Let the Wind Blow

There are places in scripture, many of them, where the text is so dense and thick with meaning concealed so artfully in a great story that the casual reader is apt to miss much of what is going on. In both volumes of his work, Luke has demonstrated himself capable of both broadsides of such power that the reader is almost overwhelmed coupled with such delicate moments that they almost disappear upon reading. And sometimes, both in the same text. Acts 2 is one such place. Pressed in to the four verses that mark the moment of the church’s first breath is a dazzling array of allusion that frames the event for his theological purpose – all the while telling the story of what actually happened with enormous restraint. (considering, that is, what actually happened!)

The day of Pentecost had shifted from a festival devoted to first fruits to one commemorating the receiving of Torah on Sinai – and it is this latter connection that Luke uses to make sense of the events. The parallels – the sound of a rushing, mighty wind coupled with the glory of God visible as fire – make the point that, in the events of Acts 2, God is breaking in to human history. It is this that Peter explains to the crowd of curious on-lookers – in these events, the last days to which they had looked forward for centuries have begun! The differences from Sinai make the point that, unlike that event, the gift of the Spirit and the Glory of God are now available to everyone – and, through them, to others. Both young and old, male and female, slave and free have full access to the empowerment of the Holy Spirit. A truly new day has begun!

In another parallel, the confusion of languages, devised at Babel to limit human cooperation, is reversed so that all persons may hear and celebrate together the glories of God. A look at a map of the ancient near east on which the countries mentioned in Acts 2 are highlighted makes the point! This new community of the Spirit is instantly multi-cultural, multi-lingual, multi-racial, multi-generational – in a matter of seconds, the church is out of control and on the move! Instead of the nations coming to Jerusalem to share in the wonder of Torah given to God’s people, all of those filled with the Holy Spirit are God’s people – and are sent on mission to the far off world!

The response to Peter’s invitation to repent is equally striking – 3000 people are added to the church. The echo of the death count accompanying the coming of Torah as the people worshipped the Golden Calf while Moses communed with God is unmistakable. The Law kills. Literally. The Spirit gives Life. And keeps on giving.

Pentecost is not a day to remember. It must be more than a day on the church calendar. Pentecost is the very life of the church – and is best celebrated by living that life in vibrant, Spirit-filled witness to the fact and meaning of Jesus’ death and resurrection. On this Pentecost Sunday, I find myself wanting more of Him – a deep desire, a longing, not just for power, but for the very Life of the Holy Spirit.

Let the wind blow!

Psalm 116:15

Today, Dallas Willard died. Just under four weeks ago, Brennan Manning died. It is impossible to describe what the loss of them means to me. Between them, my way of understanding Jesus and following Him changed – and, consequently, my way of understanding myself and everything around me. That is no exaggeration.

They both appeared about the same time – Dallas in Spirit of the Disciplines and Brennan in Ruthless Trust – as the 80’s became the 90’s, my 30’s becoming my 40’s. I had failed as a husband and as a pastor and was clinging to my following of Jesus – stubborness, really, born out of sheer terror. I maintained the shell of belief, but there was little inside to fuel the weekly performance. I still believed all the right things – but the foundations on which those beliefs rested had crumbled beyond repair.

Spirit of the Disciplines was assigned reading in a class taught by Roger Heuser, a gentle man who became a friend, and who embodied the life described. I didn’t understand the book the first two or three times though, but I had the sense that something very important was being said. Somewhere along the way, it occurred to me that he was describing a way of following Jesus quite different than what I had been doing – and which had the promise of actually working. The basic key was the difference between trying, which I had been doing religiously and to little effect, and training, which he described in terms that seemed entirely doable. This sense was confirmed when, a few years later, I had the privilege of sitting in a two week doctoral seminar with Dallas – and saw the life he described lived out in our community. A gentle, wise, winsome man.

Ruthless Trust, on the other hand, erupted out of nowhere, grabbed on my out of the office, the serendipitous reading of a cold, rainy retreat day. Like all of his books that I have read since then, it portrayed a God I had not previously known – One who loved me passionately, deeply, and without regard to whether I lived up to His standards or not – and did so with great joy and not a little laughter. And, so, One who could be trusted radically. His life, too, was tattooed with the reality he lived – grace upon grace upon grace. Having the opportunity a few years later to listen to him roar belovedness to a chapel full of college students was a gift beyond describing – life giving water, nectar of God. He introduced me to a Jesus Who believed in me, and Who I could follow to death. And life.

In the years since, I have read those books again, as well as many of the others they each have written. Such different styles, such similar passion. The one, carefully scripted, each word carefully chosen, precisely defined, writing to slow the reader down, to make thoughtfulness necessary. The other, writing in rambunctious, flowing and overflowing sentences, rushing laughingly along, headlong over a waterfall of grace, pulling relentlessly at the remaining shreds of fear – Yes, He really is THAT good! And, He believes in you!

“How precious – how costly – how heavy in the sight of the Lord, is the death of His saints.”

