4am (Take 2)

So, today's post is a little simple. It's basically an introductory story, a poem and then some pictures. So, a quick introduction, last September I spent a week at The Abbey of Gethsemani. It was a great time. Living with a bunch of silent monks was good for the soul. If you've read this blog even a couple of times, or have spent much time around me, you know I have this love for Thomas Merton.



Tom...you're way too cool.

So, my love for Tom let me on an excursion to Trappist, Kentucky to spend a week where he lived most of his life. The brothers were great. The abbey was amazing. I was overwhelmed because a week of silence was, let's just say challenging. Also, if you have spent time with me, you know that I can get very, "Go, go go! Why aren't we moving yet?" And I was quite wound up when I got to the monastery.

Overall the trip was great. It slowed me down. Introduced me to meditation that works for me. Reminded me of the eternal. Everything a good retreat should. But one day I had an encounter at 4am with Brother Alan. We had just finished 3:30am prayer. I was nursing a cuppa joe and reading through the Psalms in the library. I saw in the shadows this figure emerging. I didn't really know what to do, so I just nodded and smiled. He smiled back, and we had this special little moment.

Fast forward we finished the 5:45 prayers and were doing the Eucharist, and behold, Alan was the speaker that morning. He gave the sermon. I went down to breakfast, came back up for 7:45 prayer, went out for my hike, went to 12:15 prayer and when I sat down this poem came out. Granted...this is the second take. And then the story takes both a silly and sentimental turn.



Brother Alan is the second from the left in front of the table.

I copied the poem for Brother Alan and wanted to give him a copy. I had a hard time working up the nerve to approach him and there was the problem of silence. How do I tell him what this is? That he inspired this? After Compline at 7:30pm I noticed he was straightening the choir books. So, I kinda threw the poem on his hands, whispered, "I wrote this for you," and ran out of there. Real brave, eh?

So, I didn't know how he took it. The next day he didn't say anything. The day after however he caught me in the library. I saw him look around. He noticed we were alone. He whispered, "You wrote this?" I told him I did. He replied, "About me?" I again affirmed. Then with tears in his eyes he asked, "This is how you see me?" And I nodded and said yes. Then he whispered some words that will stick with me for a long time. "I try so hard." Those words caught me off guard. Why would a monk need to try hard? Why would a monk want to be seen a certain way? And then it was like my little light bulb moment. "This is your future...you're looking in a future mirror." I mean that not in the sense of being a monk, but as in, my issues, my concerns, my day-to-day things will continue just as Brother Alan's do. In some sense we are one in the same just as Michael Phelps (random much?) or Shane Claiborne or Maya Angelou also are. We are human no matter how far along the journey we get. And I think I knew that, but in that moment realization finally took hold.

Brother Alan and I talked for a couple of minutes. He told me how Merton had drawn him in as well. How he had served as a pall bearer at his funeral. It was really a sweet, sweet time. But as I got up today, I thought about that encounter and want to share this poem with you.

 

Happy little monk, feet shuffling down the hall
Our night watchman, awake from your sleeping stall
First prayers we have finished, more prayers yet to come
Alone we two in this library, silent but electricity's hum

Alone I sat, not quite caffeinated, not yet showered
There you appeared on your way in that holy hour
Not knowing rules, I hesitate...nod...smile
In your grace you return them, confirming it worthwhile

Little did I know, oh humble man of cloth
That this grace was only the first you'd give.
For today you'd present us the sacrament
Today you'd teach us to live...

In purity, full-hearted in our vocation
Though I may not know what that is
Your words helped create an awakening
That I can rest knowing I will

You in your cassock, me in pearl snaps
Us once divided by Luther, united again in Christ

Happy little monk, head bobbing down the hall
My night watchman leaving your sleeping stall
Thank you for smiles, nods, bright eyes
That bestow on me grace, that reminds me that
It is more than the hustle, more than distraction
It is more than anything, residing in a king
On His holy hill, together with strangers we love.



The Abbey

The Choir

Thoughts on Why I Read the Psalter

September 10-14, 2012. I grew quite giddy in the days/months leading up to that week. I emailed Brother Luke at The Abbey of Gethsemani in Trappist, Kentucky. I was going to spend a week there. I would finally stay under the same roof that my hero, and, as much as a dead man can be, mentor. Thomas Merton. What a dude. Merton had been quite influential for me since high school.

So, I packed up my things and took off two days early to get a glimpse of Kentucky. I really didn’t have too much of a plan for the weekend. I thought it would be cool to see a distillery or a horse farm. I knew I wanted to see my buddy Jeff Eaton. Outside of that…I didn’t make any plans. If you know me, free-flowing trips are not my style. Once, when driving from Belton, TX to Los Angeles, I tracked every Christian radio station and made a map for us so we would know where to find the next station.

