Olympic Gold

I'm watching the 2012 Olympic opening ceremonies and I can't help but make a correlation between it and heaven.

Why? Simple.

Everybody's invited.

I am watching all these young athletes from countries all over the world. The nations may be ticked off at each other, with sanctions and embargos and broken treaties and murmurings of war, yet here they come anyway. Blondes, brunettes, redheads, some with shaved heads, men, women, slim, hefty, built for speed, built for strength, tiny, huge, wearing hats, wearing turbans, bareheaded, some with scarves covering their heads; whites, blacks, Asian, European, Arabic, islanders and desert dwellers, every tribe and nation is here. And they all are doing the same thing - marching in, smiling, waving at the crowd, hugging each other, laughing, taking pictures of each other, eyes wide to catch every magic moment.

I know there are a lot of politics associated with the games. I am not that naive to think that there isn't a lot of complicated stuff just off the screen. But I think we are all glued to the televisions tonight not just because of national pride, or love of sports. I think when we watch things like this, or for the few of us lucky enough, attend them in person, we are remembering something that hasn't happened yet, but is familiar nonetheless, because its in our blood, our bones, our souls.

I think, for all the sin and shame with which we've covered ourselves on this little world, we are still hopefully remembering the place we were made for, where nobody is like anybody else, and all of us are exactly the same.

Maybe we all fantasize being Olympians a little bit because we all somehow remember what heaven is about. At least I do. I want a shot at that parade. I will be waving my little flag and smiling.

Hold Any Snakes Lately?

Mark 16:18
Today's New International Version (TNIV)
"...they will pick up snakes with their hands; and when they drink deadly poison, it will not hurt them at all; they will place their hands on sick people, and they will get well.”



This passage in the New Testament has been quoted many, many times to point out the protection that Jesus gives his followers. "Look," people say, "this says you can even pick up a nasty old snake and not get hurt! You can drink poison and not die! Jesus is Lord!"

But what about the responsibility of the hand holding the snake? Or the lips about to take the poison?

I know from years of being in the company of domestic animals that the one thing we humans are not particularly good at is being gentle. We move fast, we demand obedience, we put leashes on our dogs and briskly lead them exactly where we want to go. We declaw cats and debeak birds. When we hike, we don't walk softly as the deer; we crunch along the gravel or the beds of leaves with industriousness, because we have somewhere to go -- we are headed towards the top of the mountain, the bend in the river, the peak that must be conquered. We are the only animal from which all other animals know to run away. And why is that?

Because we are not gentle. We don't take time to wait, to listen, to sit with and to be observed ourselves. We are too busy making tracks, making points, making waves.

I'm not saying that our creativity and industry is wrong; I just believe its not everything.

Think about it. How gently would you have to approach a snake to not alarm it? How tenderly would you have to hold it to not generate fear? How long would you have to be still in order for it to relax into the warmth of your hand? How quietly would you have to breathe in order to sit with such a silent creature, which only has a hiss with which to warn or cry?

I am a Christian. I do believe that Jesus is my Lord and I don't take lightly the privilege of being able to say that. But I also don't take lightly the privilege of not being the center of attention, of having to wait, to listen, to be quiet instead of being right. Holding the snake is almost certainly scarier for the snake than it is for me. I have a responsibility to be the type of person who can hold the snake - or the enemy, the sinner, the reprobate, the angry "other", the one who is not like me (or at least I don't see the resemblance)- in my hands as gently as I would hold a young and precious child. You know why? Because no matter how uncomfortable that snake makes me, it is a creation of God, as precious and irreplaceable in its originality as myself. Whether I like it or not, the "snakes" of my life still belong to God, and as such, are holy in their essence, even in this fallen world.

And as for that poison?

We worry so much that the world will stain us. That our rights will be taken away, that our values will be undermined, that our lives will be relegated to second class. That we will be poisoned by this world. It's ready to eat us alive, from the inside out. Doom, doom, doom.

Perhaps. But I doubt it.

It's not what goes in our mouths -- or our ears or eyes -- that poisons us in the end. It's not what others say to us, or even about us. It's what WE say, what injuries WE will not forgive, the flaws WE choose to point out in others because that's what WE are looking at. It's the lens we focus that determines whether we see deeply, or darkly, or turn the lens the wrong way round and burn the vision clean up, like an ant in the sun under a magnifying glass. I wonder how many people I have unknowingly burnt under my gaze. I am sorry for that.

Don't even ask me how many people have gotten better because my life touched them. I fear the number so small it may fall into negative digits.

And so, this is not a passage as a reassurance of protection. At least, not for me.

It's a commandment - hold the snake, and hold it with respect. Don't let the poison become part of your blood. When given the choice to heal or hurt, heal.

