Out of Oz

I am currently coming out of an extended visit to the Land of Oz.  It all started with Gregory Maguire’s new book Out of Oz, which the cover sadly indicates as his last adventure in the land of Oz.  While reading Maguire’s gritty vision of Oz, I decided it was my literary duty to read the original, innocent L. Frank Baum books.  So I downloaded them for free onto my smartphone.

Obviously, the books are written for children, so they are easy to read and full of fanciful tales – not the stuff of great literary genius.  But Baum was a genius in a different way.  He could invent a variety of characters and races of people without getting stuck in a rut (although there were places in the books where it became pretty clear where he was going to go).

Reading the other six books of the “Official Cannon of Oz” (those books written by Baum himself), was a different experience than reading the first book, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, which I had read a few years ago.  The reason is that these were completely new stories and characters.  With the original book, and to a limited extent the following two due to the movie Return to Oz, I had come to expect a talking scarecrow, rusted tin man, and a city made of green jewels.  Reading through the other books, there were new lands, creatures, and people that were unexpected.

Some of the original drawings of John R. Neill

There is something about the new and unexpected in a story that makes it initially seem more exciting.  A story you have already read cannot surprise you with an M. Night Shyamalan twist ending.  Neither can you meet a new character for the first time, not knowing their history or their future.

But, on the other hand, the best stories with the best characters are ones that we read over and over.  We catch things we had forgotten or never noticed.  We better understand why the characters make the decisions they make and why they act the way they do.  Things may not be as unexpected, but they make more sense.

As I pondered these things, I could not help but think of the different ways people understand worship in Christian churches.  For some, there is only one story told in one way.  For others, the story has to be new and unexpected each time or it is not interesting.

I have always believed that the truth lay somewhere in the middle.  The churches liturgy is a good story, with roots in the earliest followers of Jesus.  But so much of our story is unexpected – though we sometimes forget because we know the story so well.  The Easter headlines that proclaim “Christ is risen, indeed!” are wildly outrageous proclamations of a belief that flies in the face of all our experience and understanding – but, like a talking scarecrow in Oz, we become inoculated against the surprise.

However, if we concentrate only on the unexpected – if the story changes every week – we miss the opportunity to truly get to know the story itself.  We take the risk of never knowing (or forgetting) who God is and who we are.

Babble

I decided a few months ago that if this is going to be a blog on creativity that I needed to get around to doing something creative.  So I wrote a short story.  I’ve been holding on to it for awhile as I think it appropriate for the day we celebrate baptism.  But, it is intentionally a work of metaphors that can be read through other lenses as well.

If you would rather print a hard copy to read , I’ve put together a booklet you can print off here.

The babbling of the small stream had become like a new best friend.  For the last three days, it had been his companion – the only constant in the ever-changing cacophony of these woods.  He had drunk the sweet purity of its crystalline waters, felt the brisk coolness bite as it went down.  He had also enjoyed the numbing power of the icy torrent to dull the stinging ache of the gash in his foot.

He sat on a small, smoothly rounded boulder and pulled his swollen left foot out of the cold current.  It was almost entirely covered in a dark blue-black.  The bruised skin surrounded an open gash just above the arch.  Luckily, the open wound seemed to be staying free of significant infection.  He attributed that to the healing powers of the stream.

Of course, he could not really say that the stream was healing his wound – or the noticeable protrusion on the other side of his foot that was either a broken bone or a metatarsal that had been completely dislocated.  The waters appeared to keep out infection and soothe the pain, but the cut had not appeared to close and the bone was still out of place.

As he submerged the grotesque limb back into the glacial current, he flinched as he thought back over recent history.  It was supposed to be a fun day hike: a quick escape from reality and the pressures of relationships.  The trail he had chosen was one that he had walked before, but it had been a couple years.

Last time he had visited this part of the woods, it had been with a group of friends to see the leaves change colors.  It was just a few weeks before they had found out that Linda was pregnant, and it was one of the last really great memories he had.  They had packed a lunch and spent the whole day throwing handfuls of orange, yellow, and gold into the air and allowing the confetti to float down on top of them.  At least that is how he had remembered it and it’s certainly how his life’s movie would have shown it during the musical montage.

The years since that blissful visit had been a blur of responsibility and confusion.  The music would be sadder during this montage – definitely and indie ballad, but maybe even a country song.  The pregnancy had not really been expected, but it was mostly just early, not unwanted.  But the timing was not the only thing that had been unplanned.  He had expected…

He stopped himself short.  He had come here to try to remember the good times, not to re-live the difficult.  His desire was to forget.  In college, he had read in the book Sybil about how she had entire portions of her life that were simply not part of her memory and, as inappropriate it was, he secretly wished that he could disassociate from his current reality.

But it seemed that reality was chasing him.  Hence the gaping wound that he would soon have to wedge back into his hiking sandals.  He had no one to blame but himself for his current predicament, though.  He should have started earlier in the day, he should have taken the shorter inner loop rather than the outer, he should have brought more food than a dollar bag of Doritos that had been in the car for the last month, and he should have stopped when he realized he had lost the trail.

He did not stop, though, he just kept walking, assuming the dense, compact soil of the trail would replace the uneven brush under his feet at any moment.  It never did, even though he stubbornly kept marching.  At first, it was like a little adventure.  He convinced himself that he was simply trying out his natural GPS ability, like he did when he explored new places in the car: often lost, but never for long.  But in the woods, you cannot turn right three times to end up back in the same place.

