Winn Collier's Blog, page 56

A Stump

Be rooted like a tree / Planted by the stream  {Brendan Jamieson}





Clyde Kilby, an English professor I wish I had known, crafted a catalog of 11 Resolutions (and I love that it was 11, not 10). This was his personal creed, his this I believe, and this is how I will live. His sixth resolution is my favorite:

I shall open my eyes and ears. Once every day I shall simply stare at a tree, a flower, a cloud or a person. I shall not then be concerned at all to ask what they are, but simply be glad that they are. I shall joyfully allow them the mystery of what Lewis calls their "divine, magical, terrifying, and ecstatic" existence.

I've borrowed this practice; and on most days after I run, I'll stroll a few minutes extra. I breathe deeply and try to pay attention to my world. I'll look around for some physical object, something on which to gaze. It may be the billows of white clouds, moss covering a portion of rock. A leaf tossed by the wind. A fence. A blade of grass. I take in the sight. I ponder the sheer fact that it exists. I notice that I had nothing to do with making it exist; and after I walk away I have no impact on whether or not it continues to exist.



Sometimes it's good to remember that, valuable as I may be, I do not hold the world together.



Today, the object was a stump. Not a tree. Not a sapling full of possibility. Just a stump. A gnarled, cracked stump. A piece of creation that's already had it's day. It isn't good for much. Other than a dog hiking a leg it's direction every now and then, I bet no one pays this stump any attention. Yet there it sits. It sat there yesterday. It will be sitting there tomorrow. The rain will thrash. The sun will bake. The winds will flurry. But the stump merely sits, nestled in it's little spot, it's roots dug deep into the soil that will not let it loose.



Amid a world of noise, a world insisting we have something good to say, something smart to say ...  amid a culture where we are jostling for position, spreading our branches so to speak, it's balm to my weary soul to watch a sturdy old stump and know that sitting there, out of the way - sturdy and solid but unbothered and at rest -  can be enough.

Bonhoeffer: Against Abstraction

[Jesus Christ's] word is not an abstract doctrine, but the re-creation of the whole life of man. {Dietrich Bonhoeffer}



I'm taking a course at the University of Virginia on "Peace and Resistance: Bonhoeffer and Martin Luther King, Jr." So, of course, I've been reading a good bit of Dietrich Bonhoeffer lately.



As you know, Dietrich was a German pastor and theologian instrumental in the German Resistance during World War II. Dietrich was imprisoned for subversive activity, and (though complicated by the fact that he was a principled pacifist) later charges were added for his association with the infamous July 20 Plot to assassinate the Führer (the oft popularized story of the plot was the center-piece of Tom Cruise's 2008 film Valkyrie).



As the SS grew more suspicious of Bonhoeffer's entrenchment in the Resistance, they passed Bonhoeffer from prison to prison until he finally landed at Flossenburg concentration camp. This was his final stop. He was hung (asphyxiated actually) by a thin steel wire on April 9th, 1945 - only 14 days before the camp was liberated. Bonhoeffer was 39.



Bonhoeffer opposed not only the Nazi regime but the religious movement that swept through Germany, the "German Christian" movement. Attempting to re-frame Christian witness so it could harmonize with the Third Reich, the "German Christian" movement ultimately viewed their first allegiance to the State and their second allegiance to God. One bishop fielded a question: "What is one first -- a Christian or a national socialist?" The bishop replied, "A National Socialist." In public worship, they would go so far as to sing hymns to Hitler.



Against this moment, Bonhoeffer wrote his most challenging and enduring work, The Cost of Discpleship. His plain assertion was this: To be a disciple of Jesus Christ is to say that God rules over everything. As such, you can not be a disciple of Jesus if you are unwilling to obey Jesus above every other person, claim or passion. You can imagine how that landed in 1944 Germany.



Dietrich believed that the proclamation of Jesus as Lord was always enfleshed in (and evidenced by) the lived realities of our life, the choices we make, the allegiances we declare, the principles and ideas that we obey (or disobey). Christianity is concrete, not abstract.



To be a Christian was not merely to affirm religious facts but to be gripped by the reality that Jesus Christ has come to resurrect us to an entirely new kind of life - a lived life. Equating Christian faith with any particular political movement is idolatry (and this is a lesson we best learn). However, being Christian will always have political (public, lived) implications. Obeying the way of Jesus means saying yes to some things and saying no to others.