Be gentle. Let your hands be warm, and your heart be safe haven. It's a start.

When Beauty Is Defense (Against the Dark Arts)

Sometimes, like today, I feel overwhelmed by the enormous sadness in the world. I saw an article about someone who intentionally set a dog on fire. It died. I listened to the news about Syria. It's not getting any better over there; people are still being shot, the government is still lying to everyone. My niece posts pictures of children in Russia who are waiting in orphanages for someone to adopt them. I know I will not be the one to do that.

I feel very small and very helpless. If I were a really faithful Christian I would read my Bible and get some comfort from it. But even that doesn't seem to be of any help today.

The only thing that seems to help is finding some small beauty to remember. In this case, some wild flowers Rusty and I found on a walk some weeks ago.

The beauty of these flowers reminds me that we are not all there is in this world, our sin and cruelty and lost opportunities of grace. In fact, we are mostly not all there is in this world. Even though we spend most of our time thinking about what we do and what we want and who we are, there is a lot more to this world that us and our interests. It comforts me that the flowers don't know how to fix this world any more than I do, yet they still have their place in it. They are incapable of fighting off the evil that exists, but they are indominable in their ability to bloom in spite of it.

Today, on the drive home, I wept and apologized to the Lord for my lack of faith, and for the terrible things that happened today. For Syria. For the dog. For my own weakness and fearfulness when it makes itself known.

I didn't get an answer. But I did get this image, this memory of these flowers. And for all it's worth, it helped.

So I guess my thought for the moment is this - I am helpless and of little worth in the world, but so are the flowers on the side of the trail. Still they raise their heads, they do what they can. It's not enough.

And it is.

Exploding Yellow Elephants!

This morning, I was driving into work when I was treated to a lovely sight - a school bus, waving its stop signs like elephant ears, slowly coming to a stop, and then -- oh my!

Kids exploded out the doors like fireworks going off - boom! bam! whizz! - their arms wildly whirling, backpacks catapulted, shouts and cheers and thundering sneakers pounding the asphalt as they burst into the endless sky of their first day of freedom - summer vacation has arrived!

They flew out and scattered like pigeons, and the bus, now alone in the street, started its engine again. I watched the bus pull in its stop signs, slowly rumble down the street another 300 yards, then wave the signs again and coast to a stop. Another explosion, more shouts, more hilarity.

This continued for two more stops before I had to turn off and go my way. I might have been irritated to have to stop every thousand feet, were it not for the undiluted primal joy of watching freshly liberated humans exulting in their newfound paradise. With so much happiness spilling out of the yellow elephant bus, how could I do anything but laugh?

It's a good reminder.

Being freed takes time. You have to ride the bus of your old life for awhile, watch the others take their turns. Three more stops before you get to your stop. Or maybe twenty. You think about all the homework you've been doing. And now, it's done. But you're still here, on this bus. You begin to wonder sometimes if you'll ever get off. Maybe it'll turn around and take you back -- oh, perish the thought! And that thing that sits on your shoulders like a giant backpack, that weight of responsibility or guilt or shame or whatever - it hasn't moved all that much in a while. It has worn grooves into your shoulders. You have been sitting slouched in the same place with the same goofy and annoying others around you and your butt is sore and you're beginning to wonder if your feet will ever take you anywhere again.

Don't worry. Sooner or later, your turn is coming. Your turn to stand up, take those first wobbly steps down to solid ground, turn around, see where you were, take another step, take a deep breath, and then, with all the energy you have in you, throw that backpack up and away with a rebel yell. Watch it arc high up into the sky and then plummet back down, but not on you. You can throw it in the weeds and leave it be, to be grown over by grass until it's long forgotten. Maybe someone else will pick it up, but not as a burden, and certainly not as yours.

Summer is coming. No matter if you have to sit on the bus through your fall and your winter and even your spring, there is a summer.

There is always a summer. I have seen the yellow elephants testify the truth, and I know that it is so.

YEEHAW!

If You're Waiting

In the movies, at a critical plot moment the music swells, the cinamatographer pans dramatically across the skyline, and the protagonist gets The Sign, a message from the universe that moves him in the benevolent direction that the fates planned for him. In a novel, the hero gets in a serious pickle but by chapter twenty-two there has been some sort of revelation or cosmic twist that sets him off on a new path, not knowing where it will lead, but certainly knowing it is taking him somewhere of note, and by the end he will be wiser, funnier, more seasoned and much fuller of a human being than he was on page ten.

In music, someone steps into a bar, walks into a coffee shop, bumps into someone on the street, or looks over at the stoplight and finds the love of their life. Someone walks on the street where you live, or sings in the rain, or boogies on the dance floor and the whole world shifts.

