Beware, you faint of heart: It's the Reason

Scripture with a soundtrack. So there I was, sitting in the café at work and reading “The Many Gospels of Jesus” (co-written by Philip W. Comfort and my pal Jason Driesbach) while eating lunch. Technically, at that point in the book I was reading Luke’s Gospel, and in the background I heard the sound of holiday music. It struck me how this time of year can make us simultaneously reverent and aweless. This was illustrated to me in an oddly beautiful manner. I was reading Luke chapters 22 & 23, which contain very heavy events: Judas plots with the high priests, Jesus explains his sacrifice at the Last Supper, Jesus accepts God’s will that he should suffer & die, he is arrested, denied by Peter, brought to trial before the Sanhedrin and then before Pilate, he is beaten and mocked, he is crucified and his body laid in a tomb.

Rattled. Two songs played while I was reading these things, and the timing was profound. As I read about the Last Supper I became aware that the song playing over the speakers was O Holy Night, a song of joy and reverence which admonishes us to respond with humble worship and glorious song as we remember the most divine of nights. The song continued as I read Jesus’ prayer on the Mount of Olives, where he accepted the cup of suffering from the Father. I wondered what could strike me more deeply than hearing a song celebrating the birth of the Son of God while reading of his submission to God’s will that he would save us with his own blood. But as I continued reading, O Holy Night ended and the next song began. From Jesus’ prayer on the Mount of Olives, the scriptures takes us into the accounts of his betrayal & arrest, Peter’s denial, the sham trials during which no blame could be assigned to Jesus, and his torture during which he was mocked until he breathed his last. The song that played while I read these things: Silver Bells. I was indeed struck, or more like rattled.

Santa’s big scene. It is easy to wrap our hearts around a song like Silver Bells. Face it, everybody’s happy and shopping and “dressed in holiday style.” This is a song about the time of year when kids giddy on the prospect of Santa’s arrival cannot fall asleep until they are utterly exhausted (which just might be the genius behind the Catholic midnight mass. hmmm…). Eggnog, mistletoe, mesmerizing displays in the front yards…Ho-ho-ho. How often it is that Santa gets the glory.

“…Hear the snow crunch,
see the kids bunch,
This is Santa's big scene,
And above all this bustle you'll hear:

“Silver bells, silver bells,
It's Christmas time in the city.
Ring-a-ling, hear them ring,
soon it will be Christmas day.”

Lights, please. I have no problem with the sentimental aspect of Christmas. I love it. I have watched the animated TV specials almost every year and now that I have kids I can actually talk about watching those shows without people saying, “really, you still watch those?” Rudolph and all those stop motion specials, the Grinch, Charlie Brown, they are still a big part of what I love about Christmas. And what about Home Alone? Or the Christmas Story? I mean c’mon! They’re so much fun you’ll shoot your eye out! These stories are so much easier to understand than the messy birth of the King of Heaven in a filthy stable, whose plan for life in this world was to serve and save a world that rejected and murdered him. Even Charlie’s meek and wise friend Linus stops short of raising the latter part of the story when he humbly quotes Luke’s gospel in one of the very few Christmas specials that is actually bold enough to remind us that the real “Christmas Story” is Biblical.

The incomplete nativity scene (a tangent). Since I became a believer I’ve found Christmastime causes me to ponder the end of Jesus’ earthly life more than the beginning. I do not ignore the blessing of the Savior’s birth - that would be impossible. But no matter how festive the season is, how appropriately or inappropriately joyous I feel at the moment, I cannot let go of the fact that Jesus was born to die. Whenever I look at a nativity display, I am overwhelmed by the thought that it is an utterly incomplete illustration. I always want to see a cross behind that stable, in the not-to-far distance. But then again, if we put the cross behind the stable we’ll have to put the tomb behind the cross (stone rolled away, of course), and then we’d have to conjure an image that would display the Son in glory at the right hand of the Father, which of course is impossible. … mmmaybe that’s why the cross isn’t behind the stable. I guess we have to draw the line somewhere in our far from perfect illustrations of the season. Except when it comes to colored lights on and around the house.

(North) Polar opposites. So how can we reconcile these two worlds of Christmas – the cultural and the sacred, the Silver Bells and the Holy Night? We can’t. The former offers us a world that is joyous by our own doing, where we deceive ourselves into thinking that annual acts of charity and goodwill are where redemption lies, and that as long as the family gets it together by Christmas Day, the blessing of the season will be upon us, thanks be to Hollywood. However, the latter shows us a world where peace between men will only be possible if there is first peace between men and God, where the work of redemption is accomplished by the Savior alone, a King who loves the un-loveable and fulfills the ancient promise that those of true faith WILL find eternal salvation, thanks be to God. The best we can do is share the story of that Holy Night when our Savior was born as we exchange our gifts and enjoy our families & friends. And we can strive to remember that Jesus redeemed this season, even the Silver Bells, not in the manger, but on the cross.