Eventually, the adventure morphed into frustration which turned into despair and then climaxed with anger.  It shifted back and forth between anger at himself and anger at the situations that had led him here in the first place and then to the person who put in a trail that you could lose and then the anger and responsibility finally found itself solidly planted on his own shoulders as the sun sunk below the ridge of the mountains and the darkness of night descended.

His infuriation reached its peak the second time that he ran face-first into a tree.  It hurt his pride much more than it actually hurt, but in a moment of rage he stepped back and kicked the tree with a middle-aged man’s version of a karate kick.  But the tree was better defended than Mr. Miyagi. A searing pain shot into his foot and up his leg.  Having lost his balance and falling backwards, he found another trunk with his back that was luckily smooth – although very hard – before slumping all the way to the ground.

In the dark, he couldn’t see the wound in his foot, but there was definitely a warm liquid filling his shoes.  He imagined a great flow of blood like in a Quentin Tarantino movie.  He imagined it pulsing out of one of the side openings of his hiking sandals with every heartbeat.  He should have felt nauseous, but for some reason, this image of gore actually made him feel a little better.  He cracked a smile for the first time in hours – maybe days.

He leaned back on the tree he had fallen on and closed his eyes to think.  It was then that he heard the babbling.  It had been hours since he emptied the sixteen ounce bottle of water he had grabbed at the gas station on the way into the park.  He realized he was parched.  The foot should probably be washed and wrapped, too.

Using his good foot and the tree trunk, he slowly raised himself from the forest floor.  He failed the first several attempts and the pain intensified in his gnarled foot as blood rushed back to the injury, making the journey to the water a painful one.  Another moment he would like to dissociate – allowing it to become the memory of some other personality.

Once situated next to his little mountain stream, it was time to try to remove the shoe.  At first, he was committed to making sure the shoe did not get wet.  He had figured out he would be spending the night in the area and did not want to add moist shoes to what was already a cool late spring evening.  He knew the temperatures were likely to find their way into the low forties at home, so it would be even cooler at this elevation.

After several painfully failed attempts, he finally decided that he would probably need to get the shoe wet to wash it out anyway and slowly submerged his shoed foot in the frigid water.  It was excruciating.  The pain intensified, focused on the lesion, cold, stinging water rushing into tissue that was supposed to be protected by the lacerated skin.  Then the cold attacked every nerve up his leg until it felt like being stabbed with tiny needles from the inside out.  Finally, the pricking pain turned to an ache and then numbed like his leg had fallen asleep.

He wished later that he could fall asleep.  The foot was tightly wrapped in his undershirt and propped on a small boulder.  The throbbing was intense, but manageable.  The cold was less bearable, even with his arms pulled inside his fleece.  Not to mention that the tree root was just as solid under his head if he gathered some leaves together to cover it or not.

There were plenty of other reasons to be awake, too.  He had not told Linda exactly where he was going – just that he was going for a hike.  It was funny, but not really, that he had actually hoped when this journey began that he could just be alone forever.  The pressure of living up to his responsibilities when the whole world seemed against him made him want to just run away from it all.

It seemed like his life was just one big responsibility these days.  He had to give up the things that he wanted – and occasionally needed – in order to be a good dad to his daughter and husband to his wife.  Now, with a son on the way, it seemed like everything was exponentially increasing.  But even escaping the bills and relationships and honey-do lists, there was still the enormous responsibility of himself.

Work was not going well, either, but he did not want to tell Linda about it because he hated for her to worry – well, that and because he felt like a failure.  He worked hard, and really, he was pretty good at what he did, but the company was trying to make up for some lost income in some ways that he felt compromised their ethics.  He had lodged a complaint with his superiors and been told to tow the party line or go home.

He could not afford to rock the boat right now, so he just kept his head down.  But he had found himself strategically alienated at work.  In the beginning, he thought it was all in his head, but more and more he was left out of meetings and planning sessions.  He felt even more uncomfortable than he had before.  Employment was scarce enough on its own, and he did not have the energy to do much more than occasionally browse online job sites.

It is cliché to say that his life had not turned out the way he had planned, but that was the phrase that came most quickly to his mind most nights as he struggled to sleep.  The brooding was deeper than that, though.  It was not just that life had become difficult, that responsibilities had grown, but that he felt alone most of the time even though he was constantly surrounded by people.  He was not literally alone, but he was lonely.  Maybe this was cliché, too.  Maybe that made him boring.  Or, maybe it made him human.

For some unknown reason, his answer had been to run away to the woods. As he sat soaking his foot three days into the failed experiment, he not only questioned the wisdom of such a decision (even if it had not turned out to be a disaster) but also wondered if he was ever going to be found.

His first morning in the woods, he decided to continue to follow the river.  In a way, it was nature’s path.  It would most certainly lead down the foothills and hopefully intersect a road or path or other sign of civilization.  Plus, the water kept him hydrated and helped the pain in his foot that caused him to limp very slowly in the direction of the current.  His efforts were also hindered by the terrain, which was uneven at best and sometimes involved moving from one slippery boulder to the next – something which requires you to use both feet, even if you would rather just hop along on one leg.

At times, it became necessary for his path to diverge from the stream, which had widened a little over the last couple days due to small tributaries.  But he always made sure not to go so far that he could not hear the voice of the water, which had become his companion.  He slept a little better each night, but only because of the exhaustion.