The work of the Christian is not to redress faith so that it can be squeezed within another ideology but rather to live Christianly amid, within, over or against every other competing claim. If Jesus is Lord, then this assertion defines reality. Everything else must fix itself to that bare truth.

First Stories First

The Bible is about God.



Perhaps it seems frivolous to clarify this, but I believe it's a truth we're on the verge of losing. These days, everyone caters to us because everyone wants something from us. The game is to find out what we want – and then beat the other guy in promising how fast they can get it to us. It matters little the trade, most everyone's in on the racket -- our corporations schmucking for brand loyalty, our politicians grabbing for votes, our pastors and priests (and of course, I wrestle with these demons) clamoring for affirmation and dollars. It's easy to see why we might get the idea that everything really is about me. But this me that everything seems to be about isn't the true me. None of these shucksters really know me, nor do they care to.



When the Bible enters this milieu, we assume that Scripture (or God) does the same. The Bible dashes after our questions. God rushes, like a zealous car salesman, to push a model than meets our every whim. But though we may drive off the lot with all the bells and whistles, are we any better for the transaction? Are we any more joyful? Any more alive? Any more human?



We may finagle a god who makes us comfortable or endorses the life we are set toward (with minimal adjustments as a nod to the Almighty). We may sigh contentedly if we locate a god who delivers quick pithy lines to our struggles, the immediate relief we demand. But if we settle for this god we think we want, we will never engage the true God who rules over the Earth, the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, the God of Mary and Peter and Paul, the God who raised Jesus from the dead. If we are committed to the God we think we want, we will never know that the questions we are asking aren't the right questions at all.



God is God, and we are not God. And the Bible is the book that tells us both of these things.



If I you will allow me to indulge in a moment of ridiculous oversimplification: some of our most vitriolic theological battles of the last two centuries seem to pivot on this question: Is theology fundamentally humanity's story or God's story. I opt for the latter.



But - it's no better to go the other extreme and say that God (and God's book) is so otherly, so divine, that we ought not expect it to engage the complexities and harsh realities and the wild joys of being human. By this way of thinking, you go to the Bible to discover whether or not it is okay to kill, but you have to go to a shrink to talk about why your heart feels like it may break in two. In other words, you go to the Bible to hear God's story, but you have to go everywhere else to learn your own story.



The Scriptures – and our wisest voices over the centuries – have refused this dichotomy. They have taught us that the Bible is about God, first – but that it is about us second. And it must be in this order because the way we most truly know ourselves is to know God. As Augustine said, we know ourselves better in God than in ourselves. Our stories matter because God has made the remarkable (and at times seemingly foolish) move to intertwine our story within God's story. God does God's will, but God doesn't rush past us. God's will is that humanity is more than a blip on the celestial radar. Quite the opposite - in Jesus, God vested God's full self in the human condition. Jesus was not a lab experiment. Jesus is the revelation that God is not distant. God goes local. God knows, as Hebrews tells us, all our human travail and weakness.



God knows these dark spaces intimately because God has suffered them, with us. Our pain matters – not because we are the center of the story – but because the God of the Universe endures our pain with us and longs for our pain to be no more. Our joy matters – not because the Universe will melt if we are not sated (our burden is heavy, but not that heavy) – but rather our joy matters because Jesus defeated everything opposed to joy and invites us into God's kingdom where joy is evermore. And every place where sin and death prevail and every place where joy is thwarted, every place in our story where we encounter injustice or loneliness or longing for freedom or a place of belonging – those are the places where Jesus wants to make our stories new.

Courage of Being You

I did not intend to be 'Stanley Hauerwas.' I am aware, however, that there is someone out there who bears that name.



So begins the memoir penned by, of course, Stanley Hauerwas. One of the things I believe Hauerwas eludes to is his recognition that the person he has become is not the well-crafted result of a life wrested toward this end.



I believe it one of the grandest illusions of modern humanity, this notion that we can make ourselves to be whoever it is we want to be. I don't tell my sons that they can do whatever they put their mind to. They have many options, and there are years ahead to discover what is in their heart and how they are to give what is in their heart away to their world. However, there are some things that simply are not meant for them.



