God

“Excuse Me, Barista, May I Live Here?”

8 Comments / Danger, destruction, God, Sanctuary, Suffering / By

Washington, DC, summer of 1994. From the muggy blanket of heat and city sounds and odors, I stepped into a new and magical cocoon of coffee aroma, cold air, quiet greens and charcoals, and Sinatra’s velvet crooning of “In the Wee Small Hours.”

They called the place “Starbucks.”

This was more than a store. I felt like I had slipped through a hidden door in the cosmos, passing from mess and madness into a fortress of peace and safety. Out there could never intrude in here. That very first Starbucks seemed to be a metaphor of how to live in a harsh and polarized environment.

In fact, when you read the 23rd Psalm it sounds like David wrote it in Starbucks – the place of quiet rest and sweet restoration. Fear and evil are locked outside. But inside a lavish table is spread in full view of a hostile world. And, honey, that cup of sublime goodness just overflows. Of course, I will dwell in this house forever! Duh.

This is not a mere coffee shop; it’s an alternate society, a counterculture, another government.

The Safe Place 

Everyone lives in the tension between yesterday and tomorrow. The old is exhausted and dying; the new has not fully arrived. We endure the death grip of yesterday while tasting the promises of tomorrow. That struggle is not unique to any time or people; it is always true.

The safe place is a zone, a domain within that struggle. And it’s usually located in the midst of turbulence or great loss. For example, we’ve all seen a dying person give up the fight to stay on earth. They simply embrace the next dimension of life (Secret: you don’t have to die in order to enter that place). And we’ve all seen people go through crucibles that brought him or her into a surprising zone of victory.

External conditions didn’t change at all. But they found a new way to live in the midst of it. And that new way did not spring from power, beauty, education, money, or control. At the point where they gave up their own strength, they slipped into the safe place that is always within and around us.

What Does the Place Look Like?

Imagine that you are sitting in a beautiful and restful suite with 10 to 12 other people. The room is elegantly designed, built, and furnished. The lines and light and colors and depth of quality call every occupant to higher thoughts and purposes.

The people in the room reflect integrity, confidence, grace, and good humor. Their speech is gentle, clear, calm and reasonable. They listen. Their laughter is full and deep and clean. No shrill tones and no combative, angry or mocking voices are heard in that room.

Vertigo may prevail outside. But spin anyone in this room and they will come up pointing to the North Star.

And everyone here is serious and focused. For example, as one man reads a document to the group, the sound of children playing outside grows louder. His eyes never leave the document; he continues to read as he steps to the open window and slowly closes it. The room becomes blessedly quiet. He continues to read as he returns to his seat.

No one went to the window to disparage or correct the children. These are mature people; they don’t react to distractions. They are passionate about, and focused on, a great purpose. They don’t have time to pick fights or borrow offenses from what is going on outside. Good grief; they know all those things will pass.

New World in the Morning

Look, I understand that we live in harsh and dangerous times. An age is passing away (as ages always do). It’s painful and frightening. And I’m not aloof from it; I’ve wept over the losses and hurled too many bad words at my life’s various media screens.

But, when I get still (with a fine cup of coffee!) inside the safe place, I remember that the global shaking and convulsions are the birth pangs of a brand new era. All that is worthless or dispensable will collapse into dust and blow away. All that is worthy and eternal will overcome and preside.

Just as a Starbucks in Washington once illustrated for me, we can all find a safe and delightful place right in the middle of transitional chaos.

Hey, I know; let’s meet there after work and talk about it.

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Mother Antonia’s Great Adventure

13 Comments / Freedom, God, Spiritual life, Suffering, Trust / By

Grandma Chinn probably had Alzheimer’s. But we didn’t have a name for it in those days. Her mental and behavioral quirks were just…Grandma. We knew her, not a disease. After a visit with her we said things like, “Bless her heart, she’s a little confused today.”

By the time my father became afflicted with Alzheimer’s, we knew a whole lot about it. In fact, I grew to despise my knowledge of that disease. I found it too easy to relate to Alzheimer’s, not to Dad.

The Bible says that knowledge “puffs up.” Sure does. Knowledge is like vodka; a little of it gives me the swagger and bluster to announce judgments about things far above me, things that are simply none of my business and not within my capacity.

