On Coffee and Mullets

Coffee is my favorite legalized drug-- in fact, I dare say that I prefer coffee to beer, simply because I do not require beer to wake up in the morning. (Well, not yet anyway…) How should one “get on my good side?” If you are so unfortunate as to have fallen from my good graces, I suggest you buy me a cup of coffee. Much like the Balm in Gilead “soothes the sin-sick soul,” so shall a cup of coffee free you from any and all infractions.

Anyway, I write this from a quiet café table at an Amarillo Starbucks dangerously close to the home of my parental units. Yes—you heard (read) correctly—I am once again in the home of my idyllic childhood upbringing, bored out of my mind and yet, strangely busy. I am currently trying to forge random theological thought into a coherent sermon for Sunday, hence the coffee and Starbucks. The barista gave me a complimentary pastry and upgraded my measly tall Guatemalan to a towering coffee behemoth, simply because I had to wait for my coffee to be brewed. More coffee plus free baked goods just for waiting for freshly brewed caffeinated goodness? Seems a little out of sorts, but hey, who am I to turn down a freebie…

I feared this week might be a little on the dull side, since most of my friends have left this area or are otherwise occupied. Due to the pestering of my somewhat controlling but well meaning mother, I have had an assortment of doctor’s appointments. A cavity here, a filling there, plus a prescription for contact lenses--time for extreme Meredith Makeover!

I also got my hair cut; something a little less “country” and a little more “rock ‘n roll.” Ok—to be perfectly honest, I think my hair may be a little mullet-y which now means I am an aspiring theologian with a quasi-mullet— interesting. That sigh you hear is the sigh of frustration from Communion of Saints. “O! Meredith! What hath we wrought?” they ask themselves. I realize that I am probably the source of much exhasperation for such heavenly beings, yet, I humbly ask for forgiveness for my many foibles and the grace to proceed through life, with or without mullets.

Is there life after Greek Camp?

Like a thunderstorm on a sultry West Texas afternoon, Greek arrived, unleashed its fury, and stopped as suddenly as its beginning. Those of us who weathered the storm are now sitting on the porch, staring at the blue sky, scratching our heads and marveling at the deluge that was Greek camp.

As soon as the “rain” subsided, many of my friends scattered to the four corners of the earth, just as cockroaches scatter when you turn the light on in the kitchen. With no Greek paradigms to memorize (or in my case, ignore) and no other school work looming in the distance, life seems a bit vacant. Free time, of course, is no curse, but with so many of my brethern and sistern gone, life is dull. In an attempt to fill this new void in my life, I utilized the following time wasters:

Reading sections from the Book of Common Worship

Reading the Directory for Worship in the Book of Order (for you non-Presbyterians, that's part of the constitution for the Presbyterian Church, U.S.A)

Updating my address book

Learning how to mail merge said address book into mailing labels

Cleaning my dorm room

Dropping off more possessions at the Goodwill in an attempt to further simplify my life

Checking everybody’s blogs

Exciting stuff, no?

…sigh…at least on Monday, I leave with my family for the Texas coast. Even though, according to SOME people, the Texas Gulf Coast is but a dim lightbulb compared to the sparkling diadem that is the Pacific Ocean, I enjoy the beach, regardless of quality, and anxiously await my vacation.

Furthermore...

...and yes, my blog is now pink...

...I'm not sure why...

...sometimes, it's nice to get out of your comfort zone...

...you know, march to the beat of a different piccolo...

...circle your nouns....

...be a rebel, with a cause!

Don't Worry, Be Happy

You might have seen the book, 14,000 Things to be Happy About, at your local bookstore, perhaps lodged between other quasi-gimicky "inspirational" gift books. My eight grade English teacher, apparently a devoted fan to such gimicky gift books, challenged us to keep our own "Happy Lists." Thus, we chronicled whatever inspired happiness in our pubescent pre-teen hearts; I can only surmise what I may have written down.

In the spirit of innocence and naivete, I have submitted a short list of life's blessings that are keeping me sane during these dwindling days of Greek...

thank-you notes
small children
dogs
Betty Crocker rainbow chip frosting
best friends
rain
zip-lock baggies
Shiner Bock
crisp bed sheets
colored pencils
yarn
coffee
wide, toothy grins
medium point writing pens, especially the gel-ink variety
books and book stores
grandmothers
vodka tonics
Muppets

Paper, Rock, Scissors

The following is an editorial from my hometown newspaper, the Amarillo Globe News. Note how this is not the opinion of some letter-writing wacko, but rather is the collaborative effort of the Globe News editorial staff. I am appalled and offended by the shallowness of this letter's content, its lack of theological understanding, and its underlying mysogyny. Enjoy!


