The Embrace

It was a small, seemingly insignificant moment, but, as I positioned my chair for an afternoon of watching The Masters, I saw Jordan Spieth’s mother reach for her son as he made his way to the first tee, hug him, and, no doubt, wish him well.

It was a poignant moment, one that reminded me this amazing golfer was also son. With all of his talent and early success, he is now seen differently – as golf prodigy, the next-greatest, the one to shatter all records – and beginning his final round in the lead, his chance to be a repeat winner at the age of 22 was all the commentators talked about. The embrace by his mother, however, broke through all the accolades and reminded me he was a son setting off to play a game he loves.

For those who didn’t watch The Masters, Spieth excelled on the front nine, but fell apart on one hole on the back. In front of millions, he lost the tournament in minutes. It was heartbreaking to watch, and all week I thought about him, the meltdown, but also the embrace from his mother.

It is so easy to understand and celebrate the embrace of a parent as a child heads off to do whatever it is he or she sets off to do. “You’re my beloved,” we can almost hear the parent whisper, “now go do what you were created to do.” If Hollywood had its way, an amazing song would begin and the child would experience incredible success, all in front of an adoring crowd.

But the truth is, Hollywood does not always have its way, the scripts or scenes of our lives do not always end with cheering crowds. Then what?

Try as hard as I did, I never saw the moment when Spieth and his mom saw each other after the round. My hunch is the embrace was waiting, it was probably tighter and longer, but the camera didn’t film it. It’s not an embrace as easily captured, nor understood.

I wonder if the same isn’t true of our lives of faith. Being a child of God, feeling God’s embrace as we set off to do the work we were given to do, is something we often celebrate on Sundays. Too often, I confess, I approached Church as a time of preparation for the week ahead, of getting my embrace and “go-get-‘em” before heading off for the week, but what happens when the music doesn’t play? What happens when we don’t pull off the amazing record-setting performance? What happens when the crowd walks away?

Although rarely captured by cameras, nor talked about (or offered) by ministers and people alike, God's embrace is still available. In my heart, I trust arms await, and the embrace will be tighter and longer in the end. That’s what I hope Spieth found, and it’s what I hope you and I will find one day as well.

Playing Hymns

“Each person is given something to do that shows who God is”   I Corinthians 12:7 “The Message.”

Although he was leading the book discussion, his time to share about the changes in life that befall us all came, and, looking out the window, he described losing his ability to play the piano. I surmised, he was once an accomplished pianist and organist, but, rubbing his hands together, he described slowly needing to give up the organ, then his favorite piano compositions. “Now,” he said looking down at his hands, “All I can play are hymns.”

I was as touched by the manner of his description of change as I was by the change itself. There was no bitterness in his sadness, and his acceptance was as tender as it was inspirational. I’m not a pianist, but grew up in the melodies of a man who was, and throughout my life was taught we are all given a song to sing, a piece to play, and our sole purpose in life is to sing and play so people will know how amazing God is. I think that's what Paul was trying to get the Corinthians to understand. No matter what gifts we’ve been given, the purpose is to use them so people around us will celebrate life and give thanks to the one who gave it to us in the first place.

I write this at a time in my life when things are shifting. The horizons of what I can do are not as distant or vast, and opportunities are often given to younger, less weathered, souls. Like the seasoned pianist, though, I want to rub my hands together and recognize I can still play hymns, songs of the soul that point to what and who really matters, and that’s enough.

Swimming with sharks

What does faith look like?

It’s an unconventional question, one capable of interrupting our logical thinking and challenging us to look at, and think about things, in unusual ways. Sometimes we take our faith for granted, placing it on a shelf where it’s safe, but such questions can bring it down from the shelf and make us explore it anew.

When I saw this picture of my good friend Wayne Young taking his first official dive at our local science center, I couldn’t help by say, “THAT’S what faith looks like!” With arms raised in joy and complete abandon, he stands, looking as if singing “Alleluia,” as the sharks swim past. (You can’t hear the alleluia, but they’re in the bubbles scurrying to the surface.)

I confess, too often my faith does not cause me to strike such a pose. With what feels like the weight of the world on my shoulders, it’s hard to lift my arms. Underwater, it’s hard to trust there’s enough air. And then, there’re the sharks, the people places and situations that swim around me in shadowy light with vacant, grey eyes. Fears, like sharks, have fins so we can spot them from afar and easily distinguish them from the other fish. In such waters, it’s easy to look only at the sharks, take short, shallow breadths, and not dive as we were intended.

God wants so much more for our lives. I’m not sure how, exactly, but in the mystery of the empty tomb we were given the gift of new life. It’s not a life of shallow breath or constricted hearts. No, it’s an abundant life, one where we are invited us to lift our arms, shout to the sharks, and celebrate the good news that God’s got our back, once and forever.

Alleluia!