom only a swing can bring me. The ability to defy gravity, to sweep air in the undertow, to lose all cares about the world, makes me wonder why more psychologists don't recommend it for adult therapy. There remains something exhilarating and uplifting in the way we lose all the confines of the earth in the embrace of the wind. Perhaps this is why the Bible compares the Spirit of God to the wind after all.
The wind of the Holy Spirit does much the same as my old friend the silver swing. When we release all cares and inhibitions by taking our feet off the ground and allow Him total control over our course, He charts out new skies we never dreamed imaginable. He is the one who takes us soaring to such great heights, allowing the mundane cares of the world to sweep under our feet. He comforts us with his soothing touch, allowing us to forget conventions as he sweeps through our normal view of life. After our swing experience with His presence, we may not have the perfect appearance we had before (I can only hope you to imagine my hair after my adventures) to those around us, but maybe that is because we have had a distorted view of perfect. After all, Christians, those who have experienced a new birth in Christ, were not created to live like little ants tediously walking the ground in search of morsels to feed on and support their traditional way of life. Instead, we were created to soar in the clouds, to defy what man thinks is impossible and to embrace the unknown, the encompassing wind of God's presence that takes us to places we never thought to go on our own.
Perhaps thats why having a child's spirit is a good thing, Jesus said. After all, we will never experience God's peace and presence unless we are willing to shed our adult inhibitions and simply let our hair down, allowing the Spirit to sweep us off our earthen thrones into eternity.

Welcome to the Zoo

I walk into the nursery, absorbing the mirage of colors battering my senses as thirteen four and five year olds run toward the door, all fighting to greet their favorite teacher with loud exclamations of joy. I breathe in the familiar smells of crayons and lysol as I attempt to restore some order to the chaos surrounding me. Finally I bring the class to attention for a short recess of noise, before telling them they have fifteen minutes of playtime before our lesson.
They eagerly disperse throughout the room, grabbing Lincoln logs and plastic food, legos and puzzles to let their imaginations soar, but soon I have a problem on my hand. Harry and Sally have just grabbed the same gold sparkly ball I sent out on the desk to play hot potato with. Their little palms struggle viciously as they both shout "Mine" at the top of their lungs. Harry attempts to hit Sally, hoping she will drop the ball, but she lifts one leg daintily back and swings her flying pendulum forward, connecting with his shin.
The other children gather around as Harry begins unending howling, while I separate Sally and the whipped conqueror from each other. I ask each what happened, and get dissimilar responses as Harry excitedly tells me he needs the ball for his basketball game, and that he most assuredly had it first. Sally then primly explains that Harry snatched the pretty ball out of her hands and that as a lady, she had a right to play with it first.
After attempting to reason with both children, I finally reached the point of hopelessness. I quickly remembered however that I had brought two balls, one gold and the other tie-dye, in my bag. I handed the tie-dye ball to Harry, as loud exclamations of "Why don't I get the tie-dye ball?!?" erupted from Sally's side of the room. "I thought you wanted the gold ball?" I asked, my patience waning. She answered "No, I want this one" and coquetted across the room, hoping I would grant her request. Instead, at my breaking point after Harry stuck his tongue out at the girl, I ended up sending both children to a corner, giving instead the balls to the brother and sister in the corner whose blessed silence had made my day bearable in part.
This story may seem juvenile, and rather pointless. After all, kids argue like this all the time about getting what they want, and learning to share. Yet I would like to take a new look at this and point the fingers back on us, the Christians of our giant playroom of life.
You see, God gives each one of us talents and abilities that He wishes to shine brightly for his glory. He gives one the gift of singing, another the gift of healing, and another the gift of compassion. As Paul tells us, he enables the body with different organs all working together as a unit with Christ as the head. Yet somehow, our childish spirit of "If only I had..." never quite goes away, and we must attempt to intercept the prize God intended for someone else to have. We make up any sorry excuse we can imagine, using such logical fallacies as race, gender, age, and time to excuse our greed for what another has, but none of us seem to acknowledge that there remains a tenth commandment "Thou shall not covet." (Exodus 20) we may be impeaching upon.
God gives each one of us a different gift or even multiple ones to use for the kingdom in the body of Christ. As in the parable of the talents, he asks us to use these talents to increase his kingdom while we still remain on this earth. Some he gives more talents then others, or ones that seem more important to the body then others. We cannot dictate which talents we receive, only what we do with them. Somehow however, a fight most always breaks out between members of the church as to which talents they have been given or have not received. Never satisfied, we grapple like ducks fighting over a piece of bread in the water, not realizing their benefactor has been tossing more pieces out all the while they fight.
You may sit now, nodding your head assuredly with a emphatic amen to everything I have just said.
Good. I'm glad you can see what I see. Now what will you do about it? Like preschoolers in a classroom must learn to accept whatever color crayon they are given to use, we must take our talent, whether writing music or cleaning toilets, and start making our mark on the paper called life we have been given. If we learn to color inside our own lines, we all as the body of Christ can present a piece of artwork worthy of our Father's glory at his throne someday.