On the third day, he drew his foot out of the water and tied a fresh strip of cloth around it.  He had torn his shirt into strips which he washed in the stream and then tied around his belt to dry.  It was not a perfect system, but the thin strips allowed him to still slip his shoe on and provide a little dryness every once in a while.  Each night he slept without his shoes, despite the cold, to allow his feet a break from the skin-wrinkling moisture.

As he stood to his feet, he approached what looked to be the most difficult part of his journey thus far.  The stream was entering a narrow valley that did not afford much room to maneuver.  The banks were steep everywhere and almost cliff-like in others – at least from what he could see heading in.  It could get better just around the bend, or it could become even more treacherous.

He had greatly considered giving up his plan to follow the river as he soaked his foot.  But the babble was the only thing that was giving him direction.  It was the only thing saving him from the silence of the rest of the woods.  It was the only thing he could rely on.  There was no hope that he would find the path again unless this stream crossed it at some point.

Now was the time to move forward, because it was the only way that he would make it back to real life.  He grabbed hold of an overhanging branch to balance himself as he pivoted onto the next rock and then a narrow ledge and carefully scooted across.  The next step was back down toward the water.  He twisted his body so the good foot could go down first, and then dragged his wound behind him.

He took a few more steps forward and realized that there was no way to move forward on this bank.  He moved back a couple rocks, finding a place where he could cross with just a few steps.  There were no handholds here, so he stooped down, lowering his center of gravity and slowly crawled across the stream which was picking up speed, its babble getting faster and louder.

Successfully on the other side, he continued to move forward.  As more of the valley came into view, it appeared that it became even narrower before it widened out.  This increased his worry, but he kept hobbling forward as the babble became a rush.  He could hear the speed of the water colliding with the rocks in the riverbed.  For the first time, he realized how much water was coursing through his stream.  It had so gradually become both deeper and wider that its growth was only truly seen when contained.

Continuing to climb, crawl, hop, scoot, and hobble his way forward, the roaring continued to get louder as the sun started to set behind the high walls of the ravine.  In the distance, though, more light was shining on the opposite wall, hopefully the light at the end of the tunnel.  As much as he wanted to rest, soak his foot, and relax for a few moments, he kept pressing on with the hope of flat ground to sleep on.

The roar of the water continued to escalate, reverberating off the walls of the canyon, which were as deeply cut here as any he had seen.  He carefully edged down a narrow outcrop that was slick with the water spray.  The ledge ended at a long upright stone that had fallen into the river’s flow some decades or centuries ago, obstructing the view around the bend.

Craning his neck, he peered around the grey rock.  It was definitely more luminous on the other side.  It took his eyes a moment to adjust.  As they did, confusion set in.  He did not see the river ahead of him, yet it roared in his ears.

Then the realization slapped him.  The roar was not the river, it was the waterfall.

He slumped against the rock, ready to give up.  The pain in his foot was excruciating.  He was exhausted from the journey.  He had put all his energy into making it through this valley.  He did not think that he had the energy to do it all over again tomorrow, even if he could find a way to sleep in the cacophony of the ravine.

Just when he thought he was nearing the end of this horrible experience, it might be just the beginning.  Not only did he have to make it back through the treacherous canyon, but then he had to come up with an entirely new plan.  The river was supposed to be his savior.  He could convince himself to do all the hard work because there had been hope for the right outcome.

But the babbling brook that had been his friend had become a roaring river that cruelly taunted.  Like everything else in his life, he found himself at another dead end.  His responsibilities had been sucking the joy out of his life, but now this expedition had literally sucked the life out of him.

He was starving.  The water of the river only helped take away the hunger pangs, not supply actual nutrition.  Moss and tree bark and a leaf or two had not done anything for him either.  He wanted – needed – something more.  Bread.  He wanted bread with its quick easy carbohydrates to oppose the fatigue in his mind.  Preferably with real butter, but he would settle for anything right now.

But the devil did not appear and offer to turn these stones into bread for him.  This was probably good, as he might have just pointed to the large one blocking the view and said, “Give me that one and a couple sticks of butter and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

This thinking was only making him hungrier, more exhausted, and upset.  His shock and frustration was quickly turning to anger again.  He was angry at himself, he was angry at his managers, he was angry at his wife, and he was angry at this stupid river with all its promises and all its hopes and all its healing powers.  How dare it lull him into a sense of safety and hope.  Who was it to promise to take him back to civilization?  It was as if the stream had intentionally made him its friend because it was lonely.  Then it had shown its true self by becoming a river with deep, rushing water.  Suddenly, he was in even more danger than before.  No one would come looking for him here.  They would assume he was eaten by a bear or ran away to start a new life.

The only choice he had now is if he had a preference in how he wanted to die.  He could choose to wait it out and starve to death.  He could just jump into the rushing cold water and drown – although with the rocks around and the fall so close, it was possible he could go by blunt force trauma first.

Thinking about the waterfall again, he realized he had not actually seen it.  Something piqued in his curiosity.  He did not know if there was some sort of path around it or even how tall it was – though the roar of the cascading water convinced him it was not an insignificant change in topography.

“I might as well see it,” he said aloud, surprising himself with the sound of his own voice.  He had not spoken anything out loud since he paid at the gas station on the way into the park.  It was as if he was literally convincing himself of the idea.  But at this point, he had nothing to lose.

