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.