The Gardener's Gift

“Gorgeous, crimson petals 

Reaching, grasping, kissing

Beams of light streaking red, 

Colors fall teasing grass below”

Anonymous 

Roses. The ultimate symbol of true love. As Valentine’s Day approaches, I find myself breaking my own rule on using hackneyed symbols and talking about the one thing most people think they have information overload on. However, in my defense, I would like to focus on a different part of the story. I would speak of the gardener, not the gardened. 

Picture with me an old stone cottage in the woods. Thickets line the walkway leading up to a mossy structure that seems uninhabited since the dark ages. An ancient doorframe carved with winter’s marks leads in to a small room in which lives an old, decrepit man. This man has lost his wife, children, and social standing; all that remains of his former self lives on inside his dreams. His back, twisted now from age, cannot handle the work of taking care of his property any more, his feet cannot abide going to the meadow beyond the wood to see any life or beauty. The one symbol of his past blooms beside his doorframe, a single rosebush planted by his wife many years ago, tended to while her heart expired. 

Although he can barely make it to the door each day, all of his pent-up affection and love gets lavished on this one bush. He waters it, feeds it the best sunlight, talks to it, and cherishes it. However there is one issue: the rosebush never blooms. For thirty years this man has tended this stubborn creature of nature and yet every attempt has failed. Yet to give up on it, unthinkable. It, a gift from his true love, must live. 

Now picture the man with shears creeping slowly out the door. He bends down over the plant, shakily grasps its stubborn thorns as they piece his leathery flesh, and winces as he cuts off all of the dead branches, apologizing to the suffering bush. He throws them away and whispers a quick prayer that this might restore his long dead love. 

For weeks it seems his effort has failed; no growth can be seen. Yet, he faithfully pulls himself out of his bed each morning to continue caring for the now totally decrepit looking plant, a jumbled mass of thorns that feed on his precious life blood each morning as he untangles the mess.

 One day, however, he gasps as he looks out his ancient door. For there, in place of the scraggily bush, red crimson droplets have appeared, red as his ancient blood, red as the harvest moon. For the first time in years, through all of his patient waiting and tending, beads of life appear on the stubborn old plant where once only thorns existed. The old man sinks to his knees, crying tears of joy as he embraces the smooth petals of hope, born out of his long cherished dream of finally, finally receiving his price: blood-red roses, born out of suffering and death. 

Now some of you may realize that I refer to an allegory of our spiritual birth, and that God is the gardener. Believe me when I say I mean no heresy. I do not view God as an old man, nor do I think of him as a hermit in the woods. The parallel only exists in my mind as I envision God, the holy and just maker of the universe, trying to work with these stubborn people on earth. He loves them, tends them, gives them all the nourishment and energy they require to live, yet they respond to him like a child to mashed turnips. He persists in loving them however, lavishing his affection on the very thing His Son died trying to save. Finally he must prune the stubborn people he loves, allowing their suffering to finally allow new growth to spring forward. His blood and constant care finally produce the blooms, if only we allow them to grow. 

The question is: Will we accept the sacrifice of Christ and the suffering we must endure to be made beautiful? Or will we continue to resist the pruning we must endure, ending up as charred remains in the fire. We have a choice to make, a symbol to call our own. True love, or tragic loss? It is up to us to make the decision. 

Note: This story is an allegory, not to be taken literally. Read John 15 for more details. 

Ode to a Diver

The stereo begins to play as classic images appear on the screen. First Wally, the Beaver Cleaver waltz down the stairs to kiss their esteemed mother goodbye as the show begins. The audience’s attention draws up to a familiar sight as June bends to give each boy a hug goodbye: a strand of pearls, white and dazzling admist the grayscale landscape. The story goes that Barbara Billingsley wore these pearls to hide a hollow in her neck, hoping the audience would not notice the one imperfection in America’s perfect mother’s armor.

Pearls. The perfect stone in my opinion. From the first time I saw their frothy whiteness, their round allure captured this loyal prisoner. They represented all the good old days to me, the glamour of the Hollywood starlets combined with the sophistication of perfectly manicured women in bedazzled dresses and teased hair. For a while I even wanted a pearl instead of a diamond for an engagement ring, in love with what Jesus once called a rock of great value in his parables. 