Peering around the large rock he wished would turn to bread, he allowed his eyes to adjust again and examined the stepping stones on the other side.  Surprisingly, the path was simpler than many he had made and there were large protruding stones at the edge on the far left as well as just middle of left, splitting the water into what may even be two distinct waterfalls.

The rocks were wetter here than anywhere else, but there seemed to be a little extra traction underneath the slippery saturation created by the dimpling of the rocks by a constant barrage of mist.  He made his way without any significant difficulties and was soon standing to the far left of the falls, surveying the land in front of him.  Under other circumstances, he would have truly enjoyed the beauty of this wilderness.  It’s too bad no one had built a path to this point.

The falls were large, but not ridiculously tall.  They entered a small mountain lake that was calm and clear except for where the water spray disguised the view directly below him.  The water fell relatively straight down the side of a sheer cliff.  There even appeared to be a slight overhang so that the falls actually ended a little behind where they started.  But there was definitely no way around using dry land.  Likely created by the annual flash floods, there were steep – if not vertical – channels on both sides of the falls.

Trees grew up along both sides of the drop, but offered the falling water a wide berth.  Were someone to jump from the center rock, their fall would be unencumbered by stray branches.  It was several stories down the waterfall, but the lake looked deep and clear of obvious hazards.  If one were to jump straight down, there was a good chance they would survive.  It was as good a chance as he had of making it back out of the canyon.

He could not believe he was even considering this.  He was a sane, rational, scaredy cat.  He liked the idea of adventure – safely restrained in a looping roller coaster or comfortably eating popcorn during a horror flick – but he was not really a risk taker.  His retirement portfolio was full of reasonable long-term investments, not internet start-ups.

But he did not have a reasonable option at this point.  The afternoon was waning, even in the large valley that surrounded the lake just on the other side of the great leap.  And beyond the lake, the river would flow out on the other side, where he could continue his movement toward civilization.  The more he thought about it, the more it became the only option, but the more he looked down, the more he was certain he could not make himself jump.

Somehow, his doubts led him to move to the rock in the middle of the falls.  He needed to see the exact trajectory, he told himself, before he could make an educated decision.  It was even more sure from this perspective that it was a straight shot down the cliff.  Nothing would reach out and grab him.

It was still a long way down, though.  It is not safe, another part screamed at him.  There could be anything in the water below him.  He could hit a stray log or a permanent rock.  He could twist in the air and end up doing a belly-flop.  He had heard somewhere that at certain speeds water can be as hard as concrete if you hit it the wrong way.  He pictured a bad thriller movie where a body hit water and exploded like the worm in Tremors.

He also thought about his wife, his daughter, and his unborn son.  Would they want him to take this risk or the other?  What was his responsibility to them?  Would they cheer him on for taking a risk or curse him for his recklessness?  He would never know if he starved to death in the woods or splatted at the end of the falls.

Once again, he had to make the decision for all of them.  But, he realized, he had to make the decision for himself as well.  What did he want?  He wanted what was best for them.  He also wanted what was best for himself.  But what was best?  Is it what is most comfortable?  Is it taking the easier path?  Is it letting life take you where it will or boldly blazing your own path?  Is it dragging out the pain or ripping off the band-aid?

Looking down the cliff side through the rush of water, he slowly stood up on the rock from his stooped position.  The good foot went out in front while he leaned back on the injury in hopes of propelling himself clear of the dangers lurking in the areas he could not see.  He started to lean forward, caught a glimpse of the drop, and held himself back.

He could not look down, he told himself.  Just look forward, at the horizon.  His future was ahead of him, not behind.  The sun was creating a pink and orange hue in what must have been the western sky.  There was not time to stay in his cowardice.  He had to jump now or make his way back into the canyon to find a damp, hard rock to spend the night.

Rearing up his courage, he leaned back again and hesitantly started to rock forward when a brisk gust of wind made its way through the ravine and hit him in the back.  He had to commit to jump or fall.  Jump or fall.  Fight or flight. He did not have time to really decide, but he made a decision.  He pushed off and found himself flying forward.

It was not like the movies where the fall is in slow motion.  It was quick and hectic.  He straightened out his legs, pointed his toes, and felt alive.  Then he slammed into the water, cold penetrating, darkness descending.  Then he felt nothing.  He felt dead.

But then he realized he was alive.  He had made it.  He kicked his feet and flailed his arms, pushing for the surface.  When he was finally certain that was air around him, he breathed slowly through his nose and then took a massive, gasping breath.  He shook his hair, wiped his eyes, and opened them to look at his new world.

The trees were taller from down here, and the waterfall even taller than he had expected.  It was at least four stories tall, but the water had been clear and the lake empty.  Then, he looked for the closest shore and started swimming.   The bum foot led to uneven kicking, but the pain was apparently numbed by his ice-cold immersion.

As he paddled toward land, he heard something in the distance.  It was muffled by the splashing and churning of the water around him, but when he stopped, it became clearer.

“Jonathon!” he heard.  It was a woman’s voice. “Jonathon?” he heard a second time.

That was him.  It was his name someone was screaming.  He looked around to find the person attached to the voice.  Then he saw a small brunette standing on a rock on the shore.

“Jonathon!” she screamed, “It’s Jonathon!”