When I left for Kentucky I started feeling some pangs of guilt. I hadn’t taken a real “vacation” in years. Usually travel had been reserved for family and weddings. And this was going to be the first of two vacations in back-to-back months, so I felt uncomfortable. But I had four things in a matter of 24 hours that confirmed I was where I needed to be. In brief: there was a Whataburger…outside of Texas on my driving path. Second, though I saw no graffiti at all the entire trip, a couple of miles before the monastery someone had spray painted my initials on a bridge. Third, as I settled into the campground (Elkhorn Creek Campground) I stayed Saturday night, I pulled out my old faithful Walt Whitman anthology. The next poem read:  A Kentuckian walking the vale of the Elkhorn in my deerskin leggings. The fourth was, my buddy Jeff and his church provided an amazing hotel room for me, and a member of his congregation gave me a little pocket change to thank me for helping him finish his DMin degree.

All-in-all, I took it as confirmation I was where I needed to be.

When I got to Gethsemani, I felt a bit disoriented. I didn’t know where to check in. I got there too early. I didn’t understand the schedule. There were all of these things that just weren’t making sense. I had plans for how I was going to spend my time, but made them before I ever knew the layout and schedule of the monastery. So…I had to change.

Sometime on the first day I decided what I needed to do was “keep the hours.” For those of you who understand monastic lifestyle, you may know what that means. For those of you who think of monks and nuns as those quirky people dressed in funny robes (which could include people of the former group as well) keeping the hours meant I was going to attend each of the prayer services every day. Here was what that schedule looked like:

3:15 am Vigils
5:45 am Lauds
7:30 am Terce
12:15 pm Sext
2:15 pm None
5:30 pm Vespers
7:30 pm Compline

In addition to the normal hours, there were also two more services you could attend. They were Eucharist at 6:15am and the Rosary at 7:00pm. As a Protestant I attended, but did not partake of the Eucharist, and generally did not attend the Rosary. But the rest…I kept the hours. And it was good for me. I threw aside my plans and decided that in the morning, between Terce and Sext I would hike, generally about 6-7 miles. Always getting lost. Most of the time convinced I would be murdered by snakes. Between None and Vespers I set aside specific time to study.

And perhaps it was the intentionality of the monastic life, or perhaps it was through the reading I did, but I just became convinced that life with God starts in the Psalter. The monks of Gethsemani pray and sing through the Psalter twice a month. And some of these Psalms were sung five days a week. So, I started to read the Psalms at the monastery. When I got home I made a calendar of what days to read what Psalms. Sure, I could have gone with the old stand by five Psalms a day, but I knew that meant some long days and some lean days. I wanted a little more consistency. So I did some math and came up with the number 83. I needed to read about 83 verses a day. I started grouping the Psalms in order stopping when the number hit around 83. Then I started reading Peterson’s A Long Obedience and it dawned on me…some Psalms are family. Specifically the Psalms of Ascent (120-134) belong to one another. So, I made some more adjustments.

But what I realized was for me, and I would assume for most others, the Psalms are our lifeblood. The Psalms are the dirt and vegetation of life. They are what keep us rooted to faith being more than a rational, academic exercise. The Psalms remind us that Christianity (I won’t speak for other faiths that use the Psalms) is about humanity…it is lived…it is breathed.

The Psalms remind us that we can be pissed off about injustice and still calm our soul in worship to God. The Psalms remind us that even in depression there is consolation. They tell us that from before we are born until we die there is both faithfulness from and to God. The Psalms are our lives written by men and women long ago who understood that the width and breadth and height of all that encompasses this thing called human life is a part of the game. Piety is not merely contented, contained love that can be mastered.

The Psalms aren’t simple poetry that we should fawn over. They are lived theology…for better or worse. And we can’t dismiss their emotive nature when establishing our own beliefs. The God who thunders from the mountains is still the God that is sung about in the Psalms. The people of God who sung their history is still the people who made up the early Christian Church. And so, though I know I need to look at Paul’s writings, and understand our two creation myths in Genesis; though Deborah leading her people and Peter correcting false teachings are important; these things just do not provide the backbone.

The Psalms provide us an opportunity to realize our humanity is not a hindrance to our faith. There are things in us that will be tempered, things that need to be disciplined, but God is not shaken by our anger, our mushy love or our poetic expressions that try to capture our experience. The Psalms give us permission to be human. And I think, at least for me, that was a message that I didn’t always understand. My humanity is part and parcel to growing in faith through love. And the Psalms encourage me in that.