These tiny gems are produced of chemicals and pressure with the soft shell of a living mollusk. Although rare perfect ones are found in the wild, many pearls do not all come with the milky white skin we think they own, but are cultured to be ascetically pleasing to the searching siren. They sit, waiting at the bottom of a deep pool, trapped in a hard shell, until some searching soul comes down and rescues them from captivity, selling them to grasping hands and bare necks. Then they sit perched like morning doves upon the body of the lucky soul who has snatched up the prize from its murky beginnings. 

Pearls. Jesus compared the kingdom of Heaven to a pearl on great price in Matthew 13, saying that if a man found one of great value he would sell everything he owned just to buy the one speck of beauty. I would propose making the analogy more personal. 

Would we not say that we once were trapped in a hard shell of rock, birthed in the rocky cave of our own misery? We remained captive to our sinful nature, not allowed to show any feeling or beauty within, suffocated by the pressure exerted upon our souls. 

Yet even in the murkiest of water, Christ left the heights, diving down into the abyss and rescued us from our heavy load. He tore us from our infested home, and cleaned our sordid souls until we too shone as white as light emitting from these precious stones. That diver took the plunge to rescue this one pearl, the one sinner who could not escape the shell she so careful wove. Yet now, after bought with no higher of price, this puny pearl can walk along with its owner through the crowds, finally able to allow the materpiece to shine forth, reflecting the now pure beauty within.

And such was I. 

Finding Prometheus in the Rocks

The lad struggled to achieve his footing as he pawed the rocky ledge beneath. He strained with all his force until his hands pulled and jerked upwards, bringing his body to safety atop the highest pinnacle. He breathed a jagged breath of fresh air and surveyed the unending terrain. He had tasted the nectar of the gods; he had defeated the mountain.

Coming from the hills and crags of West Virginia, mountains remain an intrinsic part of my existence. Everywhere one looks, green spreads of conifers and rolling hills of limestone stare back at us, the forest invaders. In the tranquil landscape surrounding my birthplace, war has not yet begun, but even now the haunting death wail of the forest echos faintly through the trees. Where once roads of dirt and holes danced with the mountains, twisting and frolicking up and down, interstates now enact a steady death march through the land. Tunnels bear witness to mortal wounds thrust upon the ancient wrinkled beasts of stone. Man’s conquest starts now.

From the earliest of memories, children have a liking for conquest. They must subdue the monkey bars, dominate the slide, and ride the dog like a veteran charger. Unfathomable numbers of bruises and bumps bear witness to child’s play as little ones attempt to climb hills, scale trees, and vault across creeks. Every object larger then themselves retains a mystery one must solve by thrusting it under the reign of spindly, under-developed limbs. Adults laugh or sigh, wondering whenever they will lose their sense of indomitable boldness, learning limitations and common sense.

Yet this courageous attitude does not diminish in most adults; rather it presents itself in other ways. From the dawn of creation, grown man has attempted to subdue the wilderness, to tame the west, to span the gorges and bring the heights under his authority. One only has to look at the numbers of hikers’ attempts to scale Mount Everest to know that intrinsically, man has always possessed a distaste for things outside his experience: physically, emotionally, or spiritually speaking. The existence of nations speaks for itself, as the Bible records man’s futile attempt to rival mountains at Babel to claim rule of the heavens.

From ancient civilization until now, ziggurats to sky scrapers, man’s competition with mountains has lasted for centuries, yet never has a treaty ever surfaced. For try as they might, the mountains remain strong and proud, ancient warriors refusing to bow down, even before the conquering warlord’s axe. We as humans however, complain about these noble beasts. We try to explode them, break them, chop them in two, but never see the beauty and use within these noble pillars to protect, shield and empower. 

We complain about the mountains in our lives too, asking God why time and time again they must rear their monstrous heads in our lives, destroying our dreams of conquering the latest checkpoint on our corporate ladder of success. We battle them, defame them, and try to choke their last breath, but never once do we wonder why they still tower over our paltry forms.

Will we ever see the beauty in the mountains? Will we ever appreciate the endurance and character they build within our lives? Unless we learn to flow with the mountains, walking along the sometimes steep and treacherous path God has delineated, will we ever fully know His purpose for our lives? For these mountains, just like those faithful friends to my own birthplace who have shielded our valley from enemies, tornadoes and storms, can act like a buffer to the enemy in our own lives, testing us and preparing us for worse storms; providing boundaries God uses to keep our lives in harmonious peace and giving us vision to see the Prometheus within the most dismal, rocky of circumstances. 