He lowered his head and swam toward her.  It was Linda, and she just kept yelling his name, “Jonathon, Jonathon, Jonathon.”  He heard her voice starting to break up.

He paused and took a deep breath so he could yell back.  During the pause, he could see the bump on her stomach and other people surrounding her.  One of them dove into the water and swam toward him.

When they pulled him out of the water a few minutes later, he was surrounded by people.  Linda hugged him around the neck, coming back soaking wet.  His friend Rob, who was already soaked from his dive, grabbed him on one side while Louis from work pressed in on the other.  He was no longer alone.

As they led him off to a place where he could sit and they could examine his wound, they started to ask questions.  Where did you start, how did you get lost, how did you get hurt, did it hurt much, how did you find the way back?

In response, all he could do was babble.

Peaceful Ambition

“Carry the ark of the God back into the city.  If I find favor in the eyes of the LORD, he will bring me back and let me see both it and his dwelling place.  But if he says, ‘I have no pleasure in you,’ behold, here I am, let him do to me what seems good to him.” -2 Samuel 15:25-26 (ESV)

A few weeks ago, when we discussed the Advent quality of love, we discussed Jonathan and David’s love for one another.  We talked about how the kingship should have come between the two of them – for with it would come all of the things for which people strive like power, fame, and riches.  But Jonathan and David valued one another more than these temporal trappings.

Today, we fast forward a few decades in the life of David.  He has become king after the deaths of Saul and Jonathan in battle.  He has established a new capital city at Jerusalem where he has built a home for himself and has brought the Tabernacle – the place of worship – into the city as well.  God has given David great success.

But David has also had some problems.  There’s the whole sinful debacle of killing Uriah for his wife Bathsheba that starts the conflict, but the sin spreads into his family.  One of his sons rapes one of his daughters (from another mother).  That sister’s brother Absalom (from the same mother) plots his revenge and eventually kills the rapist.  He flees punishment, but is eventually invited back home. But now, Absalom has turned the hearts of the people against David and is coming to Jerusalem to kill him and take the throne.

Absalom is kind of a nasty fellow, but he has a lot of ambition.  We are told that ambition is a good thing.  It’s the stuff the American dream is made of.  Pulling yourself up by your own bootstraps (although I would point out that, like many of the people who use that kind of terminology, Absalom had a lot of bootstrap provided for him being the King’s son). I can’t tell you that ambition is a bad thing.  We need some ambition or we will never accomplish anything – especially in these days filled with so many time-wasting distractions.  But the difference between David and Absalom is not the level of ambition, but the direction of the ambition.

For Absalom, his ambition is for the kingship (the riches, power, fame, etc.).  But the thing I’ve realized about David is that he has no ambition to be king.  He was willing to give it up for the love of Jonathan and now, as he leaves Jerusalem in advance of Absalom’s attack, he seems willing to give it up (though the only way for a living king to give up the position is through death).

What David is ambitious for is God’s will.  He is willing to accept it if it brings him the comforts of national leader or the punishment of assassination.  He understands his kingship as given due to God’s pleasure with him.  David also understands that he is not a person of pure actions and he has given God many reasons to lose pleasure with him.

In a statement of astounding trust in the divine will, David says “let him do to me what seems good to him.”  There are a lot of ways I can read that statement.  I can hear a passive-agressive bite of bitterness or resentment (which is how I am more likely to say it).  You can even read it with some sadness in the statement if you want to read it that way.  But I think that there is some hope in the statement and mostly some peace. David is at peace with his station in life because he knows that someone else is in control – and his ambition is for that person.

For us, as people of ambition, giving up control is hard enough.  But truly trusting God to be in control is seldom a peaceful experience.  We fight against it.  We only give up when everything we know to do has failed.  We complain that we are being treated unfairly.  We struggle to give up control only to take it back later. But as David’s life unravels in front of him, I see a peace, an acceptance.

He is at peace because he understands that God is not there to fulfill his ambition of kingship.  Instead the Kingdom is there for the person whose ambition is for God.

Forgotten Joy

Then the whole assembly agreed together to keep the festival for another seven days; so they kept it for another seven days with gladness…There was great joy in Jerusalem, for since the time of Solomon son of King David of Israel there had been nothing like this in Jerusalem.
-2 Chronicles 30:23, 26

When he was twenty-five, Hezekiah became the king of Judah.  During his first year in office, he made it his task to clean out the Temple.  Over the course of many years, others had allowed the House of God to become cluttered with the worship of gods other than the God of the Israelites.  It had been soiled – both physically and spiritually.

It is a time in history that is not paid much attention.  It is that hazy period after David and Solomon and before the people are conquered and go into exile.  It is the time when there are kings who follow the God of Abraham and then kings who intermingle their mono-theism with gods of fertility and thunder.

But Hezekiah refused this spiritual clutter and set about to purify the people. He cleaned out the Temple, directed the spiritual leaders to undergo the ritual cleansing, and then invited the people to celebrate their defining festival – the Feast of Unleavened Bread, commonly known as the Passover.

The Feast was supposed to be held every year, but had been grossly neglected.  Hezekiah was intent on its occurrence, though.  So much so that, because the priests could not complete preparations in time, they moved the date because it was better to be late than to neglect it all together.

And when the festival happens, it is apparent that the effort has been worth it.  The people decide that they will celebrate for a second week as well.  There had been something missing that was restored.  And this celebration brought great joy.