And that is why I read the Psalter.

Thoughts on Leading

I think I have made it no secret the love and affection I have for my tribe at the Tuscaloosa Vineyard. These people are quality. In the little less than a year I have journeyed alongside them it has been a place of healing, growth and challenge. One of those challenges has been stepping back into leadership.

From a worship night at my house. I love my tribe!

Even reading that statement is kind of odd. Since I have been in Alabama I have (unfortunately) landed in three churches before Vineyard. (I say unfortunately, because I like stability. I don't like being a hopper or a shopper. For the most part, those three congregations were filled with great people...especially my friends out in Buhl! I just had trouble finding my place.) And in those churches I have led youth, worship and small groups. So, it wasn't like I have been "out of the saddle" necessarily; it's just things feel different at The V. I think it seems more akin to what I feel my calling looks like.

So, this week was exciting because my buddy Tim asked me to lead worship. He is the worship pastor at the church and it was fun to see this type of initiation work itself out naturally, you know, from within, instead of bringing someone from the outside. Also, leading worship is something I tend to feel comfortable with since I have been doing that for over a decade now.

I probably wore this expression Thursday night.

But Thursday night, at practice for Sunday service something happened, that, to be honest, happens to leaders of all shapes and sizes, that I didn't expect. As I got in the saddle I just didn't feel comfortable. I couldn't find the right balance. I was just looking around wondering, "Does anyone else feel this shaky? Is this just me?" It was difficult to find myself lacking confidence in something that has always brought me great joy.

So I talked with a few people in the band/ leadership about it and as I drove off said a little prayer.

And here is where we get into a phrase that I often say, and when I look at friends faces I often wonder what they think when they hear it: God spoke to me. The idea of hearing the voice of God extra-biblically is something I think I will take on at another time. (BTW, quick definition of extra-biblical: outside of the Bible.) But for now, it was interesting to hear what the Lord was saying to me.

I will preface that message with this. I have been reading a lot lately. Henri Nouwen, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Eugene Peterson, Tyler Watson have been some of the more consistent reads. And I think their collective words helped me shape the message God was preparing to speak to me.

The simple version was this: when leading worship, your insecurity does not determine your offering. Do what you are supposed to do, and that is worship. Peterson has this great passage in A Long Obedience in the Same Direction where he writes about lifting your hands. Lifting up your hands is based on motor memory and not on some emotive response. Most people can lift their hands. When Scripture commends us to lift our hands it doesn't require working ourselves up to an emotional place where we can lift our hands. We simply send some neurons through the old neural freeway to our arms and say, "Wave around in the air like you just don't care."

When in doubt I read Merton.

So, when leading worship, of course, there will be in security. Just as there will be confidence, joy, sadness, weariness. We don't work ourselves up to worship. We worship. It reminds me of one of my favorite Merton passages:

What I wear is pants. What I do is live. How I pray is breathe.

 So, I just try to remind myself that worship is not dictated by emotive response in a given moment, that worship is beyond, yet includes my emotions. They are part and parcel with the whole living faith thing. 

I do however think there are certain differences in the corporate setting. We can't just be these crazed, responsive people, sliming others with our insecurities. We need to avoid being compulsive, but we can be honest. We can stop and say, "I am feeling insecure," to those close to us, without shouting to the congregation, "I'm out of control, I don't know what I'm doing up here!" There is an appropriate place for it. Just like there is a place to say, "I am probably a bit of a prideful git today." But neither determines our engagement with worship, because simply, worship isn't about us. It's part of something greater.

I think back to undergrad. There was a certain part of me that understood this, and a certain part that strove to be "authentic" saying things like, "I won't affront (because I used big words a lot in undergrad!) God. I'm not going to fake it...so I'm just going to sit here." It was a heart that said worship was about me. It made me the center of the worship act, not God. And it was something that I just had to overcome.

So, tomorrow, I get to lead worship at Vineyard. I get to be a part of this external act of worship where the men, women, boys and girls of our congregation are going to be feeling happy, sad, anxious, prideful and insecure. And together, we get to enter this place where we say, "Even with that...I will worship." And that is what God wanted to remind me of as I am growing back into leadership this week. I'm sure next week there will be newer lessons, and then again the next week. In our living faith we just continue to evolve and that is a pretty cool thing.