That must be what gives us the arrogance to believe that we can classify human lives as “tragic, good, cut short, blessed, cursed, troubled,” etc. Those are very audacious pronouncements. And our “helping professions” are worse. They use terribly insulting language in their catalogs…defects, deformities, disfigurement, malformed, etc. Malformed? Disfigured? According to whom?

Surely I am not the only one who hears the phrase “vegetative state” as grossly dehumanizing. How did civilized people ever allow an old school yard slur – “Vegetable!” – to enter the lexicon of medical language?

Sounds like knowledge might puff up.

A better perspective comes from David, the Psalmist. He wrote of God, “Even the darkness is not dark to Thee, and the night is as bright as the day. Darkness and light are alike to Thee.” (Psalm 139:12)

Maybe a life is a life. Maybe lives of one hour or those lived with severe spinal injuries are as beautiful and blessed as ones lived in great health, luxury, and longevity. Is it possible that God sees them alike and grants the grace to live there? Perhaps life needs to be lived straight ahead, without comparison to others and without the imposition of human designs or alterations.

Mary Clarke grew up in the wealth and splendor of Beverly Hills. She was a socialite and had closets of fine clothes. Cary Grant, Spencer Tracy, and Dinah Shore were her neighbors. Mary lived a typical Southern California life; she was a member of the Beverly Hills Country Club and she married and divorced twice.

When she was 50, she gave away all her possessions, became a Roman Catholic nun and moved into – into, not near – a notorious Tijuana prison. As Mother Antonia, she lived in the same conditions as the prisoners; her home was a 10’ by 10’ cell (which she painted pink) and she ate what they ate. She lived in that cell for the last 36 years of her life (she died in October 2013).

In 1994, when a full-scale riot broke out, the 5-foot-2 Mother Antonia walked through a blizzard of bullets, her face aglow. Eyewitnesses said she never stopped smiling. Armed only with love, she saw the riot come to a peaceful end. Prison was to her what a basketball court was to Michael Jordan. The zone.

She once said, “Happiness does not depend on where you are. I live in prison. And I have not had a day of depression in 25 years.” Incredibly, this woman moved into the darkness and found that it became as bright as the day.

Do you think that Mother Antonia’s great sense of adventure could turn Alzheimer’s or quadriplegia or even death into a brightly lit ballroom?

If God sees darkness and light the same, maybe we can too. I know many people who have lived “a hard life.” And I know it’s not easy. But I’ve also seen them put that life on, like a new tuxedo or evening gown, trusting God to bless it, fill it up, and turn it into a grand ballroom waltz.

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Living on the Roulette Wheel

7 Comments / change, Contemplation, Freedom, God, Privacy, Stories / By

I went to visit an old friend in his new home a few days ago. I found “Fred” sitting in a semi-circle of 12 other people gazing at a TV. The others drooped, drooled, gaped or groaned in various depths of indignity.

But Fred, true to his nature, sat tall and regal, ignoring the TV and silently pumping hand weights; at 77 he still resists the inevitable trajectory of aging. He continues to fly above the lowlands.

Some would say that Fred lives “in community.” But he really doesn’t; he lives in a warehouse with other unique characters who all happen to fit into a box called “Alzheimer’s.” I understand; the system does not have time to get to know everyone. Of necessity, it looks past the person and focuses on the category.

Over recent decades the pace of American life seems to have become a centrifuge, spinning all of us away from a quiet, local and personal life. Like a roulette wheel, the centrifugal force throws us into the outer rim pockets of group identities – liberal, conservative, Muslim, paraplegic, gay, Gen-X, African-American, etc.

That force squeezes individuality, creativity, privacy and freedom as our larger institutions – government, business, media, religion, health care, etc. – press us into conformity with “higher” objectives. One result of that dynamic is that we are losing sight of the people right in front of our eyes. We all tend to see group labels.

When and why did that happen?

It seems to me that once upon a time, and when the pace and cadences of life were slower, our shared community values assumed that the universe was created. We didn’t “believe;” we knew that people and animals and plants and seasons and orbits did not just happen. It was self-evident; it required no proof or reasoning.

We also knew that every human bears the signature of God. And we granted respect to people because of the God Who created them. However subtle and silent, that respect recognized that the person beside you was created, and is loved, by God. The wise heart sought to find the true value and beauty of God’s design and love in that very distinctive person.

