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.