"He has come from above and is greater than anyone else. We are of the earth, and we speak of earthly things, but he has come from heaven and is greater than anyone else. He testifies about what he has seen and heard, but how few believe what he tells them! Anyone who accepts his testimony can affirm that God is true. For he is sent by God. He speaks God's words, for God gives him the Spirit without limit. The Father loves his Son and has put everything into his hands. And anyone who believes in God's Son has eternal life. Anyone who doesn't obey the Son will never experience eternal life but remains under God's angry judgment."
- John 3:31-36 (NLT)

Lectures from Parents, Lectures from God

My sisters and I agree – you make Dad angry once, and you’ll never do it again. I faced my father’s wrath for mouthing off to my mother in front of him. Not that I didn’t ever mouth off to Mom again – there was just enough venom in my voice to set him off. My father is most consistent in his calmness, so to see him shed that trait was to experience a terrifying moment. Not that he injured me; there was no bodily harm. Nor did he abuse me verbally. He just revealed to me, in no uncertain terms, where I stood and where he stood. And my place was dwarfed, eclipsed, by his authority.

On the other hand, my sisters and I made Mom angry often over the course of our childhood, and especially during our teenage years. Mom was the daily disciplinarian. Over the years, Dad shaped our behavior and worldview by quiet example; Mom taught us our lessons and corrected us in real time, as things transpired.

My sisters and I probably agree on something else – if Mom was shouting, visibly angry about something we’d done, things were gonna be ok. We’d get our punishment, always swift and fair, and things would move along. But if Mom was measured, calm, sitting down with us quietly to discuss our crime, THAT’s when we were in BIG trouble. Something was going to change and we could be certain that it wouldn’t be the law of the household.

These were the moments when it was best for us to keep our mouths shut and listen. We had to discern which questions needed answers and which questions were rhetorical. If we couldn’t provide answers to the real questions, the silence was deafening and revealing. If we tried to answer the rhetorical questions, it invariably turned out to be a smart-ass quip - NOT good for our current situation. I think what was most significant about these moments was the lack of punitive declaration. I remember squirming in my chair thinking, “just ground me for the week and let me go,” but that wasn’t Mom’s intention. Her intention was to cause me to confront what was in my heart. She meant to bring my sophomoric flaws to light so I could examine them fully. And that was far worse than having any phone, car, or social privileges taken from me. These were also the moments when I would repent of my crime, either immediately or later – usually later. And when you’re 16 years old, there’s nothing worse than the realization that Mom was right, and the need to approach her and admit that you understand her position, that she is right, that you are sorry.

I think of these things because I read the end of the book of Job this morning. After Job loses everything – and I mean EVERTHING – with the exception of his life, he pities himself. Now, that’s perhaps an understandable reaction. But then he questions God’s wisdom. And perhaps THAT’s an understandable reaction too…but then, who is Job (or who are we) to question the ordinance of God? God’s reaction to Job’s despair was profoundly gracious. God could have shown us all what becomes of those who question His will. He could have righteously and severely punished Job. But what God did was amazing – He caused Job to search his own wisdom. And upon reading these chapters I found God’s method very familiar. God asked Job those rhetorical questions that illustrated Job’s foolishness. And Job did the right thing: he shut his mouth. He listened while God calmly but sternly pointed to His own authority, dwarfing, eclipsing Job’s. God lovingly led Job to examine his heart, and Job, having gained the proper perspective, repented.

God plays many roles in our lives, and there are many metaphors for these roles. I have said many times that “Our Heavenly Father” is perhaps one of my favorites, because it gives such insight. The parental aspect of His authority and guidance gives us beautiful clues as to who we are supposed to be, as children, as parents, as siblings. I listened to chapters 38-42 of Job online (click link at bottom of page), and I have to say, I squirmed in my seat. I was trying to follow along with the text on the screen, but I found myself lowering my eyes, humbled by the stern words of the Scripture. I realized that Job wasn’t alone in receiving this lecture from the Heavenly Father. Centuries later, I received the lecture with him, as if I was his accomplice. And I guess I am; I share this sin with Job. I question God’s judgment, even his motives. And I do much worse than that on a daily basis. The conviction that Scripture offers us, when Scripture is read in faith and with humility, causes us to deeply examine our motives and be changed for the glory of Christ.

