Horizons

I recently met with a friend who grew up on the shores of Lake Michigan. As someone who grew up in the northeast, when I hear “lake” I think of places like Lake George or Squam Lake, beautiful bodies of water where you can see the other side, but Lake Michigan is something altogether different. As he described its enormity and the fact that you cannot see the other side, I began to feel anxious, disconcerted.

It's a feeling I’ve felt many times in my life. I felt it when I was in rehab and someone said I could never drink again. I felt it when I left my job and knew I’d never teach again. I felt it when my father died and I realized I’d never see him again.

Looking too far ahead is not good for one’s soul. Not seeing the horizon can leave a person feeling disconcerted, overwhelmed, and paralyzed. Fortunately, I found wiser people than I who pulled the horizons of my life within sight. They spoke not of forever but a moment, not of a lifetime but a day, and it’s made all the difference.

Every morning, I awaken and get to try again. Sitting with my coffee watching the sun rise, I think not of the rest of my life but the day ahead. Pulling in the horizon allows my soul to breathe a sigh of relief. Thinking about the kind of person I want to be, the husband, father, friend, or follower is easier when I consider only the next 24 hours. I’ll do better if I don’t look too far ahead. When I fall short, as I inevitably will, I get to try again the next morning.

“It’s about progress, not perfection,” the wise remind. That’s enough to give me hope so I can try again. I’m not sure, but I think that’s what grace is.

Finding The Sacred Journey

There are times when life is amplified in such a way you can’t help but hear it. There are times when even the blind see what’s going on. Such moments are gifts beyond measure and invite us all into the sacredness that surrounds us, if only we have ears to hear and eyes to see.

I am traveling abroad with a group of golfers, one of whom is an old student of mine. Since our days in school, much has happened in his life and mine. We came to the trip with scars and bruises which were both unique and alike. Like me, he carried the weight of regret that was, at times, paralyzing. Last night, our group had no plans, so he and I snuck away to attend a local twelve-step meeting. Wandering the twisty streets of the English town, we shared about our lives – not as teacher and student, but as fellow sojourners. We found the meeting and took our places in a pew where we heard words that were both familiar and new. Never could I have imagined God using my struggles and recovery in this life-giving way. Never did this student envision becoming a teacher.

Sitting here in a coffee shop the morning after, I marvel at what occurred last night. It was nothing we did, so much as what was done in, through, and around us. Yes, we made the effort to find a meeting, but what happened because of that effort had nothing to do with us. In an unforgettable way, I saw the miracle of “God doing for us what we could not do for ourselves,” as the Big Book says, or, to paraphrase Ephesians, I saw God working within us to accomplish abundantly far more than we could ask or imagine.

It seems the life of faith is about doing the next right thing and then letting God do the rest. It’s about showing up and then getting out of the way. In sharp contrast to a world that says it’s all about us and what we make happen, I think life is more about surrendering control and letting God do what God does best - redeems the world one life at a time.

When that happens, as it did last night, life becomes a sacred journey beyond our comprehension.

Pentecost

Even for non-Christians, or people who are skittish about “overly religious” blog posts, the story of Pentecost has much to say to all of us who seek to live spiritual lives. I’ve always loved the story of what is considered the “birthday of the church,” not because I fully understand it but am enamored by its spiritual beckoning.

The followers of Jesus were together in a room, fearful of the state and worried about what might happen to them because of their faith.

Can you imagine having a faith that stood apart from the state, a faith that was costly?

In the solitude of their common faith, a mighty wind blew in and around them filling them with a spirit that comforted and emboldened them. The only way they could describe that mighty wind was as a “holy spirit.” It was like God had come and swirled around them.

Can you imagine God’s spirit coming and swirling around you today? In what way would that be comforting? In what way would you feel emboldened? How might it frighten or unsettle you?

We are told that there was also a fire that descended and that people spoke in ways they never had before. Those who looked on thought that these followers were drunk, which was all the more bewildering because it was 9 in the morning!

When was the last time you felt something within you rise up and you spoke in a way that made others tilt their heads, roll their eyes, or wonder if you were drunk (or crazy)?

Fear not. You are in good company, though I fear few of us have let ourselves have such an experience.

I grew up in a timid, polite church, one that took pride in everything being “decent and in order.” It was a church filled with people who looked like me and lived lives much like mine. Ours was a faith designed to comfort but not embolden. Ours was designed to inspire, but not too much. Ours was not a faith that encouraged anything too out of hand or controversial. An unspoken rule was to support the state, the status quo, because we were all people of privilege. Even from the pulpit, we were taught a diluted gospel so no one would be offended, even if it ignored what Jesus explicitly said. “Give me that old time religion,” the older members would sing even if it meant ignoring those who were less fortunate or lived lives that were not like June and Ward Cleaver.

The thing about wind and flames is they’re unpredictable, just like God. They’ll disrupt our lives if we let them. They’ll make us look and feel things that aren’t easy or comfortable. They’ll call into question ways of thinking, ways of speaking, and ways of voting that stand in direct contrast to the gospel. They’ll make people look askance and wonder if we’re drunk.

No wonder we avoid such things at all costs. We close the windows from the wind and extinguish every flame. We want a safe and comfortable church, or maybe no church at all. We want a gospel that affirms our way of life even if it comes at the expense of others.

No wonder the pews are increasingly empty, and the buildings are crumbling. Somehow, we need to feel the mighty wind again and dance with the flames . . . even if they make us feel uncomfortable and cause others to think we’re drunk. It wouldn’t be the first time!