The problem is not lack of will or tenacity. The problem (which really is no problem at all - but a gift) is that we are particular beings, with particular bents and unique treasures. Our narrative is uniquely ours, and this narrative is made up of all kinds of intricate details. What we love, what we hate, what we see and how we see it, what makes us cry, what makes us want to gouge our eyes out. All these things make who we are.



I am not made to be anything. I am certainly not made to be everything. I believe each of us are created to be someone particular, to offer something particular. No matter how hard I try, I will never be an Olympic marathoner or at the helm of a Fortune 500 behemoth, thank God. I'm free from that bland and crushing expectation.



However, I also think Hauerwas' wry line hints at his belief that who he truly is may not be who everyone has imagined him to be. The name and the image have taken on a life all their own. Most of us spend far too much of our time attempting to be a good version of ourselves, an acceptable version, a moderate version, a version that lives up to the billing. Too often, I am too aware of other's reactions to me, gaging whether or not I should put on the brake, tone down the language, give someone an easy exit.



But if I do any of those, if I become who I'm expected to be rather than who I actually am, I silence the distinct and remarkable gift God intends to offer the world through me. And the same is true for you. It is an act of holy rebellion to refuse the safe path of meeting other's expectations. It is courageous to listen to God's voice, to hear God tell you who you are and what you are to be in this world. It is courageous to hear that - and then to live that.



And, let me tell you, our world needs courageous people. We need you.

Joy

There's much to lament in this world. Every day offers a hundred reasons to cry. But, I also believe every day offers at least a hundred reasons to laugh or sing or make love or give an extra big tip or do something that costs you much - but brings a revelry all its own because you feel the pleasure of having done right, done well.



If it is the easy thing for us to slap a cheery word on top of misery, then we need to connect with the reality of sorrow. But if it is the easy thing for us to wallow in dismay, then we need to jump heavy into joy.



For most of us, I think joy is the harder effort, certainly is for me. I'm not sure why. Perhaps we have been disappointed too often. Perhaps we are comfortable in the gloom. Perhaps we don't have eyes to see or ears to hear what the Apostle John calls the "river of joy overflowing."



The good news is you can find joy just about anywhere. For instance, this week I found joy in my seven-year-old:



Seth: Par Fat? Par Fat?? Mom, this is going to make me fat?!?



Miska: No, Seth, that's Parfait. Parfait.



Joy can surprise you at any turn. Watch for it. I'll bet you find it.

The Undertaker

Tonight I told the boys I had a new book to pick up at the library for our evening reading. A friend recommended Ferrol Sams and his tales of Porter Osborn, Jr., a boy growing up on a Georgia farm during the depression.



Wyatt was eager. But Seth needed one detail clarified: "Does anyone die in this story?"



Last Friday, we watched Where the Red Fern Grows, the new version with Dave Matthews looking right at home in those baggy overalls. In the infamous scene that shall not be named, Seth was mortified. He began to cry and jumped up on the couch with Miska and me and buried his head in the covers in a futile attempt to erase what he had just seen. "This is a bad, bad movie," he said as he gulped down the tears. "Why would anyone watch this???"



So you see why, when he heard that a story was coming about a boy and a farm, Seth wanted to know whether anyone or anything would be meeting their maker. He's no fan of death.



Fair enough, neither am I.



Still, we're all heading there. The line about death and taxes may be tired, but it's true. And I wonder why we don't talk about it more, why we don't plan for it more, why we don't ponder if how we are living will help us be the people we hope to have been when the time for living's done?



On the bookshelf next to me, I have a book by poet Thomas Lynch who also happens to have a day job as an undertaker. The title is so good, I just have to mention it: The Undertaking: Life Studies from the Dismal Trade . Lynch's first page begins: Every year I bury a couple hundred of my townspeople. Every year, come rain or shine.



And it's the same in every town and hamlet and village world 'round. There's nothing much more common than dying, you'd think we'd be good at it. But we aren't, least not most of us. A couple days ago, one of my friends mentioned that he's thinking about reading an obituary every day during Lent, the spiritual discipline of remembering who was here, who lived and who isn't living anymore. The idea isn't to be morbid, but to remember, to count your days as one of the Psalms says. The point really isn't death at all but rather life.



Eugene Peterson once said that the pastor's job is to prepare people for a good death. When you do that, you're preparing them for a good life. On this month when we are thinking about beginnings, let's also ponder endings. And then let's live well toward that.