Job 38-42

Misery Loves Company –or- the Joy of Making Others Suffer

What’s up with the song in my head? Once in a great while, it’s a good song. Recently, I was blessed with a beautiful, haunting melody: Neko Case’s “Porchlight.” Now & again a Tom Waits song will mess me up in a very good way. Those are wonderful days. But this morning, not so great. It’s been Reba McIntire singing “the Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia.” Not good. And more often than not, the song that clogs up my brain is something along those lines, something I’d rather not hear. And to further torture me, it’s generally not the whole song, it’s one snippet of the song on infinite repeat. So today it’s the title line and its follow-up line, “that’s the night that the lights went out in Georgia / That’s the night that they hung an innocent man.” Ceaselessly. Is it in your head now? Oops, so sorry. (Heh-heh)

I often share the song in my head with my co-workers, but never when it’s a good song. I selfishly keep quiet regarding the good ones, but the more annoying the song, the more satisfying it is to sing it for whoever is present – several times, to reinforce the presence in their minds. The best is waiting 30 minutes or so and then busting into the song again, just when they’ve finally purged the memory.

I get some doozies that originate right there at work. I don’t know who picked the satellite station they use in the dining room, where my co-workers & I fetch our coffee, but the station broadcasts an endless parade of bad music that makes me chuckle (at best) or turns my stomach. As I write this, I’m beginning to wonder if the penalty for being a music snob, as I admit I am, is to be bombarded with music I cannot stand and then have it played back for me by my own brain.

Here, let me share some lines that have bounced around my cranium in the recent past. I make no claims to the accuracy of these lyrics, this is just how I experience them. If you know the lyric, the voice, the melody, the bad synthesizers and lame guitar parts will undoubtedly tag along:

“the phone rings in the middle of the night / my father says when you gonna live your life right?”
“all I wanna do when I wake up in the morning is see your eyes…Rosanna, Rosanna”
“I’ve been waiting for a girl like you, to come into my life.”
“and tonight, tonight, tonight Oh-oh / We’re gonna make it right, tonight-tonight…”
“and it’s you, babe, whenever I get weary and I’ve had enough, feel like giving up”
“knock 3 times on the ceiling if you want me / Twice on the pipe if the answer is no”
“stuck on you, got this feeling down deep in my soul that I just can’t lose / Yes, I’m on my way”
“Rickie don’t lose that number / You don’t wanna call nobody else”

Oh yes, it’s been painful. But it is such a pleasure to share my grief with my office pals…and you! After all, nothing makes this kind of suffering more bearable than knowing that others are suffering with me. Misery DOES love company.

Seven Minutes

I’m a snooze junkie. I can’t help it, it’s a sickness. I don’t set the alarm to sound when I need to get outta bed; I set my alarm to sound 30 minutes before I absolutely have to get outta bed, and then hope that I get up sometime between. It’s stupid, I know. But it doesn’t seem stupid when the alarm is blaring away, and I’ve just come out of a dream, and it’s kinda chilly in the room but I’m warm under the blanket, and I just tell myself “I’m not ready to get up yet, but I will be ready in seven minutes.” It’s amazing what I can convince myself of in those vulnerable moments, when I just want the annoying noise to stop.

Now, let’s consider my wife, the unwilling participant in this daily ritual. There she is, minding her own business, happily cruising in REM, and then BEEP!!-BEEP!!-BEEP!! Well, no problem. It’s time for Chris to start getting ready for work. Then she drifts back to sleep, barely crossing that line into dreamland, and BEEP!!-BEEP!!-BEEP!! Hmmm, Chris must be tired this morning, but it’s about time for him to get up, or else he’s gonna be late. And then she relaxes again, falling into that moment when thoughts become vivid and a little bizarre and BEEP!!-BEEP!!-BEEP!! At this point, a poll of my constituency would indicate a sudden and significant drop in my approval rating. And I shudder to consider that I just might be amazed by what my constituency – one lovely woman trying to sleep next to me – can convince herself of in those vulnerable moments, when she just wants the annoying noise to stop. (Which makes me wonder what other annoying noises she desperately wishes would cease.)

Seven minutes! Whoever invented snooze is a cruel, cruel individual indeed, akin to the Pusher (hey man, the first one’s free, but you gotta pay after that!). I mean, seven minutes a day might get us on our way to a flatter stomach, but it does nothing for the amount of rest you can get in a night. And yet, we snooze junkies can convince ourselves that a seven minute chunk of time is the key to waking refreshed. And that faith in seven minutes creates a cycle of madness. Still tired? Just add seven minutes – you’ll feel better. Still tired? Just add seven minutes – you’ll feel better, really. Still tired?... And on and on until your wife can’t take it anymore and tells you to get outta bed or just turn off the alarm, for cry-aye.