I think the loss of that assumption is a large part of why we no longer take the time to get to know people as individuals. We’ve all moved from the organic to the organizational, from relationship to productivity. Things move so fast that we have to make snap judgments; you know, for the common good. So we just identify them according to their group pocket on the roulette wheel.

Systems seem to say to us, “Yes, we know that your mother is a very distinguished lady and has a beautiful story. But we just can’t take the time to get to know everyone like we wish we could. Please understand; it’s just more efficient this way.”

David wrote an opus of our origins in a few simple lines.

You knit me together in my mother’s womb.
I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
your works are wonderful, I know that full well.
My frame was not hidden from you
when I was made in the secret place… (Psalm 139:13-15 NIV)

Everyone should soak in that Psalm. Those words will help us to take time to really consider the beauty of God’s intimate and elegant creation of people. I think it also helps to turn it outward. “God knit you in your mother’s womb…you are fearfully and wonderfully made…your frame was not hidden when God made you in the secret place.

Think about those verses the next time you look at your spouse, children, parents or siblings.

Meditate its meaning as you spend time with your neighbors, friends, associates, or the police officer writing you a speeding ticket. Remember it when you see the President or Sarah Palin on TV.

Get off the roulette wheel; take time to get to know people as individuals. Ignore his or her politics, race, religion, age, illness or other labels. Interview her; find her story.

From that place you just might find the road back to the high ground of human respect.

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Sailors

32 Comments / Appreciation, death, Friendship, God, Respect, Stories / By

In the summer of 1992, while driving a dirt road in Pratt County, Kansas, my 70-year-old dad saw his own tractor, driverless, rolling across a field pulling a land leveler. He felt a chill; he knew his brother Harold had been driving the tractor and leveler rig up to his place near Pratt.

Dad soon saw Harold lying on the ground beside the road. Frantic, he stopped his pickup and ran to his brother. Harold was fully conscious, but Dad could clearly see that was going to be a real bad day.

Harold’s death was an earthquake in the Chinn family. Youngest son, playful and funny, and the spark of life in every family gathering, his death left a wide wound across our landscape. But it blew a deep and ragged hole right through Dad’s heart. He never recovered.

From that day it seemed that Dad’s strong mind began to melt. The distinct shapes of his personality began to droop and dissolve. His confidence tottered. He still went to his beloved shop, but he stopped repairing and making things. He just stood amidst his tools and cried; he didn’t know why.

Dad served on the aircraft carrier, USS Princeton, in World War 2. He was on board for every day of her 19-month existence. Her sinking on October 24, 1944, in the Battle of Leyte Gulf, was the central moment of his life. From that day Dad seemed to live in the shadow of the Princeton.

Dad and Mom made their last visit to our home in Northern Virginia in the spring of 1995. In preparing for their visit I wanted to find something that would engage Dad again, some spark that would animate his wonderful and vivid personality.

In 1995 the very colorful Admiral Arleigh Burke was one of the last living commanding officers from the Pacific theater of the war. And he had participated in the Battle of Leyte Gulf. Two weeks before my parents’ visit, I learned that the 93-year-old Admiral lived in nearby Fairfax, Virginia. So I found a phone number for his home.

When Roberta “Bobbie” Burke answered the phone, I introduced myself and told her about Dad. I told her that Dad would be there in a couple weeks and asked if “the Admiral would be open to a visit from another sailor.” Bobbie immediately exclaimed, “Oh, yes, he would so love that! Please come.” She gave me their address and we agreed on a date and time.

When my parents arrived, I handed a new biography of Admiral Burke to Dad. He thanked me, scanned through it and told stories he recalled of “31-knot” Burke. Then I told him that we had an appointment with Admiral Burke the next day. Dad’s smile revealed his anxiety; he had never met an Admiral. Even after 50 years of civilian life he still thought like an enlisted man.

Dad asked too many questions about protocol and social courtesies as we drove from our house in Reston over to The Virginian apartments in Fairfax. He grew silent as we entered the building. Finally we stood at the door. I knocked. Very quickly, an elderly man, standing with a walker, opened the door and smiled. “Jack,” he barked and grabbed Dad’s hand. Dad relaxed; he heard an invitation to a safe place.