On Second Thought

I just got through reading a few interesting articles. The premise of these articles is basically, “Who owns Dietrich Bonhoeffer?” There seems to be this raging debate between who Bonhoeffer would lend his sympathy toward, those ranting, raving far-right, Evangelical nut jobs, or those Godless, hell-bound expecting a handout, left-wing hacks. Yes. Apparently that is a real argument going on today. And though, I am in no way the same caliber of excellence of Bonhoeffer, I feel at times I have the opposite problem. My problem, is where do I belong in this hubbub.

Part of the problem lately has been my aversion to men such as Mark Driscoll and John Piper, while not being able to fully embrace the views of men like Tony Jones and Jay Bakker. Granted those are seemingly polar opposites, and whenever your comparison is “the fringe” of course you find yourself in a quandary. But, I think the problem is actually quite a bit larger than that. I think the problem lies within the “us and them” that has transcended culture and overtaken the Church. And that’s not a new problem.

When I was in, probably my second year of seminary, I was introduced to one Dr. James Cone. Cone scared (and still does to a certain extent) the crap out of me. Here was a man that said things like, “The time has come for white America to be silent and listen to black people...All white men are responsible for white oppression.” Now I’ll be frank for just a minute. A late-twenties, evangelical, white male, who has not been exposed to much liberal theology, can and was scared out of his wits reading this kind of language. BUT, Cone and I belong to each other. Not in an ownership kind of way, more like a tribal affiliation.

While at seminary I also took a course that studied Henri JM Nouwen. The entire course was just that, a study of his life, what was his theology, how did he minister, what were his psychological leanings and methods; these were the questions that we examined. I admired and still do admire Nouwen. However, there are a lot of people in the intellectual world who do not find Nouwen’s teachings palatable, either because he is A) Catholic, or B) spiritual and not academic. But just like Cone, Nouwen and I belong to one another.

Seminary also challenged me to read works by Marva Dawn and Nancey Murphy. In a field over wrought with Caucasian, gray-headed, white dudes, I could see the struggle of women trying to break through barriers long since placed before them. And like Nouwen and Cone there is this unity that draws Murphy and Dawn into the “us” that was forming in my mind.

Now backtrack to around the end of college or so. I was reading John Eldredge. I loved Wild at Heart. I’m not ashamed to admit that. Sure some things were over-simplified and generalized, but there was something that resonated with me. The same could be said for Neil T. Anderson and Richard Foster who were also influential during those formative years.

Finally, there was this influence of John Wimber, BennyHinn and Mike Bickle, etc. That was really my bread and butter. The experiential nature of God manifesting Himself to the Church; the love of God transcending into our lives like the Song of Solomon on display; tongues of fire, prophetic words, people slain in the Spirit: these mystical experiences I knew to be real. They were not conjured up in a moment of emotional hysteria. These men and women were the closest to family I felt in the Church, but something was missing.

The problem for a growing cohort within Christianity is simply this: for the Charismatic/Pentecostal intellectual there is either a vacuum with no legitimate presence, or there is this borderless realm with no limit as to who influences you. I have lived for so long in the odd loneliness of not being a typical conservative Evangelical, but finding no place within the larger liberal community because my views of Scripture/theology were far and away too conservative.

Bill Jackson and Todd Hunter coined a book called The Quest for the Radical Middle. I haven’t read it. I should read it. I probably will read it soon. But as the title suggests, for many there is this odd defiance that does not want to succumb to being defined as right wing, left wing, liberal, conservative, etc. We are different. And because our views do not line-up explicitly with someone like Eugene Cho or Shane Claiborne, and because people need to give others a label in order to know how to deal with them, we come across as non-committal and wishy-washy.

When I say I don’t know fully how to respond to homosexuality yet, even though I have been having conversations with others about it for nearly twenty years, that is a true statement. It is not me trying to appease you and your idea of full inclusion or saying homosexuals should be nowhere near a church’s doors. When I say that yes, I believe people are faking spiritual gifts and at times the charismatic church is full of emotionalism, it doesn’t mean that I want those same churches to stop seeking the spiritual gifts. Actually, it’s just the opposite. I want to see those same churches continue to seek out the power of the Holy Spirit and bridle it aside the truth of Jesus Christ so that lives will be changed.

I think back to the Shema in Deuteronomy and how it is repeated (in part) in the New Testament: And you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your might. There is a definite complexity to loving the Lord with your heart, soul, mind and strength. And without the various streams of the Church I don’t think I could love the Lord fully. Without men such as Thomas Merton and Yonggi Cho and women such as Mother Teresa and Heidi Baker, the Church would not be who She is…and I cannot be who I am created to be, which is not this definable “white, evangelical 30+ year old with Charismatic and Catholic leanings,” but instead is simply as the Fleet Foxes sing “a functioning cog in some great machinery, serving something beyond me.”