Out from the cave

A year has slipped by.

A whole year.

And everything is so different. And yet so the same.

I'm closer to the me that you always thought I could be. The one I didn't see myself ever being.

The me breathed to life by your words as they cast full light into the shadowy corners of the cave I squinted in, Plato for company.

I hope you'd be proud. I hope you are proud.

Unfoldings

These are days of unmet expectations.

When half-realized words rush to spelling; An epic unwritten, scurrying past the glacial-slow unfolding of time. When desire screams for satisfaction and the darker bent hurls shaded-eye forecasts of disappointment.

Days when emotions linger on the edge of articulation; When all seems to be action and reaction.

When what is before - here and solid, and in the mind's eye - falls before conjurings.

I am the delirium tremens, doubled-over and lost to the cravings of my desires.

20-second minutes come, tripping past consciousness with their satisfaction, their light. They bring short moments, captured and squeezed parasitcally. But they are overshadowed by longing and are gone, lost.

These are days of unmet expectations.

Thoughts on plodding

"The essential thing in 'Heaven and Earth' is that there should be a long obedience in the same direction, there results, as has always resulted in the long run; something which has made life worth living." - Friedrich Nietzsche

Eugene Peterson, author and Biblical scholar, uses this idea of a "long obedience" to describe discipleship in the footsteps of Jesus. It's similar in theme to what missionary William Carey was describing when he said, "I can plod. I can persevere in any definite pursuit. To this I owe everything."

Plodding, by the very sound of the word, conjures pictures of long, dusty - maybe it's muddy- roads. The horizons is never close when one is plodding, it's aching, footfalls away.

Like Carey said though, and Nietzsche and Peterson were getting at, it's plodding in the same direction, in the definite pursuit, that brings eternal results.

Abraham did a lot of plodding.

"By faith Abraham, when called to go to a place he would receive as his inheritance, obeyed and went, even though he did not know where he was going. By faith he made his home in the promised land like a stranger in a foreign country; he lived in tents, as did Isaac and Jacob, who were heirs with him on the same promise. For he was looking forward to the city with foundations, whose architect and builder is God."
Hebrews 11:8-10

The rest of this well-known chapter goes on to mention many other heroes of the faith, all of whom were "commended for their faith," but none of whom received what had been promised.

Sometimes, true though the principle may be, the thought of putting one foot in front of the other with "slow, heavy steps," sounds exhausting if not impossible. So, how does one sustain a long obedience and an intentional plodding?

Plod with a direction
"'... Be strong all you people of the land,' declares the Lord, 'and work. For I am with you,' declares the Lord Almighty. This is what I covenanted with you when you came out of Egypt. And my Spirit remains among you. Do not fear.'" Haggai 2:4-5

"See to it that you do not refuse him who speaks. If they did not escape when they refused him who warned them on earth, how much less will we, if we turn away from him who warns us from heaven? At that time his voice shook the earth, but now he has promised, “Once more I will shake not only the earth but also the heavens.” The words “once more” indicate the removing of what can be shaken—that is, created things—so that what cannot be shaken may remain. Therefore, since we are receiving a kingdom that cannot be shaken, let us be thankful, and so worship God acceptably with reverence and awe, for our “God is a consuming fire."" Hebrews 12:25-29 

Look back, remember your direction and take steps to be reminded
There is a strong Biblical precedent and command to look back, remember what God has done, and be reminded.
"Look to the Lord and his strength; seek his face always. Remember the wonders he has done, his miracles and the judgements he pronounced." 1 Chronicles 16:11-12

Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, "We gotta hemo all da stuff dat make run slow, you know, da bad kine stuff dat jam us all up. We gotta hang in dea an finish da race dat God wen pick fo us."


 

A breath

It's impoverishing, this coming alive.

Nerves shiver and jump as life floods back into tissues long atrophied with disbelief. One wonders if the reanimation - or is it truly animation for the first time? - is as visible as it feels. Do these shuddering, hesitant breaths echo as loudly as they do in my ears?