We spent two hours in the Burke living room. Bobbie gracefully vanished from the distinctly male gathering, as I’m sure she had often done in 72 years of marriage to a Navy man.

I watched in astonishment. A former Chief of Naval Operations, a major player in the Eisenhower and Kennedy administrations, an Admiral who had a class of destroyers named after him sat with an enlisted man, a Kansas railroader, a Sunday School teacher. But their eyes glistened at the same heartsounds of battle, loss, and heritage. And they burst into synchronous laughter at the same details and nuances of Navy culture.

I’ll never forget Dad’s face as Burke told him of watching Dad’s beloved Princeton, through his binoculars, explode and sink.

The 20th century had taken these two men to vastly different places, but as children of God they shared an enormous familial heritage. I saw them touch their shared bond as brothers. Class distinctions blew away like dust; they were sailors.

As we prepared to leave, Bobbie bid us farewell with a deep glowing sadness. Admiral Burke, with his walker, escorted us to the elevator; he clearly wanted to extend the moment as long as possible. He and Dad shook hands, “Come back anytime Jack.” They both knew they would never meet again.

Admiral Burke died 7 months later. Two thousand people attended his funeral; President Clinton delivered the eulogy. Burke’s tombstone at the Naval Academy Cemetery in Annapolis carries a one-word epitaph, “Sailor.”

Dad lived another 10 years. The slide that began with Harold’s death continued. But that incredible day was a clear announcement that human value has nothing to do with the illusions of rank, class, wealth, or productivity. Our value, our royalty, flows from the Fatherhood of God.

Far more than we realize, we are all His children. We have infinitely more in common than we have in conflict. May we all discover our shared family bond…even with those who may seem so different or so far away. They really aren’t.

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Living Life in all the Ways it Might Come to Us

18 Comments / Culture, death, God, Spiritual life, Suffering, Trust / By

Growing up in the farm country of south central Kansas, I quickly learned that agrarian life could be brutal. I saw the long days (and sometimes nights) of very hard labor; watched farmers cope with tornadoes, blizzards, livestock diseases, and volatile market conditions; and we all knew the sickening thud of sudden accidents. By the time many farmers lie down in satin caskets, the passing mourners well understand the scars, missing fingers, and empty sleeves.

The Portal of Suffering

Not coincidentally, I also grew up in a large sense of God.

The prairie Calvinism in farming communities molded people into a vertical posture. All day long their eyes searched that enormous sky; they knew it could bring life or death. And they bowed their knees to whatever it brought. As a result, the “grain” of their lives revealed the deep burnished luster of rich woods, an unfathomable beauty and excellence of spirit.

Suffering had not reduced them; it had enriched them.

A dear friend’s wife has struggled with multiple sclerosis for more than forty years. Recent emergency surgery revealed that she now has extensive cancer, and during that surgery she suffered a heart attack. They both know the end is near.

In a recent email, he gave me an astounding view of their journey. To read his description of what they have both seen through this grueling trial is to stand at the edge of a spiritual Grand Canyon – it is deep, majestic, humbling, and bottomless. And he summed it up with: “Life has to be lived in all the ways it might come to one.”

Those simple and profound words describe how humans have lived for most of history. Only recent decades have brought the possibility of a self-designed life. “I’ll take a little of that…maybe just a pinch more. And no, none of that.” Convenience, comfort, and control are the new values. But what have they stolen?

Designer Gods

The moment of human conception brings life to us in a new way; that baby is a tiny slow-motion hurricane. She or he slowly careens around the womb, evicting any shreds of convenience, comfort, and control. Furthermore, the baby brings nausea, pain, morning sickness, baby furniture and other expenses, and a final and primal explosion of water, blood, muck… and a new human. Sometimes that new person is ill, deformed, or dead.

Historically, even when life brought an unplanned or perhaps mortally ill baby, people lived it as it came. In the depths of the crucible, people begin to see that God, only God, could bring shimmering beauty from the gnarled grain of a wind-warped cypress. After all, He is the One Who “is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine.” (Ephesians 3:20 NIV)

Self-designed gods tend to select only the babies that we can imagine.

Have you noticed that most people die when they are hit with a terminal disease or terrible injuries? That’s been happening throughout human history (of course, God sometimes heals people. But to live in expectation of that is to entertain distractions from living a purposeful life).