June 24, 2006

"Thinking Out Loud"

The nerve of Neil Armstrong.

As he became the first man to set foot on the moon, Armstrong uttered the now famous phrase: "That's one small step for man; one giant leap for mankind."

If the politically correct illness plaguing the nation continues to infect society, in the near future Armstrong may wind up being considered a white sleeveless undershirt-wearing wife-beater rather than an historic astronaut.

Sound far-fetched?

If religious leaders begin bowing down to the P.C. altar, what chance does Armstrong have?
The Presbyterian Church (USA) General Assembly recommended Monday that church members use other references for the Holy Trinity - the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. One alternative mentioned was "compassionate mother, beloved child and lifegiving womb."
In other words, get rid of the perceived references to maleness.

Lord, no matter your gender, help us.

For the sake of argument, those who think Armstrong was only referring to members of the good ol' boys club may not be from the moon, but they're definitely from another planet.
It should be remembered that when Jesus taught his disciples to pray, he began with the phrase, "Our Father in heaven ..." - Matthew 6:9.

And that comes straight from the Man himself, and the message is intended for all mankind.

Bully!

Found while moving-- a piece of yellow paper with the following quote:

"Far better it is to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs, even though checkered with failure, than to take rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy much nor suffer much, because they live in the gray twilight that know not victory or defeat."

--Theodore Roosevelt


Something to ponder as we attempt to wrap our heads around a gazillion Greek paradigms...

Movin' On Up

In life, there are three constants: Death, Taxes, and Moving. Unless you were born, raised, and buried on the generations-old family homestead, most of us eventually pack up our quasi-precious belongings and send out cutesy Christmas newsletters (or similar) announcing our relocation. But, regardless of your moving experience (or lack thereof), everyone in the world has helped another person move. Your probability of being asked to help move increases exponentially if you are 1) visibly stronger than others and 2) own a truck. If you want to avoid any and all requests for moving assistance, I suggest you either move to a remote cabin in the woods and/or never purchase a truck.

Most of us seminarians have helped our sisters/brothers in Christ move in/out throughout the semester. And just as June is the peak season for weddings, it has also been the peak season for moving. Graduated seniors, leaving the seminary nest in order to test their wings at a first call, are packing up three year’s worth of belongings and memories. Couples, uniting their lives and bank-accounts in marriage, are merging two apartments of “stuff” into tiny, seminary subsidized housing. Some people, like yours truly, are abandoning the freedom of apartment life for smaller [re: cheaper] quarters in the campus residence hall.

Helping another person move is usually pain in the ass. Those who are moving realize this and frequently hesitate to ask for assistance. But living in a community, seminary or otherwise, requires the humility to ask for help and the kindness to give it. Allow me to paraphrase a popular section from Ecclesiastes: “To everything, there is a season…a time to move, and a time to help move. A time to give grace, and a time to receive it. A time to love, and a time to allow yourself to be loved.” Sometimes we are the mover and other times, we are the one moving (Unless, of course, you are God—the unmoved mover—but that’s another post for another time).

Such is the “Circle of Life,” to borrow a phrase from The Lion King. In order to grow individually as people and collectively as a community, we must uphold symbiotic relationships; otherwise, those who continually give will burn out and those who never give or contribute eventually subject their lives to the will of others. However, human sin disrupts perfect symbiosis and therefore, true reciprocity does not exist in our world. Just like communism works in theory but not praxis, community life never achieves a healthy balance of givers and takers. A recent news headline declares that a huge sum of FEMA aid was not used for its intended purposes, but rather was squandered by people who were not hurricane victims. As much as 16% of FEMA aid went to frivolous causes by fraudulent people, rather than those who needed the money most of all. Unfortunately, such fraud will result in more bureaucratic red-tape, complicating the relief process further for disaster victims.

Though such atrocities exist, we must not let the reality of human sin prevent us from acting as good neighbors. The hopelessness of the FEMA fraud or other derivitives of community cynicism must not prevent us from acting in good faith for the benefit of others. In the Presbyterian Church, we often say we are "blessed to be a blessing;" in other words, we help move because others have helped us move and will help us move again. The cycle of giving and receiving flows as effortslessy as the shifting of the Seasons or the rotation of day into night. May we all, then, remember our own blessings and the gifts of others, and live, not into apathy, but the fullness of the joy and grace of our Creator.

And thus, another summer begins

Summer is here, folks! I say, bring on the margaritas, the daytime drinking, the hours frittered away by the refreshing waters of a swimming pool or ocean.