Apparently, joy is two hipsters jumping on the bed. At least that's what the Google image told me.

It’s a funny thing about joy.  We mostly notice it when it is missing.

In part, I think this is because we fail to see joy.  We assume a lot of good things should be, so we are not joyful about the things we are given.  Even things that used to bring joy begin to seem mundane.  Instead, we hope for more.

That is certainly not to say that hope is a bad thing.  For hope is a belief that joy will come, while joy is the response to hope realized.  That also does not mean that we cannot feel both at the same time, as we do during Advent.

In many ways, it is similar to the Feast of Unleavened Bread itself.  It is a remembrance of something given, but also a recognition that God is with us now, regardless of circumstances for which hope is the only comfort.  Joy and hope reside together.

Controversial Love

“How I weep for you, my brother Jonathan!
Oh, how much I loved you!
And your love for me was deep, deeper than the love of women!”
-David’s lament over the death of his friend Jonathan
as recorded in 2 Samuel 1:26 (NLT)

I know that a lot of people want to make a lot of controversy around the “love” that Jonathan and David shared.  Was it romantic?  Some certainly hope so.  Was it just a mutual affection between two people?  Many fervently believe so.  Was it possibly even sexual?  There are definitely those who make a case for it.

If you are the type of person who wants to get into the specifics of the arguments on both sides, you should probably stop reading right now.  That is not the discussion I choose to have about the love between David and Jonathan.

(However, I will quickly mention a couple things about what I believe to be the essence of “love” that will probably be overlooked by arguments on both sides.  First, love is not defined by sex nor sex by love.  Second, people are also not defined by who they have sex with, or who they love.  All in all, we put way too much emphasis on sex in today’s society. [Puts soapbox away for another day])

Hey, look, Jonathan and David had a Glamour shot made at the same wall with the door that Jesus knocks on all the time.

What I really want to say about Jonathan and David is that it is, to me, a clear example of what it means to unconditionally love another person.  This is because the relationship was not just based on some random feeling, but was marked by sacrifice.  David and Jonathan not only had affection for one another, but chose to willingly put themselves in danger on behalf of the other.

The presence of David should have put Jonathan on the defensive.  Saul, Jonathan’s father, was king of the land.  Jonathan was in line to inherit the throne.  There would be power, riches, and glory in his future – except that David had been anointed king by the prophet Samuel.  That should have put Jonathan at odds with David.  Instead, Jonathan strips himself of the title and offers it to David – due to his love for David and his belief that God has anointed David to be king.

Really, David should have been at odds with Jonathan as well.   If you are going to be the new king, assassination is the most efficient way to achieve that goal.  But David is unwilling to cause harm to Jonathan – or his father – to achieve his goal.  He is also willing to put himself in danger to protect Jonathan from Saul’s wrath (for while Jonathan is willing to give up the kingship, Saul sees this as weakness).

Instead of a story of hatred and division, David and Jonathan have a story of love.  It’s a love that doesn’t make sense.  But that’s what I like so much about the story: because love doesn’t make a lot of sense.  It always means giving up something you want, something you strive for, something of value.  And a lot of people will not understand that.  I believe that love at its best is controversial.

The reason is that love flies in the face of the things our society is built upon: fear, division, power, hatred, fame, and wealth.  To love someone means to give up those things (or the possibility of them). To be loved by someone means allowing them to give those things up for you.  I admit that I am uncomfortable with both of those situations.

One of the good things about Advent, though, is that I am reminded of the importance of these acts in my love for God.  When we get to Christmas, I will see God once again give up all power, influence, and comfort to be born as a lowly human like me to a world of shame, pain, and hatred.  So that I am ready for that revelation, I set part of myself aside.  It doesn’t always make sense to the world around me and, for some, it’s even controversial.  But the only way I know how to learn love is to practice it.

Beauty v. Ugly

I just finished reading the book Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister by Gregory Maguire.  He is one of my current favorite authors, most famously penningWicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West.  That book was turned into a brilliant musical by the same name (music and lyrics by Stephen Schwartz, who deserves a shout out as probably my second-favorite lyricist/composer).

In typical Maguire style, the basis of the book is a fantasy tale in which the antagonist is seen through a more sympathetic light.  It is also a philosophical discussion about the character element that separates the protagonist from the antagonist.

In Wicked, that discussion was about goodness v. wickedness.  In A Lion Among Men, a follow-up book about the Cowardly Lion, it was the opposition of cowardice and bravery.  In Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister, based on the classic Cinderella tale, it is the battle of the beautiful v. the ugly.

And overall, I love the way he weaves the tale.  It is told from the perspective of the ugly (which he rightfully points out is too often a label given to that which is simply the plain).  The stunning Cinderella, on the other hand, is almost painfully beautiful.  In many ways, beauty is a burden she must bear.  It brings as much pain to her and her family as it does blessing.

It’s difficult to talk too much about the book without giving away information that I was happy to discover along the journey.  But one of the most interesting developments in the story is the professional artist who separates his art into two rooms: one for the beautiful, the other for the ugly.  The room of ugly is referred to as the Gallery of God’s Mistakes, where there are paintings of disfigured, contorted humanity.  Think of it as a circus sideshow in oil.