Clearly, the God Who is God often sends diseases and infirmities as His servants, to escort His children to a higher dimension of life. The wise and weathered heart knows that this too is just part of living life in all the ways it might come

But, in recent decades, many have migrated to a self-designed faith, a true American folk religion. Perhaps its primary feature is human control. Therefore, it has gutted the classic faith. Trust is no longer a factor.

This new faith accommodates the illusion that we do not have to pass on from earth life. New designer theologies insist that God has chosen to heal everyone. We all know many well-meaning Christian believers who have marshaled heroic and urgent prayer for the purpose of helping people stay …right here in River City.

Oh, the irony; meeting God must be avoided at all cost!

Trust

What if we all stepped away from our obsessions with ourselves and just embraced all the ways that life might come to us? Do you think we might find ourselves in a larger and more magnificent design? Might we live better if we stopped spending so much time trying to control our health and continuity? Could we rediscover trust?

The farmers of my youth were generally humble folks. From their example, I see that humility is the only way to “live life in all the ways it might come to one.” But it never begins till we give up our design and control.

When we do that, trust is the only road left.

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The Authentic Swing

Leave a Comment / Book Review, Contemplation, God, Golf, Stories, Writing / By

Steven Pressfield (The Legend of Bagger Vance, The War of Art) just published a new book; The Authentic Swing (Black Irish Entertainment, 2013) examines the twin tracks of golf and writing.

Here’s the deal: golf and writing (and probably every other artistic expression) come from the same place – our unique design by God. They are just part of who we are. Just as my eyes are green and I cannot change that, so are my golf swing and my writing. God gave them. They are authentic, part of the bundle called Ed Chinn. I can work on improving both, but I can’t change the original design.

Pressfield’s most profound insight is the very simple line, “The golf swing is not learned, it is remembered.” We get in trouble when we try to become something or someone else.

He also writes, “The philosophy that underlies…the Authentic Swing contradicts the Western ideal of education, training, and evolution. It rejects the axiom that ‘you can be anything you want to be.’ …we can only be who we already are.”

Pressfield really camps out in that mysterious realm of art and creativity. To write or sing or act or sculpt or dance is to live in the intersection of flesh and spirit, heaven and earth. The biggest part of the art seems to come from another realm. The writer is a scribe. That’s why I’ve never been able to really identify with anything I’ve written.

It may have passed through me, but it certainly did not originate in me.

My song-writing friend Morris Chapman said that being a songwriter is much like being an oil refinery. God makes the “oil;” Morris is just a place where it gets boiled, distilled, etc. Nothing possessive (or glamorous) about that.

Finally, Pressfield writes, “…you think you’re crafting a story, but in fact the story is crafting you. The story is like a dream, in that it bubbles up from some deep internal source. The story is wiser than you…it is trying to tell you something about yourself. That’s why it hooks you…You think that your story is private, unique, idiosyncratic. You believe that no one will be interested in it but you. But the more deeply you enter into your story, the more you perceive its universality. The story is never about what you think it is. It’s never about someone. It’s always about everyone.”

He also knows what all writers know: “You have not chosen the story. The story has chosen you.” That is so wise. When I read this (and other lines) I found myself thinking…Pressfield, you are not far from the Kingdom of God. (Mark 12:34)

This very short and readable book also serves up very nice insights on caddies, why golf is so hard and harassing, movie making in general and the making of The Legend of Bagger Vance in particular.

If you write or golf, The Authentic Swing will find traction in your heart. If you pay attention and take notes during your walk through the earth, you may be startled to hear this book whisper your name.

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Sandfish Lizard

The Sandfish and Me

4 Comments / Adaptation, Environment, Freedom, God, Wisdom / By

The sandfish is a lizard that lives in the deserts of North Africa. Its name reflects its nature of diving into the sand and then pulling its legs close to its body to “swim” (like an eel) through sand. It does that in order to hide from predators or find cool relief from the heat.

As I watched a recent television feature about the sandfish, I was struck by how that lizard models conformity to God, Who “made from one, every nation of mankind to live on all the face of the earth, having determined their appointed times, and the boundaries of their habitation.” (Acts 17:26, NASB)

Although the sandfish is not part of “mankind,” it is clearly content in, and adapted to, its assignment to a time and a place. It seems delighted to live in the Arabian Desert – and not in the Artic, the mountains, swamps, South Pacific islands, the tundra, or Tokyo.