True to form, I have ushered in this most delightful of seasons by acquiring a righteous sunburn, which I earned yesterday during an afternoon at Barton Springs. Luckily, the sunburn is mostly on my back, so as long as no one touches my posterior, I am in relatively little pain. Don't cry for me, Argentina; you would think that after 24 years on this planet, I would have learned to apply sunscreen. But no one ever said I was a model of common sense...

Greek began this week, much to my chagrin. But, unlike some OTHER ancient biblical languages which shall remain nameless, Greek is infinitely more accessible and enjoyable. So far, I really the class, which our professor refers to as "Greek Camp." I have pledged not to take this very seriously--which is why I am currently at my haven, the Crown & Anchor, "studying" for tomorrow's quiz. Another Shiner Bock, please!

Here's a Greek joke for ya:

Man: Guess what? I've got a Grecian urn.
Woman: How much's a Grecian urn?
Man: Oh, about 6 bucks an hour!

Ok...not funny...it's an old joke that we like to tell in my family.

I think that, in honor of Greek, we need to have a Greek movie night. Think about it, folks: we could watch My Big Fat Greek Wedding, Spartacus, Zorba the Greek, Animal House (helloooo--togas!). Any suggestions are welcome and appreciated!

Back to "studying..."

Purgatorio

--or--

What Happens When You're Neither Here nor There?


Home again, home again, jiggity jigg—I write this blog entry not from the comforts of my seminary subsidized housing, but instead from the couch in my parent’s living room. Yes, my friends, I am home yet again, immersed into a mélange of childhood memories, old behavioral patterns, and expected familial roles. Although I am comforted by the familiar surroundings—framed Ansel Adams posters, graduation photographs displayed proudly on the mantel, ancient grade-school citizenship award magnets clinging to the refrigerator by means of grime and not magnetic attraction—a visit home is a visit to Bizarro World.

In Dante’s Divine Comedy, the afterlife is split into three realms: Hell (the Inferno), Purgatory, and Paradise. Obviously, the righteous are rewarded with eternal glory and the wicked are condemned to various circles/levels of hell according to the degree of his or her infraction(s). Purgatory, however, is neither inferno nor paradise. I like to think of Purgatory as an existential “green room”—your soul, not ready for an on-stage appearance, is also no longer relegated to the dressing room, carefully applying Ben Nye theater makeup and wishing the girl sharing your makeup mirror would shut-the-fuck up about her loser ex-boyfriend. Instead, your soul waits in the green room, flipping though magazines, engaging in banal conversation, and nervously glancing at your watch, waiting....waiting....waiting.

At this stage in my life, visiting home feels like Purgatory. What in the hell [pun not intended] am I supposed to do here? I no longer “fit in” with my old social circles. The chasm between me and my association with my hometown widens exponentially the longer I reside in Austin. Home is no longer Sweet, through no fault of my parental units or the home itself. Home is…well…home “is what it is.”

I am, after all, Meredith Kemp, eldest of the Kemp children and wayward West Texan forging a life the “big city” of Austin, Texas. I left a comfortable life here because I, much like Alice during one of her Wonderland adventures, had outgrown my surroundings. Rather than stay and stifle my maturation as a human being, I chose to leave. My departure, though heart-wrenching, was required.

I suppose that all I can do at this point is “keep on keepin’ on,” relax, read, and enjoy the frenetic (and often awkward) ride we call Life. Besides, I’ll be home tomorrow…

***

Another note: I had an opportunity Sunday morning to hear the illustrious Fred Craddock preach at a local church! Truly, Craddock is an amazing orator with a gift for preaching the word of God.

Retreat!

Classes are over, my birthday is past, and nothing is occupying my "to-do" list until June 05, when Greek begins. Am I resting, delighting in the blissful repose of a slumbering giant?

No...absolutely not! The end of academic obligations liberated the otherwise oppressed arenas of my existence: laundry and other sundry domestic chores, familial duties, etc. A retreat for my Presbytery's Committee on Preparation for Ministry absorbed the past 48 hours, although the foray into the wilderness [and by wilderness, I mean lack of internet acess and cell phone usage] proved a "spiritual shot in the arm. Now I sit in my parent's living room, typing this blog update, desperate for a good night's rest.

...I guess I will sleep when I'm dead...

Grace? Amazing!

Anne Lamott writes in her book, Traveling Mercies, “I do not at all understand the mystery of grace—only that it meets us where we are but does not leave us where it found us.” Her quote immediately brings to mind the first few lines of the immortal hymn, “Amazing Grace:

“Amazing Grace!
How sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.”