The thing that struck me most about this was that the artist intentionally portrayed the ugly (even hideous) in beautiful ways.  I’m not positive if the lesson we can take from this revolves around finding beautiful ways to portray the ugly or that the ugly is necessary to enhance the beauty of the beautiful.  Perhaps it is neither.  Perhaps it is both.

Even the author questions the reality of true beauty and how it should direct us.  Does beauty have true worth or does it tell us lies?  Does it point to what is truly there or does it distract us from the truth?  Unfortunately, the answer is both/and.

At the end of the day, beauty by itself is not moralistic.

And neither is ugly.

Son of Hope

“Oh, Lord of Heaven’s Armies, if you will look upon my sorrow and answer my prayer and give me a son, then I will give him back to you.  He will be yours for his entire lifetime, and as a sign that he has been dedicated to the Lord, his hair will never be cut.”

The prayer of Hannah at the beginning of 1 Samuel has been gripping me for most of the last month.  I wish that I could say that it was for anything but selfish reasons, but the truth is that God answered Hannah’s prayer, and I, too, have a prayer that I desperately want answered.

This is kind of out of character for me because I have long been a person that disagrees with the idea of searching the scripture for a ‘formula’ to convince God to do what we want.  Perhaps the truth is that I’m becoming desperate or impatient or, worst of all, that I have stopped actually trusting God to supply my needs.

But aside from the selfish nature of my motives, the part of Hannah’s prayer that keeps getting my attention is the deal-making she undergoes.  If God will give her a son, then she will give that son back to God.  It’s a classic bargaining scheme.  And I always thought it was a dangerous thing to bargain with the Almighty –and it probably is under most circumstances – but it seems to work for Hannah.

In looking at the bargain she made, though, it is one that most in her situation would not likely make.  The primary reason to have a son in Hannah’s culture is to have someone to provide for her.  When her husband died, only a son would inherit the land and livestock to keep her alive.  By giving Samuel to the Lord, though, Hannah forfeits all the privileges of having a son – except, of course, the scrutiny of her barrenness by her husband’s other wife.

It is a difficult proposition to truly turn something we desire over to the Lord.  This is especially true when we want something for primarily selfish reasons.  In the arts, it often comes down to an issue of pride.  And it is a delicate tight-rope to walk because we work in areas that only fulfill their purpose when experienced by others, which usually means recognition.  Often, though, we want the blessing, but not to really turn over our desire to God.  I cannot tell you how many times I have been a part of prayers before community theatre productions that invite God to help us out.  But there’s not much in it for God to bless your production of Carousel.

I’m not exactly sure how we master the art of turning over the things we want to God, but I think it always means giving up some of the benefits of our desire – at least temporarily – and trusting that God will give us at least what we need in the end.

Hannah’s story ends like that – God eventually blesses her with three sons and two daughters.  In the interim, though, she surely had moments where she was unsure of how God would provide.

I, for one, tend not to do so well in those times of uncertainty. And it is probably good for me to experience them.  As we approach Advent, we often give into the commercialized idea that Christmas is a great preparation for a party we know is coming. Part of the message of Advent, though, is that there was much uncertain waiting prior to the birth of the Messiah.  It’s only in those moments of uncertainty that hope is birthed.

Coloring Inside the Lines

I know this statement will make me sound older than I really am, but when I was a kid, it was of the utmost importance to learn how to color inside the lines. These days, postmodern thinkers are scared of staying inside the lines. And I agree with them to a certain point. I hate cookie-cutter movies and romance novels because they are too predictable.

But there’s also something good about having some guidelines to go by in the creative process. I’ve heard of churches that have coloring sheets that intentionally have just the scripture printed and then allows the children to respond to the information however they feel led. Besides the fact that many of the children can’t read and don’t have the kind of higher level thought processes necessary to interpret the information, it demonstrates what I believe to be an inaccurate view of what it means to truly be creative.

 

Not all coloring sheets are created equal (or appropriate).

 

As those who have been created, we automatically have certain boundaries around our creativity. For instance, all creative endeavors take place in space. Painters use canvases, actors use stages, and writers use books. Though computers have legitimately minimized the space required for some art forms, you still need a device to display them. And in many ways, the creative form converts the space it uses to an entirely different space, but yet still uses space. Similarly, all of our creative endeavors take place in time. Having directed many first-time actors, I know they take a lot more time than most people expect. It also takes time to experience the creative endeavors of others.

Of course, there are many other boundaries that restrict our creative abilities. These may be universal for all or specific to each unique creative expression. Nevertheless, the creative life is one that is lived within boundaries. In a sense, we are all coloring within the lines. And a lot of times, those boundaries lead us to even greater levels of creativity.

I heard an interview (on NPR, because I’ve become that type of person) with the creators of South Park where they were talking about the conflict between their type of shock humor and the legal department of Comedy Central. In particular, they were talking about the infamous Scientology episode. Originally, the idea had been to simply portray and refer to Tom Cruise as a homosexual. The lawyers said no. So they proposed talking about him as being ‘in the closet.’  Again, the lawyers said no. But finally, they asked if they could literally put Tom Cruise in a closet. Well, that was actually acceptable and ended up making the episode. It was because of the boundaries imposed that the show was so good.

Relating this back to the church, there has been an obvious move in the last couple decades (and in some movements, the last couple centuries) toward complete freedom in worship. They have decided to either ignore the lines and draw whatever they chose or to throw out the old coloring sheets altogether and replace them with blank ones. But I want to be clear here before anyone starts getting offended or grumpy that this is not a tirade against “contemporary” worship (by the way, I hate that term, but I use it for ease of reading). I am actually a huge fan of many of the ideas of worship with a band and enjoy much of the music and feeling that goes along with such worship.