Our Creator could have placed that sandfish – or me – in any time of history or any place on earth. But He designed both of us for specific times and places. So, why have I been unable to adapt to my own habitat as freely and fully as the sandfish? Why do I live in a continual critique of my “desert” and its problems?

Perhaps if I humble myself that little sand creature can teach me a vital truth: I am here and I cannot change anything about here. I am also God’s workmanship. He made me; I didn’t. So why do I struggle with all of that? I seem to live in continuous anxiety; I feel the need to change my place, my times, and myself. I imagine a need to live so “prophetically” that “sinners” will fall on the ground and writhe in repentance, or that my government will change or collapse.

Why do I live in an assumption that I must emulate people who lived in other times and other places? I seem strangely compelled to live in, maybe, the Congo (or in the first century). Anywhere but here, anytime but now. I seem to think that He cannot lead His creatures in the times and places that He chose. So I work very hard to be an excellent “witness” of Him.

But wait a minute; He said His yoke is easy and His burden is light. Perhaps living prophetically and excellently should be fun. I never think about the need to live as a Chinn or with green eyes. He chose all of that for me. He also chose and appointed me to go (into my time and place) and bear fruit (John 15:16). All of that is a natural process. Oak trees don’t grunt to push acorns through their branches.

Real life is a thousand miles from religious life. Our simple acts and real words bear fruit. Routinely. Effortlessly. Those ordinary human words and acts leave an eternal and living gift in our time and space. But the gift comes from God, not me. I am a mere conduit; I can’t do it and I can’t control it. He chose that for me. Just as He chose the Arabian deserts for the sandfish.

Could that be why Jesus told his disciples (and us) to take no thought for what they would eat, drink, or wear? Since all of that has already been chosen for us, we are free to live fully, joyfully, and without worry. Kind of like the sandfish.

For example, consider how most people relate to problems. We react, get depressed or angry, fixate, or self-destruct. Yet consider how the sandfish continually copes with a life and death issue of heat; it just dives five inches from the surface to where the temperature can be fifty degrees cooler. Do you think, if we have eyes to see, salvation may await us just inches away?

The same Mind that created the sandfish also created you and me.  So can we find the same freedom and delight in our Creator as that lizard?

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The Power of Your Story

2 Comments / Abraham, Culture, curators, God, Stories / By

According to the play, “Papa,” Ernest Hemingway was once challenged to write a story using only six words.

He wrote “For sale: Baby shoes, never worn.”

If you have a pulse, those six words should stop you in your tracks. You have just been arrested by the power of story.

Producers and Curators

A story is a like a seed. It carries a power that is mysterious and enduring. When it falls into the ground of a human mind, it takes on a life of its own. That’s why the classic stories – from “The Prodigal Son” to “Treasure Island” – have been told in every culture and time since their first telling.

Eugene Peterson wrote that, “we live in a world impoverished of story; so it is not surprising that many of us have picked up the bad habit of extracting ‘truths’ from the stories we read: we summarize ‘principles’ that we can use in a variety of settings at our discretion; we distill a ‘moral’ that we can use as a slogan on a poster or as a motto on our desk.”[1]

We have the choice to become either a producer or a curator of a story. Producers clean the story up, polish it, and shape it into something – a song, a play, a novel, or a sermon – that will satisfy a market or a need. In other words, they turn it into a product; they extract or emphasize what will serve that purpose.

Curators have a much greater respect for the story and knowledge of its true value. They are not interested in the story as a product; they want to preserve it exactly as they found it. They care about passing it on, intact, to future generations.

What About Your Stories?

Some people love stories…as long as they belong to someone else.  They are simply too scandalized by their own life and heritage.  They may be totally ashamed of the famial history of alcoholism, gambling, debt, drugs, illicit sex, or other transgressions.

But, we cannot choose our family stories anymore than we can choose our ancestors.

Our family stories carry the imprint of God’s destiny and love. When we back up and look at the whole panorama of our ancestors’ lives – including the shameful – we can often discover the threads of our life’s tapestry.

For example, my maternal grandfather was a moonshiner. As a result of his clandestine career, he spent time with law enforcement officers and as a “guest” in their facilities.  Naturally that was traumatizing to his family.