Choosing to Feed the Beast Within

The artist labors over his prized piece of earthen clay. He first cuts away huge chunks, then adds in multiple seemingly trifling details as the smooth statue takes shape beneath his rough, hewn paws. Suddenly, the design lights up for the onlookers. It reveals an image of mother and child locked in warm embrace. The audience gasps and applauds, but suddenly the artist does something unexpected. He takes a knife and with slow, deliberate strokes teases a lolling tongue out of the mother's mouth and a curled mustache upon the child's. Some immature members of the audience giggle with the bizarre hilarity of it all as the artist thirstily drinks down their mirth, but others in the audience turn to neighbor and ask in shocked tones: "Why ruin the piece? That was a piece of good art!" 

The above mentioned example may seem rather improbable, for what artist would do this to his own work? Yet, I would like to compare this rather ridiculous example with my thoughts reflecting from an experience of last night past.

After supper, a choice of movies made I and the guys' viewing cut. Considering the terrible pain inflected upon their souls by my insistence to watch a classic like "Fiddler on the Roof" the night before, I agreed to watch the boy classic "Hot Rod" instead of my own choice. Yet as we embarked upon this crowd pleasing journey into the world of Rod and his absurd aspirations to achieve stardom as a stunt man, I realized I remained the only one not caught in laughter's trap. For I could find nothing funny in the slapstick and often crass humor associated with this tale of daredevil stunts, sexual innuendoes, homosexual winks, and dry humor brought on by guys who, by the own admissions, just like to party. 

Now before all the "Hot Rod" lovers in the room stand up and make a quick exit away from my rather harsh diagnosis...finish this page. In no way will I continue to bash "Hot Rod", nor condemn any of those who find humor in its ways. For me, however, as an artist I believe that America has lost the definition of art, and this one film provided an excellent example for my theory. What is my definition of art you may ask? I would have to agree with dictionary.com's assertion that art is the expression of what is "beautiful, appealing, or of more than ordinary significance" yet I would even take a step further by examining the last phrase. For in my opinion as not just an artist, but a Christian as well, art reflects the image of God within us as his sculpted creations. Our God is a creative God, and he has indued us with his likeness, giving us the gift of creating beauty through our imaginations in glory to His name. Therefore, I would have to argue that art has "more than ordinary significance", and that it is indeed an act of worship. This act of worship therefore, should show the world how we glorify our Savior and how we use His gifts He has placed within us. As 1 Corinthians puts it, "So whether you eat or drink or whatever you do, do it all for the glory of God." (1 Corinthians 10: 31, NIV) Therefore we should put forth our best effort in appreciation for what we have received. The cheapening of art in film, meant only for penny laughs and nickel screams, devalues the very face of beauty God intended to grace art, His gift to man.


So where did this debasement of art begin? Where did America stumble so far from its early film roots such as "Ben Hur" or "The Ten Commandments" or even "Ivanhoe"? The key word remains desensitization. The facts remain that in the early days of film, everything was implied. Ladies would faint in a Western if someone flopped to the ground with a fake gun shot to the chest. Laughter began as the antics of Charlie Chapman and the Marx brothers lit up the screen. Yet over time, screenwriters suddenly realized the dynamics of their audience were changing with the social terrain. The era of the 60's and 70's brought wars and the counter cultural revolution. Free love and violence slowly seeped into the culture and then silently gilded into the world of the big screen as well. Fake gun shots turned to violent stabbing and brutal murders, occasional four letter words turned to more obscene expressions, and passionate love stories suddenly caught on fire and fled racing into other homes than their own, bringing a death to the thought of private intimacy. Suddenly, the beast inside man's sinful heart caught hunger, until baited with constant exposure it craved more and more fulfillment of its bestial needs. As a virus becomes immune to bacteria with constant usage, viewers took one to many views, leading to producers to invent more and more shocking scenes to receive the reaction they needed. 


Yet somewhere in between this slowly evolving landscape of new radical films and the modern age of media, something even more tragic has happened. In C.S. Lewis's classic tale "Prince Caspian", a certain character named Trumpkin replies to the attack of a former talking bear by stating that if you treat a man like an animal long enough, that's what he will turn into. These words have invaded our world as well. For I would like to present the theory that modern man has turned itself into an animal. They have fed their carnal and bestial nature in film by indulging in base emotion where love turns to lust, justice to vengeance, and intelligence to oaths. In order to fill this nature somewhere a moral light within their mind had to be extinguished and with it, I would state, fled the beauty of the art. For when talented writers have to resort to stupid animal-like antic and brutish portrayals of love and affection to communicate what used to be called a story, something has gone very wrong indeed. 


Art is beauty inspired by God's fingerprint on humanity, and when we sacrifice that beauty to satisfy the beast within us, when we render impotent the power of that art to convey a deeper meaning, when we trivialize the power of film to influence our culture and lives, we feed the monster that becomes savagery, and endanger the civility we have come to consider the American way, or what was once the American ideal. 


Psalms 101:3 (NIV) "I will not look with approval on anything that is vile."