Dreams Too Tiny

small

brown

shriveled

looking nothing

     like life

no dreams

great enough

to move from

what is to

what will be

tiny dreams

appropriate

to death

appropriate

to appearance

but apparently

appearance

deceives

that seed

of death

falling

grounded

dying

gives birth

     to life

and of such

a wild kind

as to be

unrecognizable

beginning as

it did

     small

     brown

     shriveled

to see

what grows

from what is sown

demands dreams

not too tiny

I Stand In Awe

Standing deeply

     before another

     one like us

     yet

          fully themselves.

If we only

     knew . . .

We see

     not looking

          scars

          blemishes

          faults

          annoyances

          irritants

          differences

          appearances

          surfaces

If we only

     knew . . .

We are

     put off

          by what we      

          see

     and miss

          what we

          won't.

If we only

     knew . . .

There

     standing before us

          one of the least

               His brethren

          A stranger

               angel

          One who will

               never die

          Glory disguised

as ordinary

And so we stand -

     and so we should -

          in awe.

     For who knows . . .

          . . . ?

Weeks End

This week began with twin explosions turning what had been a celebration of endurance into an unspeakable horror as, in an instant, hundreds of athletes and their families and supporters were permanently damaged – and three were lost. Whether by sad accident or deliberate intent, the bombs exploded at the point in the race where ordinary people would be approaching the finish line. The brutal fact of a device built to inflict as much damage over as wide an area as possible quickly sunk in. Terror, common in so many parts of the world, had come into our home, onto our land. Again.

No surprise that, when the week continued with a massive explosion shaking the ground with the force of an earthquake in Texas, it felt like a psychological aftershock. Again, unspeakable damage physically. More, soul damage. We love the benefits of our chemistry but such force gives pause. And so it should.

And then back to Boston where the minute by minute accounting of the chase leading to the death of one and the capture of the other of those apparently responsible for the bombings plays large to a nation needing the week to end. And so, it has. More questions than answers. Relief at the damage averted as more bombs are discovered and disarmed. As bad as it undeniably was, it could have been so much worse.

A surging of images – plumes of smoke, trails of blood, parts of pressure cookers – but more, faces of pain, broken bodies, tattered limbs – still more, the heroes racing towards the damage thinking more of the wounded than of their own safety, the police men and women confronting embodied evil with little time to prepare and everything to lose, the jubilant gratitude of a city lining the streets to celebrate the end of the week – and those involved in ending it.

So, this is how the week ends. Longer, it seems, that the actual days of it. Flying by, breakneck speed. Paradox of time. In fact, of course, weeks end. And then, begin again. With little preparation for the new from the old – except the same challenge to pay attention. Perhaps this week will have less to pay attention to. Or will it? Why must attention only be paid to the extraordinary – when the ordinary weeks also begin and are full, too? Perhaps not so much evil, not so much heroism, not so much… But, still. The wonder of life.

Death as a Way of Life

Impending death greatly concentrates the mind. The priorities get real sharp real fast. All kinds of things suddenly don't matter at all - and some things are more important than life itself.

Jesus' whole life was lived in the shadow of his death. We get hints of it every once in a while as we see the look in his eyes as he nears Jerusalem, or as he talks about the Kingdom of God, or as he gazes into sightless eyes, or as he speaks into open tombs. The look is that of a man who knows where he came from and where he is going. It is an uncommon look.

He had a single, simple focus. His life was concentrated by death. If his life seems somehow more vibrant and richer than those around him, perhaps that is why. Theirs were lived in varying shades of gray, his in the brilliant spectrum of every color of the rainbow. It is one of the reasons why people, even those who eventually turned away, were attracted to him in the first place. He was fully alive. And those near him seemed somehow to share in that life.

You only get to be that way - fully alive - by gazing steadily into your own tomb. By living with death as a way of life.

That defining gaze allowed him to embrace lepers; to play freely with children and others who could do him no good; say what needed to be said without fear; to let some people define themselves as his enemies; to risk ridicule and rejection. He not only marched to the beat of a different drummer, he had a whole new marching band playing out his life! He lived to please no one but his Father in Heaven.

And what is more, he invites us to do the same. He invites us to come and die with Him. To die daily. And having died, to really fully live. Those who have embraced their death have nothing left to lose. And are free to live - flamboyantly, vibrantly, completely - until the death they have embraced, embraces them - and ever after.

What Was That All About

And now we find true what we probably should

     have known in the first place –

     life does not yield of unmitigated joy

          just because Death is conquered.

The hard work of waiting for the certain coming

     of life after life after death

     does not get much easier

          knowing that Death is conquered.

Death gives way – but slowly – bit by

     bit – inch by hard won inch – only in time

     which doesn’t heal all wounds

          by itself – but waits until it is no more.

And now we find true what we probably should

     have known in the first place –

     life between life and death looks the

          same now that death is defeated.

We live in the meantime and wonder

     what was that all about? That dark Friday

     that lonely Saturday that empty full Sunday

          what was that all about – and… is?

In the mean time in between time lean time

     time so thin so fragile that you can

     almost see through it to times beyond

          time seen only though closed eyes.

So used to seeing time inside out that

     when it finally is turned rightside

     up we are disoriented in the same

          place familiar but… not.

Like we will be here or somewhere like this

     then more than we are now or were more

     than time allows – invites – embraces

          made open handed by open grave.

And now we find true what we probably should

     have known in the first place –

     that was about all – known loved life

          and its only chance for redemption.