A brief stanza, yet I find it accurately sums up the enigma of God’s grace. The first word used to describe grace is “amazing” and then quickly describes grace as a “sweet…sound.” But I think the most humbling and poignant section of the stanza is the phrase “wretch like me.” Even the sound of the word “wretched” is grotesque, harsh, discordant. We all like to think that we are nice, decent, God-fearing people, but the truth is that because of sin, we are wretched and utterly depraved.

All of us are guilty of smug self-righteousness, as if sin is a beast that exists only in dark alleys of inner-city ghettos, crack houses, or dark and dingy taverns. No one wants to think they are a bad person—would that not be a form of self-deprecation? We publicly admit our corporate sin each Sunday in church, but secretly, we believe we are praying on behalf of our most sinful sisters and brothers, rather than ourselves.

I admit that such false feelings of self-righteousness are a twisted web I willingly and diligently spin. Rather than face my own sin firsthand, I shift my focus to the silvery threads of my personal web of depravity, not noticing that the web originally intended to catch the sins of others is instead capturing me. Bound by the threads like an ensnared fly, I cannot move nor can I act without the liberating Grace of God.

Nothing removes overwhelming hubris like a good kick in the spiritual butt, which is why Ash Wednesday is particularly meaningful- as we receive the ashes on our foreheads, we are humbled as we are reminded that we are nothing but soot. I grew up on the windy plains of West Texas where the dirt would blow with hither and yon and a fine casing of dust perpetually lined windowsills and door jams. Though we may spend our days pursuing riches, fame, prestige, and power, eventually we become [as the rock group Kansas reflected] “dust in the wind.” Self-righteousness and hubris become burned and charred when we lament with ashes.

While it is dangerous to become haughty and self-righteous, it is also dangerous to dwell in eternal despair and remorse. God wants us to recognize and acknowledge our iniquity but that does mean spending our days sequestered from the outside world, eternally depressed and plagued by general feelings of unworthiness. We all sin, we all fall short of God’s demands and therefore, we are unworthy of God’s love. But God’s benevolent grace rattles the equation and allows us to escape the despair of sin. God’s grace allows us to recognize our shortcomings and yet, at the same time, overcome the same shortcomings so we may be servants to our neighbors.

Grace is sort of a theological equivalent to a “Get out of Jail Free” card in Monopoly. We do nothing to receive the gift of grace and yet grace is given to us freely. BUT- we must not assume that because grace is free, we are justified in our sin. We cannot behave as rebellious children who continue to disobey their parents even after the children are repeatedly forgiven. Dietrich Bonhoeffer refers to the unwillingness to repent as “cheap grace”. According to Bonhoeffer in his book The Cost of Discipleship, “grace is costly because it calls us to follow and it is grace because it calls us to follow Jesus Christ.” God forgives us of all our iniquities but expects us to repent and be faithful disciples. The gift of grace is free but cannot be taken for granted. With great power comes a great responsibility; with a great gift come a great responsibility to share our gift with others.

What is “amazing” about grace is that it “meets us” wherever we are on the journey of life, but will never “leave us where it found us”. Grace seeks us though we may be hopelessly lost and will find us and carry us to paths of righteousness. Even when we become blind with sin and our own selfish desires, grace opens our eyes so that we may see the love of God.

Hiatus

I always found it annoying when certain TV stations place popular shows on hiatus simply because the network execs want to put some more lucrative programming in its place. NBC did it during the Olympics this winter. Now, I realize that curling is exciting and all, but I love My Name is Earl and having to do without it for two weeks just so people can get their winter sport fix tested my patience and Christian good will.

Now, I'm not so selfish to think that nothing should interrupt the regular flow of my favorite television programming. The Olympics come every four years and deserve the manipulation of schedules and what-not in order to honor its presence. I'm not saying its right or wrong, it just is. The fact of the matter is, sometimes certain things take precedence over others. Its a sometimes unfair truth of life that priorities have to shift and routines must be broken.

Thus, this blog is officially on hiatus. Well, I suppose that it has been on hiatus for well over a week now, but I thought I might explain its lack of activity. Until I get a few of these papers under my belt, I cannot muster superflous creative energy.

Back to my exegesis paper...

Why I Walk to Church: a Brief Discourse

Most Sunday mornings, if I get ready in time and the weather is conducive to being outdoors, I walk to church. Lest you become impressed with my aerobic fortitude, I need to quickly mention that my walk is not reminiscent of a Waltons episode and I do not have to hike several miles to go to some little brown church in the wildwood; rather, my walk is fairly brief and my path is errant and cracked sidewalk, rather than naked and well-worn earth.