The whole family moved (suddenly and in the middle of the night) from Missouri to Kansas.  The complete story of this quick relocation is murky, but apparently had something to do with Grandpa avoiding prosecution.

After they were settled in Kansas, their daughter, Mary, met a new friend. And that girl had an older brother named Jack. Eventually, Mary and Jack met. They were married in 1944. I was their first child.

So, a man fleeing the law is a crucial part of my biography. This story is not scandalous to me; I love it and celebrate it – I wouldn’t be here if grandpa hadn’t been “called” to the moonshine business (and quickly called to jump across the nearest state line).

Is it possible that God has a different view of family and heritage than we do? Could that be why the Bible contains some very nasty stories – like adultery and murder – in the lineage of Jesus?

Sometimes people allow shame, ignorance or political correctness to “improve” or “air brush” family stories.  But, doing so can rob the story of its unique gift to the future.  I know for a fact that the real story carries enormous power on future generations.

My grandpa’s story may have appeared as disgraceful to those who were immediately impacted by it. But, over time and in the hands of a loving God, the story has become a prized family heirloom.

Keep Faith with the Story

Most modern approaches to story telling tend to be too cold, mechanical, controlling, or product-driven. They focus on issues like the audience, the “message,” what the storyteller wants the audience to do, the importance of having “a beginning, a middle, and an end,” etc.

All of those are “producer” issues. A curator approaches a story differently:

  1. Know the story.If there are audio or videotapes of the ancestral stories being told, watch or listen to them over and over.  If you can find newspaper articles or other written records, make copies and read them over and over.Ask any living participants to tell you the stories. Ask them again. Next year, ask them to tell it again. Listen to the way they tell it, watch what happens in their eyes and to their mouths when the story comes out. How has the story changed since you heard it last? Why did it change?
  2. Love the story.Even if the story contains details of darkness or corruption, try to see it from a higher vantage point. How was your own life assisted, improved, or even made possible by that story?Love the whole story – honor your ancestors by learning to love it.  Don’t react to the negative aspects of the story. Again, remember the genealogies recorded in the gospels. Apparently, God didn’t flinch at any details of his own canonized family stories.
  3. Tell the story.Don’t tell the story you wish had happened or that contemporary society would prefer. And, don’t tell a sermonized version. Keep faith with the real story.  Moses (the author of Genesis) told the story of the great father of faith – Abraham – offering his own wife, Sarah, sexually to Pharaoh.  A religious mind might have expunged that from the “holy book.” But, Moses kept faith with the story.

 

Your story is a conduit of the marvelous spiritual “estate” which flows down to you across the centuries.  Protect it from the ravages of time and culture; tell it exactly as it was given to you.

Release its power to others in, and beyond, your own time.

[1] Eugene H. Peterson, Eat This Book (Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, 2006), p. 48

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Misreading Scripture with Western Eyes

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All of us are captives of culture. And most of us think that he, she, or they certainly are, but that I am not.

Each of us tend to see our own roots going way past the loam where culture grows, way on down into the bedrock of God or “the truth.” But, in fact, we all draw most of our sustenance from the topsoil of our own codes, traditions, rituals, language, etc. Naturally and inevitably we pull the ancient and living Bible into service to our own culture and selfishness.

That is basically the idea behind Misreading Scripture with Western Eyes by E. Randolph Richards and Brandon J. O’Brien (IVP, 2012).

Western culture has specific notions about ethnicity, individuals, groups, law, honor, privacy, rules, time, and virtue and vice. And we continually impose those notions on the Bible and faith. For example, the authors write, “The technical term for behaviors like smoking, drinking and cussing is mores…Webster’s Dictionary defines mores as ‘folkways of central importance accepted without question and embodying the fundamental moral views of a group.'” Yet “Christians are tempted to believe our mores originate from the Bible.”