Toward the New

And we begin again.



When the calendar turns, we do not erase what was; but, gathering the wisdom from the scuffs as well as the shining moments, we move beyond, forward. We learn from our mistakes. We remember and adjust. We take joy in all the laughter and love we have known in past days. We gather ourselves for the good we hope will come. And it will. Good will come.



Of course, everything we experience won't be good - and some things that we're certain aren't good actually will be. Funny how that happens. But good awaits you. In some form. In some surprising place. Even now, good is waiting for you.



If your year past has been filled with failure or pain, do not despise it. There are years yet for the God of kindness to craft something of it. If your year past has been a coup of joy, savor it. Don't hold it too tightly - it isn't yours to possess. But savor it for the gift it is.



Either way, the new begins again. Not a negation of the past - no, even better: a creative remaking. A beginning. Again.



___



If you don't know the writer Robert Benson, you should. He offered a gift of words for the New Year. I hope you'll have the joy of receiving them.

Dragon Expert for Hire

For Christmas, Wyatt received a A Field Guide to Dragons.



He has now added his new-found proficiency to his business card.



Publish Post

Fourth Week of Advent: Saying "Yes"

No matter what impression Lifetime network movies may leave, angels don't show up often. But when they do ... batten the hatches.



An angle appeared to Mary, a simple girl of thirteen, maybe fourteen, years. "You're going to have a baby," the angel said - and then I imagine a long pause, the angel wondering if Mary could handle the words to follow. "A baby ... from ... the Holy Spirit."



Fear. Bewilderment. What will Joseph think? Incredulity. Shock. Laughter. What will my parents think? More fear. Dizzy. Dizzy. Dizzy.



But clarity arrived almost as quickly as the confusion. After only a short conversation with the angel, Mary spoke with the courage of a woman who was no longer a girl: "May it be so, Lord." Mary simply said "yes."



Each of us will happen upon a moment where a simple choice will be laid in front of us. Will we say yes to God, a yes that will most certainly careen us into the unknown? Will we surrender control, surrender the future, surrender ourselves?



These weeks of Advent, we have waited. But as Christians we wait so that we can hear. We wait so that we can obey. We wait so that we can say yes. It is a fearful thing to follow a God we can never control. But when we say yes, we say yes to life. Yes to joy.



To wait open-endedly is an enormously radical attitude toward life. So is to trust that something will happen to us that is far beyond our own imaginings. So, too, is giving up control over our future and letting God define our life, trusting that God molds us according to God's love and not according to our fear. {Henri Nouwen}



A very merry Christmas. Thank you for walking with me through Advent. And thank you for reading my words this year. It means a lot.[image error]

Third Week of Advent: Thaddeus

His soul followed the sun. Every spring, with days longer and brighter, life crept into his bones. With summer, he welcomed the ruggedness he felt, the hope, the way his gaze always returned West, remembering. But every winter, as the cold and the dark swallowed more and more of the shining light, Thaddeus felt a grayness settle over him. Each season of his soul brought him a different kind of gift, but he hadn't always seen it this way.



When he was young and ambitious, Thad fought the gray. Spring and summer were no trouble, of course, but gray doesn't help a fellow get along with any of the things enterprising people want to get along with. Gray, so far as I know, never gets a mention as a career builder. Not one of his Ph.D. supervisors ever added, "Thad does gray really well," on his recommendation letters. A few girls liked the brooding type for a bit, but (being long before emo) they usually found an excuse to move along.

Of course, you can only push something down so long. During winter break of his first year teaching, Thaddeus surrendered and allowed the gray to run wild. The episode concluded with Thad 2,300 miles from home, huddled in an icy corner of an abandoned gas station 50 miles east of El Paso with 2 gallons of stolen Mexican moonshine in his backpack and a weathered copy of Letters to a Young Poet in his pocket. Thad learned a few things during that jag.

On December 24th, Thad stood by the empty road in front of that wasted shelter, with a couple frozen shrub bushes as company. Thad had never been in a more desolate place. And yet he had survived. Thad had met the grey full-on, and he was still standing. Limping, but standing. Inside the station, you could see the scribble on the wall next to one of the shattered windows: Thad was here - all of him.

Thaddeus took a deep swig of moonshine, stuck his thumb out and smiled.[image error]