But on a Monday in June in Seattle, it rains. No great shaft of light piercing the clouds, no thunderous proclamation from on high, no flower suddenly springing up at your feet with petals that fall and spell out "conquer the future".

Looking for a sign? Looking for the next Big Thing in your life? Looking for that Certain Something that gives you permission, clears the field, scans the horizon of your dreams and gives you the green light? Looking for the blessing of your aspirations and haven't found it yet? Think God isn't paying attention? He is.

Maybe this is it. Your sign. The one that says, take the risk of kindness, step out on faith, challenge yourself to a new way of welcoming goodness into your daily routine. The Thing that says you are loved, it's gonna be ok, and yes, there really is a reason you showed up and kept breathing today.

Maybe this is your sign.

So - get moving!

Are We Off Target Here?

Ok, it may just be me, but I think we're off target here a mite.

The mainstream Christian churches of Western Washington seem very intent on focusing on a few issues of note: the marriage referendum and.....well, now that I think of it, that's pretty much it.

There are sidenotes of course. The Vatican vs. Leadership Conference of Women Religious. Planned Parenthood. Obamacare. The ordination of women in the Catholic church and women as bishops in the Anglican church. The Gay Agenda. Rampant atheists running amok, making funny cartoons ("What atheists shout out during sex" springs to mind.) People who want to take "In God We Trust" off the money we issue. Or stop prayer in the Pentagon. (Do they actually pray in the Pentagon?)

And yet. And yet.

Not much coming from the loudspeakers about a Christian response to the economic crisis. No leaflets on ecological choices. Not much preached about how it is that we have gotten complacent being a nation at war, when we are followers of a God who blessed the peacemakers. Our fourth graders have never known a nation not at war with someone. Silence about those who are sitting in our pews struggling with PTSD, mental health issues, or just plain loneliness. Nothing about how we spend our spare money on technology, shoes, toys, clothes made in substandard working conditions by people who barely make a living wage. Nothing about the groceries picked by migrant workers. We don't ask. We don't tell. Nothing, and I do mean nothing, about Syria. Or, for that matter, the divisions between us here at home. Muslims who are afraid of Christians who are afraid of Muslims. The looks we give to those standing on street corners, and the looks they give back to us. The neighbors we don't know, even as we have lived in the same houses for years. Houses we spent too much to buy, and now we live in debt. The yawning in the pew on Sunday. The love of capitalism. Or of socialism. Or any --ism of your personal choice. Take your pick. Lately, they all seem to be a little more leaning towards cannibalism.

Who do we love now? Who do we hang on to with our last breath? And who, God forgive us, have we let go of? Maybe Jesus? Maybe ourselves?

It seems to me we have lost our way. Convinced that we are the faithful somehow being viciously attacked from the outside, we have lost our courage to face our own failings, which, between you and me, are usually a lot more dangerous. What was that thing about splinters in others' eyes and logs in our own? Oh right, something Jesus said. To someone else. Surely not to me.

I don't know. It all seems like a great distraction. Wielding the shield of truth, carrying the sword of justice, so we protect ourselves from this big bad world, and if we're lucky, we can whack off someone else's ears and prove how much we are willing to....well, whack off someone's ears. Peter tried that once, Jesus wasn't too impressed. I suspect he's not any more impressed with us.

Got priorities? Are you sure? Are you really sure?

I'm not so much anymore.

The Miraculous Poetry Machine

This is the miraculous poetry machine. I found it today on Front Street in Issaquah.

What you do, is this: you take a piece of paper, you write five random words on it, you slip the piece of paper in the slot on the side, you wait, and presently out pops another piece of paper on the other side. The new piece of paper has a poem freshly penned, using all five of your words.

TaDA!

Miraculous enough in itself, but there is more. Let me start at the beginning.

I have been in the dumps for a week or so now, and realized that, with this Friday off from work and free from family obligations, I had the opportunity to take my sorry self out for a me-date, and perhaps refresh the old amygdala.

This is the first Friday of the month, and that means it's the night of the Issaquah Art Walk. All the shops on Front Street open their doors and invite local artists to show their wares, either on display in the shop itself, or just outside the door.

I arrived just as the artists were getting in place. I settled down on a bench in front of the old Shell station that is actually an arts shop, housing a number of photographers' wares. There was a three-man band set up in front, calling themselves the Trainwrecks and doing pretty good covers of the Eagles and assorted new country singers. I watched them for a good half hour, enjoying the music and their ease with eachother. Which was fortuitous, because for at least twenty minutes of that half hour I was pretty much their only audience. They didn't seem to care all that much about how big the audience was, or wasn't - they simply were laughing and singing and playing and generally having a great time. It reminded me of the truth of art - you don't wait for an audience to make art, you make art and share it if anyone shows up.