The shadows that etch out the corners where the Light has not yet reached whisper softly, insidiously, that the process is far too slow. That even with life, breath and nerves it'll never be more than dead flesh dancing.

But that's not truth, not really, and the whispers start to waft away on a half-caught, newly found zephyr wind.

Weeds and Thermopylae

It's exhausting waiting for the fullness of time. Straining, knowing that what you have been longing for is just past vision, waiting to coalesce into the concrete.

There's no hurrying the fullness of time. At least not if you want it to come in strong and healthy, deeply fulfilled and deeply rooted. Small measures of time pass, the discreet building to forward momentum, until suddenly it's upon you.

The fullness of time, and all time, works its inevitable sway regardless of whether you are ready now or later. Its whispers are sometimes half-caught on the tricksy breezes that wile their way into one's heart. Whispers of things to come, desires not-yet-realized, and the nightmarish terror of missing out, of being late.

The fullness of time comes steadily because all good things must grow, sending their roots down and their leaves up. Only weeds shoot up overnight, and they - pale imitations of the lasting - are often not what they appear.

One can wait for the fullness of time, uncertainty of what it is bringing with it luring to passivity, or can go out to meet it. Preparation implies expectation, and the fullness of time is not to be met with haphazard readiness, like a meal thrown together for the long-expected dinner guest.

No, the fullness of time is to be met like the Spartans greeting the Persians at Thermopylae. Sandals digging into the sand, screaming "Here I am, come and get it!" and rejoicing because they have been long-waiting for an opportunity such as this.

Smells

The smell of decaying vegetation is the same the world over.
There's no dialect of rot, no changing intonation in the fundamental scent.

It's the smell of active entropy, reminding those who inhale that they are powerless to the sway of its inevitable persuasion.

But, all is not death.

When the wind catches right, you can smell the beginnings of the stench of life.

Southern drawls and Middle Eastern sandals

Maybe it's just his voice, that scratching, soft voice; strength wrapped in an accent. A voice that, though it is gentle, can be roused to anger or joy.

It may be the difference of hearing it spoken, rather than reading the words.

Whatever it is, it brings the centuries-old Truth to a different light.

How could you not love the Man he speaks of? He sees. Everything and everyone. The Invisible are brought to light and told they matter and they are invited. Those sunburned from the spotlight are told that Reality has a different structure than what they knew.

The long-squelched whispers of hope and longings for justice get just a little louder.

This Man walks the paths of small towns and the highways of the invaders, always moving, always meeting. He comes with power, living and breathing, clothed in the muscles, dust and strength of a Carpenter.

Is it just Johnny's voice that breathes these people into three-dimensional form? How had they become so flattened? How had He become so flat?

This Man looks with compassion, He loves, He invites, and He is blunt at times. "He is not safe, but He is good," as it has been said.

Colored by this voice, this Man is easy to see as one who laughs, eats, wears shoes and sleeps. He is full and He is alive.

As Johnny continues, walking through the week from palms to blood, I'm brought to tears. I think how I would feel if men I know, care for, have spent time with, were made to experience the same? This Man not only had followers, He had friends. He had a mother.

To see, to hear my friend being beaten. Someone I had cooked for, talked with, spent time with...

It's unthinkable.

Is that a tremor in Johnny's voice? It's finished. His friends bury Him. And His mother goes home, the remnants of the yearly celebration no doubt still in sight, her arms and heart empty.

Those days are silent.

But Johnny is not done, and neither is the CD.

Early in the morning - How could it not be? How to sleep, let alone wait for the day to begin? - they returned.

And everything had changed.

How could you not love this Man?

Creeds and perspective

There is no escaping the indelible time stamp of 80s pop music.

It can be remixed, redone and rerecorded, but underneath all of that there's still that inherent earworm quality. During that seemingly inescapable decade, a particular genre of music sang about being warriors. With lines like, "Satan, bite the dust," and "The warrior is a child," there was a collective and culture theme of struggle and self-identification with ongoing battle. It was real, it was raw- albeit coated with newly discovered sound effects, post production and synthesizers - and we loved it.