It’s gotta stop, so let’s make this official. Hello, my name is Chris, and I’m a snooze junkie. I’m wallowing near the bottom and I don’t want this to continue, so I am hereby stating my intention: I will move my alarm clock to a place I cannot reach from my bed so there is no chance for me to hit that button without standing up and considering the futility of it all. I will not set the alarm too early, thereby avoiding the temptation to simply re-set the alarm and go back to bed. I will spare my wife the need to be incredibly patient with me for yet another of my bad habits.

There, I’ve said it. Thank you for listening.

Moments

I wrote this after attending my friends' wedding, back in 2006.

It was Tuesday, otherwise known as my Monday, and I dragged myself out of bed and began the morning routine. Shower, shave, dress. But the routine came to a sudden halt when I put my right foot into my shoe. There it was: the fine powder of California dirt lightly coating the black leather, and a small greasy spot on the bottom of the sole - probably some oil or pitch from a railroad tie. I was suddenly overcome with nostalgia for a weekend from which I'd barely emerged, or survived: Cocktails (the white wine, please) & dinner in the Pullman cars, more wine, a night to rest, return to the railway museum for soundcheck, a ride on the train, lemonade in the Niles car, an unexpected stop at the end of the line, windfarm, poetry, Desolation, Kerouac, the legend of Phil & Amy (recounted – brilliantly - NOT in chronological order), bright sun & brutal heat on the tracks, a momentary interruption and cause for concern with a count-your-blessings outcome, cocktails in the great hall, more wine, music, serenades, “Chris Ryan,” first dance, more wine, dinner under a canopy of lights surrounded by a canopy of trees under a canopy of stars, wine, tributes & testimony of friendship and love and accomplishment, root beer floats (no wedding cake!), more wine, jam session, kicked out of the museum, back to the hotel, another jam session, lots more wine, some sorta honey liqueur that certainly must have been produced by Beelzebub himself, late-night conversations with old & new friends, too much wine, a retreat to the hotel room - far too late - the damage was already done. So much for knowing when to say when on the night before a 4-hour flight back to Chicago. Sleeping hard, waking nauseous, wishing I'd remembered the advice I gave myself with Nicole as my witness - "ya never wanna be hungover on a plane." Got on the plane drunk (still) & sick, got off the plane sober & hungry, missing my son so much my heart ached, and reflecting on this amazing weekend and the friends I said goodbye to far too soon.

As we stood before Phil & Amy and "the Comet," Wellesley asked us to look around at this gathering and capture the moment. We did. But it was a moment I now find too big to call up lightly or briefly, because the moment was not only that gathering of friends and family on the tracks, nor was it the recitation of the most personal wedding vows we've ever heard, nor was it the recounting of the events that began and ended - or I should say, began and began anew - on Desolation. No, this was a gigantic moment to capture, because the moment represented not only the union of Phil & Amy, but also their history, their accomplishments, their trials & burdens, the impact they've had on their communities, and the love that they have spread to friends all over the country. All those things culminated in that very moment Wellesley asked us to capture, because those things are not simply what Phil and Amy have done or where they've been - those things are very much who they are.

So it was Tuesday morning, and I looked at my dusty shoes with the mixed emotions that nostalgia conjures so wonderfully and cruelly. Had I not been so hungover on Sunday (did I mention the wine?), I probably would have processed the sadness of departing California, or more accurately, of departing my old friends, on the plane bound for Chicago. But I was far more concerned with keeping a tiny crumb of dignity by getting thru the flight without using the little bag that taunted me from the magazine pouch in front of me. I succeeded, in that regard. But on Tuesday morning I stared at my shoes, a horsehair brush in my reluctant hand, hesitating, hovering, while I reflected on a captured moment much bigger than the day or even the week ahead of me. I almost left that dust on my shoes, just to physically hold on to a bit of the weekend, but then I remembered that *moments*, no matter how grand and full, are fleeting. They pass right on by to make room for the next moment. So I brushed that dirt off my shoes. There's another moment ahead that Nicole & I will share with Phil & Amy. And we will capture & relish it with them. For now, this moment will stay rooted in my heart. And there might be a little dust hiding under my laces.

- September 27, 2006

Where've I been?

Spending far too much time at stupidly brilliant websites like this one:

http://www.noisegames.com/

Nothing being alone in the office, laughing out loud in front of the computer.

ukulele + classical training + george harrison fan = Jake Shimabukuro