O Captain, My Captain . . .

The first time I heard Smokey Robinson’s “Tears of a Clown,” I was caught by the contradiction within the image. “Clowns don’t cry,” I thought as a young boy. “They have white faces, red noses, funny shoes and are always making people laugh.” Little did I understand then what I know now, that costumes hide as much as entertain.

The news of Robin Williams’ suicide only brings that truth to the forefront once again. He was one of the funniest actors I have ever watched. My love for him began with the silliness of Mork and Mindy, but grew in depth as he inspired everything I wanted to be as a teacher in Dead Poets Society. In Good Morning, Vietnam, he showed the need to make others laugh in awful times as well as reminded that well-intentioned defiance has its place. His role as the counselor in Good Will Hunting helped me want to do more with my life than paint-by-numbers, and, of course, the Genie in Aladdin still almost makes me wet my pants.

Behind it all was a comedic genius. Without a white face, red nose and funny shoes he made us laugh at our core (Actually in Patch Adams he used those things as well!), but now we know the clown had tears, deep tears, the kind that can’t find their way to the surface, the kind that eat their way deeper into one’s soul.

I appreciate all the costumes and performances, but I regret that he, like so many others, was performing all day long. How I wish he could have known the happiness and laughter he gave to us. Now, I pray, the masks and costumes can come off and he can rest in peace.

(When you are next in need of a comedic pick-me-up, search for and watch Robin Williams' description of the founding of golf.)

Touching Wounds

Poor Thomas!

For over 2000 years, people like you and I have been hurling stones across the ages at the one often remembered for doubting. After the resurrection, it was Thomas who wanted to touch Jesus’ wounds. Although Thomas, like us all, represents our common struggle to believe and deep longing for certainty, he also illustrates one of the most important aspects of living spiritual lives: reaching out and touching another’s wounds.

Richard Rohr was the first writer to help me look at Thomas in this new light, and ever since I have thought about my life-long struggle to have a relationship with Christ. I mistakenly took the path of self-improvement that suggests a relationship is possible if you pull up your moral bootstraps and “get your act together.” I now know the sad dead-end of such a route and how such a life is just that, an act.

Thomas, and many others since, has shown a more excellent way. Grounded in our humanity, fully aware of all the ways we have messed up, we are invited to reach out and touch Christ’s wounds. Suddenly, or over time, we come to know one of the great mysteries of the life of faith: by his wounds we are healed. No, our past is not erased, but somehow transformed. Touching his wounds, we realize we’re not alone.

But the mystery does not stop there. We are then invited to reach out and touch the wounds of those around us, and let them touch ours. Suddenly our ordinary lives are transformed into sacred journeys. Just ask the woman who received an unexpected phone call after suffering a heartbreaking miscarriage from an acquaintance who had the same experience years ago. Just ask the man who enters an AA meeting for the first time only to hear from others about their first meeting. Just ask the child who is excluded from a sleepover only to go out for ice cream with her mother who shares when the same thing happened to her.

Yes, our wounds are painful, but they also possess the power to transform lives, ours as well as others. All we need is the courage of Thomas to know the power of touching wounds.

+ and -

They’re just two mathematical symbols, but they represent and do so much. In the world of numbers, they have the power to change mathematical direction. They can mean the difference between a good month or bad.

The two symbols are equally powerful in the spiritual realm. We live in a world where it’s all about the plus sign. We are trained to have more, do more, and be more. While growth and progress are not bad in and of themselves, the constant assent can leave one exhausted and bewildered. There’s something to be said for the minus sign. . .

There’s something about cleaning out our closets, garages, and removing some of the clutter that surrounds us on tables, kitchen counters and dressers. Subtraction can make breathing easier.

There’s something about saying “no, thanks” to appointments, requests for volunteer service, and weekly obligations. Subtraction can give us time for the people and efforts that truly matter to us.

There’s also something about doing less spiritually. Like every other area of my life, I’m prone to add and not subtract. The stack of daily devotionals, the list of spiritual disciplines, and the weekly services can all become overwhelming. I need to remember the importance of subtraction. To sit quietly and not read can be fruitful. To walk around my neighborhood alone can feed my soul as well as any traditional spiritual discipline. And to talk honestly with God can mean as much as any worship.

The question to ask is whether we're adding or subtracting? It is not an either/or but a both/and proposition. During these final days of summer, when we sit by the sea, on a ridge top, or on a front porch thinking about the months to come, may we consider both the plus and minus signs. Each has its valuable purpose.