I found Misreading Scripture with Western Eyes to be very helpful in identifying the specifics behind those “Western Eyes.” For example:

  • Language. “English is a subject-verb language; it is actor- and action-oriented. We prefer sentences with a clear subject and a clear predicate, and we like it best when the verb is in the active voice. It is difficult to construct a meaningful sentence in English without a subject. Even when we describe weather (‘It is raining’), we supply a subject (‘it’). Other languages can manage without a subject…in Indonesia, one can say, ‘Exists rain.'”
  • Sex. Western societies tend to let sex drive relationships. We allow, even encourage, boys and girls to get together…alone…in the dark…with alcohol! We call it “dating.” But more communal cultures see that as irresponsible parenting. As one Indonesian father said, “Wow, you Americans are amazing. If Indonesian kids did that, someone would get pregnant.” He goes on, “For Indonesians, it seems unfair to leave an individual in a situation in which his or her only real protection is willpower.” Is it possible that we in the West are confused about sex?
  • Time. Westerners are schedule-driven. But most people of the Bible (and other times and places) were/are relationship-based. We set times for a meeting to begin. But for non-Westerners, a meeting begins “when everyone who needs to be there has arrived.” We impose our time and schedule as virtues on our reading of the Bible.

One of the great and deep joys of this book is how they blow the dust and smoke away from some biblical passages. For example, they show how Western Christians read the story of David and Bathsheba through issues like personal guilt and populism. We completely miss that David was a king. In fact, Uriah failed to treat David with the honor due him. So David had him killed and probably never thought another thing about it. The authors sure persuaded me that “David was not tortured by a guilty conscience.”

However, this is really a story of a king and The King. Only when God confronted David, did the lesser king break! Oh, I loved that view.

They also show how the Apostle Paul had to navigate a patronage system when he raised money.

But the real payload and joy of the book, for me, is in the conflicting views of rules vs. relationships. “In the West, rules must apply to everyone, and they must apply all the time.” But, in the Bible, “rules applied except when they didn’t.” What a lovely line!

One of the authors tells of a time when he was a speaker at a Baptist “pastor’s conference” in Indonesia. He knew that the bylaws of the denomination permitted only men to serve as pastors. But he saw women in the audience. When he mentioned it to his host, he man just nodded. So, the author said, “But your laws say pastors must be male.” And his host calmly replied, “Yes, and most of them are.”

He then wondered about the Apostle Paul… “Paul states, ‘I do not permit a woman to teach or to assume authority over a man; she must be quiet’ (1 Tim 2:12). ‘But what about Priscilla and Junia?’ we might ask Paul. ‘They taught in church. You said women must keep silent.'”

“Perhaps Paul would answer, ‘Yes. And most of them do.'”

If you want a book to challenge your traditions and attitudes (perhaps even jerk you out of them), I highly recommend Misreading Scripture with Western Eyes.  

NOTE: The authors bring very diverse and many international perspectives into play. For some reason, the Indonesian examples spoke more to me. That’s why I used several in this review.

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People of the Train

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Imagine a train rolling through the land. You see it slowly snaking through snow-covered farmland, across bay bridges, and through several cities and towns. But it keeps moving; its destination is beyond that particular country.

Then the train does stop in a small town long enough for the passengers to go inside the depot. Some even stroll around the nearby main street. They see signs on main street about an election When they talk to local citizens about the election, they listen very closely. Naturally, they empathize. But they don’t become invested in, or emotional about, the outcome. After all, the people of the train are just passing through.

That is a reasonable, not a perfect, metaphor of passing through the earth as strangers. Of course, we do get involved in the local concerns — we even vote in “their” elections. But, we certainly have no reason for anger, depression, or even disappointment. We are people of the train. Our purpose is our focus; our destination is our passion.

Yesterday morning, Scot McKnight wrote, “I can’t imagine 1st century Roman Christians getting caught up in some kind of hope whether it would be Nero or Britannicus who would succeed Claudius.”

Many people seem focused on this as “a real bad time.” They even talk about not wanting to raise kids in such a bad time. Remember that Jesus was born in a bad time. And His Life is still being born in bad times today.

His Kingdom flourishes in the bad times. Isaiah wrote that, “He is the stability of your times.” (33:6) He doesn’t need a stable time; He is the stability.

I think our views of stability, safety, and peace are illusions. I don’t think any time is any better or worse than any other.

Jesus and His Kingdom, rolling through the earth, are the real issues. We are people of the train.

The Message captures a fine word from Peter: Friends, this world is not your home, so don’t make yourselves cozy in it. …Live an exemplary life among the natives…Make the Master proud of you by being good citizens. Respect the authorities, whatever their level; they are God’s emissaries for keeping order. I Peter 2: 11-14

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