However, I feel that many people who design worship today are so afraid of the meaningless ritual some churches have produced that they forget that worship, by definition, is ritual. And I get where they are coming from. Meaningless ritual is the equivalent of having a poorly mimeographed coloring sheet without any crayons. Eventually, it gets copied so many weeks in a row that the picture becomes unrecognizable and the people forget that it was ever meant to be colored. The ritual loses its purpose and then its form and finally its meaning. But the equation works the other way, too. When the ritual loses its form, it then forgets its purpose and finally its meaning.

And as I stated earlier, sometimes our most creative moments happen when our endeavors run into some boundaries. I believe that the form of our worship is important, but that there are a number of exciting ways that form can be colored – many of which haven’t been created, yet. But when we forget to keep coloring or throw out the form, we end up with something similar to, but not quite, the real thing.

We could get into the nitty-gritty of the details (and perhaps that’s what the comment section or a future post is for), but for now, I really just want us to start appreciating the boundaries of our art forms – including worship.

What are the things that I can’t do that make the things I can do even better?

What are the things that I could be coloring differently, but keep pulling out the same crayon for each time?

What kind of boundaries could I place upon my next creative endeavor that would stretch my abilities? For example: Stephen Sondheim wrote the entire score for A Little Night Music in 3/4 time as a technical challenge

What if I tried a new art form that deals with a different set of boundaries?

Loving the Life I’m Living

“So, what do you do for a living?”

It’s a question we all get asked. And it’s a question I’ve experienced a lot of difficulty answering over the last year and a half. Because, honestly, I haven’t done anything for what I would call a living. I have been employed for a paycheck, but the things that I’ve been doing that matter have not had anything to do with making the money I need to pay my bills.

It’s been difficult because people are always asking you what you do. You make new friends, or you catch up with old family and friends, and the question inevitably comes up. And I have been very reluctant to answer because I have not liked the things that I have been doing for a paycheck. So I have tended to respond quickly and try to change the subject before they could ask too many questions. And, no, I haven’t resorted to selling meth or prostitution or anything seedy like that. It’s just retail and telephone customer service – though they are a lot like prostitution.

But what I wish I had realized before now is that even though I do not enjoy the things I do for a living, I really love the life that I am living.

I am sorry I missed it because not only could I have used the perspective for my own sanity, but I could have shared my hope with others. Rather than complaining about where I spend forty plus hours a week, I could have talked about the important work I have been doing. When people asked what I do, I could have talked about helping to start a church. I could have talked about how I have wanted to learn to play guitar for almost a decade now and have finally started. I could talk about that I have learned more about myself and about what’s important in life. I could talk about how amazed I am with my wife’s devotion to me and to God even in the midst of hardship.

But I missed it because we are so often taught that our sense of worth comes from the thing we do that earns money for our pocketbooks. But our true sense of worth should come from the things that we do that are important. In my perfect world, those two things are the same. But in my reality, at least for right now, they are very different.

I know creative people who find themselves in this predicament quite often. Many actors do not “make their living” on the stage or screen. Many painters do not pay the rent with their talents – as a matter of fact, the day job pays for their art supplies.

This is part of the reason that parents worry about their children getting degrees in creative arts. They believe that the degree is only worth as much as the job it earns you will pay. But there is so much more to life than money in the bank (which I can say with authority because I have no money in the bank). Money may make lots of things about life easier or better, but by itself, it never created anything good.

I know that all of this sounds idealistic – and it kind of is. And the story would be entirely different if I wasn’t loving the life I’m living. But if I’ve got to pick just one for now, I can be content knowing I’ve made a good choice.

Maker/Creator

“I believe in God, the Father Almighty, maker of Heaven and Earth.”

These are the words I grew up saying as a part of the Apostles Creed – a basic statement of the essentials of Christian belief. It is often used in worship & devotion to remind us of who God truly is in the midst of competing claims to truth.

But recently, I have become part of a worshipping community that makes the statement a little differently. (Being based on early Christian beliefs, it obviously wasn’t written in English, so it’s not really that the creed is different, but merely the translation).

It says, “I believe in God the Father Almighty, creator of Heaven and Earth.”

I know it may not seem like a huge difference as they both tend to indicate the same action. But to me, at least, there is an important difference between these two words.

To make something conveys an image of taking pieces and putting them together. We make meals from recipes. We make cars from engines and radiators and bucket seats.

But to create something is to be inspired, to invent something new, to do something unique. When we create new recipes, it still has the element of taking ingredients and mixing them together to make a meal. However, it is also something greater. It involves considering how the pieces will make the whole rather than simply following directions. It is understanding the characteristics of each ingredient so that the end product is the correct balance of flavor, texture, and visual appeal.

When Christians say that God created, we use the term ex nihilo which means “from nothing” or “out of nothing.” This means that we understand that God made something entirely new. It’s not just the recipe that was new, but it contained all new ingredients as well. It was not merely an act of making, but of true creativity.

I appreciate that I have a new way of remembering God’s creativity (and my own) through this simple adjustment in the proclamation of our beliefs each week. Sometimes a simple word can paint a picture heretofore unseen.