Then I wandered off to the chainsaw carver and checked out the pine gnomes. Next to him was the guy who makes garden stakes with flowers on top, the petals made out of spoons. Across from him, the woman who makes purses out of old clothes and the other woman who makes hats out of old men's slacks.

I wandered into an art gallery and checked out the pottery, the paintings, the mixed media offerings of cats on couches, dogs on beaches, birds flying across landscapes, city scenes, still lifes, portraits. I cradled a clay sparrow in my hand and enjoyed the heft of it, so unlike its real counterpart.

I people watched for awhile; a grandfather with his granddaughter and their very old, very much loved dog. A woman with pink highlights. A man with a grizzled beard and a fedora. Ten year old boys in a small herd, grazing down the street. An Indian man with his young daughter in a stroller, her hair all touseled from napping, the curls across her forehead tangling through her fingers as she wiped her eyes.

And then I came across the Poetry Machine. It looked more like a voting booth, red, white and blue folded panels with plastic bunting taped on the top, and peacock feathers for good measure. A chalkboard sign on the front, with stick on letters that said, "I love writing. I love the swirl and swing of words as they tangle with human emotions: James Michener"

It was pretty easy to see the two women inside, sitting on stools and writing on small notepads. Even though an MP3 player tapped out the sound of an old typewriter, the pieces of paper that came out with finished poems on them were all handwritten.

Nobody cared. Kids hovered around the front of it, clutching notepads and chewing pencils, trying to come up with five good words to feed into the machine, so that a poem would be ejected back to them. Mothers giggled as the kids asked for advice. Some of the parents took up notepads of their own.

I took a notepad and wrote five words on it: Paleological. Laughter. Resurrected. Squirrelly. Victory. I passed it through the slot and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Poems popped out the other side. A poem for Matt. For Angela. Tony. Chris. But not mine.

I waited.

And as I waited, leaning against a telephone pole, a woman approached me and told me I looked like an angel. Which is weird, unless you think of angels as being 60 pounds overweight and dressed in jeans and tee shirts from the Museum of Jurassic Technology.

I smiled, leaning against the pole further and extending my arms out in front of me, striking what I hoped was a beatific pose. She said I reminded her of someone she knew who was gone. And then she complimented me in ways I don't even remember. I thanked her and added, "And all of it, of course, covered in milk chocolate."

And that's when she burst into tears.

"I knew that's what you would say, " she said. "It's exactly what she would say."

And she fell weeping into my arms.

Sometimes you go someplace because you have a random idea, or because you are bummed out and need distraction, or because you're bored, or because if you stay home you'll eat ice cream and blow your diet. That's usually the times when God decides to make something really interesting happen.

I started to think maybe I understood why I had gotten in the car and schlepped down to Issaquah from Maple Valley, on a whim. I got a better idea of why my poem, of all the poems, was so tardy. I got an inkling as to the importance of this particular telephone pole. I was meant to be here when she came by. Sometimes they shoot the messenger; today, the messenger was hugged. I hugged her back and told her that her friend loved her very very much, and that I was sure that's why I had been sent there, to wait for her and tell her just that. I felt her cry and shake against me and hung on tight, rubbing her back, pressing my palm in her shoulder blades, feeling the ridges of her spine. She thanked me for being there. I told her I couldn't take the credit, I only did as I had been told. We both laughed. "Yes," she said, "she would be bossy, wouldn't she?"

My poem popped out. We read it together, and it was yet another affirmation for her. This is what it said:

Victory
I hear my own laughter
ring in my own ears;
a squirrelly sound;
a good sound.
I hear my triumph
resurrected from my fall
and I feel paleological as
I am of the oldest times.

She gasped, laughed, then cried some more. I held her hands. I kissed her cheek. More laughing. She told me she loved me, and I said I loved her, too. I know that she was talking to the woman who had died, and I allowed my voice to say what I knew that woman would have said. It was the most natural moment in the world. What I was saying was true. I told her it was time for me to go, but that she would know she was being watched over, taken care of, and always loved. I turned around and walked away. We lost sight of each other in the crowd, just as it was meant to be. Amygdala refreshed, mission accomplished.

Sometimes I think my words don't count for much. Sometimes I feel restless, uninspired, invisible. But in that moment, I did not feel invisible. I felt transparent, free, with someone else's light was shining through, the both of us feeling its warmth, and that was certainly visible, on both sides of the veil. I felt lucky to be chosen, grateful and humble.

A gift all the way around. A paleological resurrection. A miracle in front of a poetry machine, as delicious as milk chocolate. A very, very good day.