Flashforward almost 20 years.

There was only half an hour left. The story had built - tension and intrigue layering - until this moment, and only 30 minutes were left for everything to right itself. Sitting there, safely sheltered from the persistent rain, a niggling whisper started to make itself known.

There's no way this can be made right.

No way for him to be reunited with his wife. His baby. His men.

This is not going to end happily.

And, as it has so many, many times, honor and valor won their tragic victory over self-preservation, and he did what needed to be done. There was no other choice, explained the narrarator. Nothing else for it. It was the mission first, his men (and wife) second, and himself last.

And so she honored his memory, his sacrifice, and buried him. What remained of his men were in attendence; his lieutenant weeping, wishing it had been him. And the mission continued, continues.

As does ours.

"So God led the people around by the desert road toward the Red Sea. The Israelites went up out of Egypt armed for battle." 

Desert roads, flawed people, and a world coagulating in sin mix to an unpleasant jambalaya, but our objective remains the same. We march - or crawl - onward in weak obedience, regardless. Like Marines who define themselves by their willingness to embrace the tasks that would make others flinch, it's ours to "Embrace the Suck."

The difficulties we face are far from a pop culture ideology; our roles are not synthesizer-toned pleasantness. Rather, we face difficulty because it is our job description.

"In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world."

The grave is empty, and the battle decided.

The only easy day was yesterday. So further up, and further in.

Garden movement

Walking through the story, each new station brings the mental picture to life with another shade of color.
the physicality of it - walking and stopping - the wind and the slight chill to the air bring a different, literal feel to the familiar story.

the mockery of a trial concludes and He's sentenced, events in motion an eternity in the making.

here He falls. There, rises again.

and the etching of His mother knocks me back like never before.

Did she scream? Did she have to be held back? Was she silent? Surely there were tears. I would have screamed until I collapsed.

And still he walked on, his footsteps echoing through time to the conclusion in the center.

I round the corner and feel as though all the air has escaped.

Death.

Even though I half-catch the looming figure in the center, grace just one turn out of range, all I can see is Dies and the horrible picture of His body cradled by his friends.

How his mother must have cried.

The last corner is rounded and the central figure is finally in full sight.

A marble slab, cracked. And graveclothes lying in a disheveled heap, rock solid in their uselessness.


Death is conquered.


The grave is empty, cracked and abandoned.
He is not here.


All that remains is the useless stone that once spelled destruction.


amen.

February

These restless, listless days continue as they have all winter.
They slip into each other, gurgling along, with an irritating, audacious persistence.

Time keeps going.

And I'm left like the character in the story, not sure which way to turn, my hat in my hands.

And somehow I keep my feet under me and I am still trying, though nothing changes and there's no audience to see my best work. Or even my errant slacking.

And time keeps going.

Conversations are interrupted, work continues, and I do laundry.

Still waiting.

Oatmeal and farm cooking

The plan had been oatmeal.
I had packed a baggie of oatmeal, yesterday, a Tupperware bowl and a spoon with the intent of finding hot water somewhere and mixing a healthy, if not completely bland, lunch
Instead, I was invited to lunch filled with noodle kugels, salads and handmade meatballs, a blessing that cost me nothing.
Once again as it has happened so many times before, the Lord took what I had expected and replaced it with something better.
Today the plan was once again oatmeal.
After all, the budget is tight and there is the future to plan and save for.
But with the memories of yesterday's feasting fresh on my mind oatmeal just seems bland and inadequate.
So instead, I take myself out for Asian.
My very favorite.
Over Bangkok noodles and egg rolls I luxuriate in food that really is my favorite and realize two distinct truths:
1) This too is a blessing, a grace. The spice, the sounds of the wok and the chopsticks, an undeserved and unwarranted help.
2) This may be exactly why the budget is tight.