I walk from my apartment, cut through the seminary parking lot, past an Episcopal church, a private girls dormitory, a fraternity house. With the aid of a traffic light, I cross Guadalupe Street and continue for a few blocks or so until I reach the University Presbyterian Church. Assuming I catch the lights at a favorable time and I don’t window shop for too long, this entire jaunt takes approximately 14 minutes.

I absolutely adore walking—in my humble opinion, it’s unfortunate that American society is more automobile oriented than pedestrian. Walking is good for the “soul” (pun not intended). A good-old fashioned perambulation is counter-intuitive in a world where the mantra is “faster is better.” I find that when I am walking, I do not have to pay attention to my route, as one does when one is driving. I can meander and mosey to my heart’s desire, without worrying about running a red light or grazing the bumper of another vehicle.

Another great facet of walking is that it is a perfect excuse to window-gaze and people watch. Guadalupe street happens to be one of the greatest places in the world to people watch. On my way to church, I do not see many people as it is still fairly early and most of the shops, save for a few breakfast-oriented ones, are closed. That’s when I gaze through the windows and marvel and the shiny wares, stylish clothes, outlandish University of Texas themed accoutrements that I would never buy.

On the way home from church, however, the sleepy street turns into a bustling thoroughfare. I pass by an outdoor market, where today I saw an evolutionary hold-over from the Summer of Love strumming an acoustic guitar, peddling jewelry and tie-dyed t-shirts. I pass by families—most likely University Texas Dynasties where the parents anxiously await the day when their offspring will matriculate into the collegiate behemoth. You can tell where their loyalty lies by their burnt orange and white apparel.

And for every UT Dynastic family, there are hippies; for every pony-tailed sorority girl, there is a homeless street urchin; for every marauding church-goer, there are cynics and atheists. There are Baptists, Presbyterians, Scientologists, rich people, poor people, college students, young professionals—and not a single person is out of place. Guadalupe is certainly a cross-section of modern American life. No one pays any mind to the garb and actions of others, they just simply slip in and out the eclectic shops, lost in their perspective universes.

Sunday morning walks are more than a voyeuristic sociological experiment; they also serve as my weekly update with God. I like to call it my “Theological Meet the Press,” without the monitoring of Tim Russert, of course. I talk to God and discuss the previous week’s goings on, cares, concerns, and plans for the upcoming day(s). Admittedly, the conversation seems a little one-sided at times, but I am certain that God is listening.

It’s these [sometimes one-sided] conversations that center my heart for worship. Typically, the moment I walk into the choir room at UPC, any tranquility I have obtained is shattered by the fumbling around for folders, hymn sheets, robes, stoles, and last minute liturgical instruction. If I drive to church, I seem to go immediately from rushing to get to church to rushing around in the choir room; how can the Holy Spirit enter in when my thoughts are not centered on Christ? However, if I take the initiative to spend a few extra minutes to walk to church, I seem to construct a force-field around my sub-conscious. Choir chaos ensues, but it doesn’t impede my readiness to worship.

I realize that not everyone has the luxury to walk to church. Some of you may despise walking and all this waxing poetic about my Sunday morning sojourns may be extremely dull for you to read. But the point—the REAL point—is that we all must find those rituals that draw us into the heart of God. What are rituals in your life? Is there a specific action on your behalf that induces a prayerful atmosphere? Some points to ponder as this stressful semester comes to a close.

***
On another note: last week of classes—praise Jesus!

Mere's Summer BookList Extravaganza!

As audacious and ambitious as it may seem, I plan to do a lot of reading this summer. In an effort to organize my thoughts, here is my proposed book list thus far. Paps and I are going to see who can read the most books this summer--wish me luck!

Dogmatics in Outline, Karl Barth

Letters and Papers from Prison, Dietrich Bonhoeffer

On the Road, Jack Kerouac [which I will read when I go home]

The Chronicles of Narnia, C.S. Lewis [time to read them all, not just my three "favorites"]

The Crucified God, Jurgen Moltmann

...something by Chuck Palahniuk...[perhaps Fight Club?]

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Robert Pirsig

The Grapes of Wrath, John Steinbeck [it's a summer tradition for me to read this book]

The Preaching Life, Barbara Brown Taylor

The New Being, Paul Tillich

The Courage to Be, Tillich [which I sorta-kinda read this semester, but I want to read it straight through this time]

Elegy

I'm not a Joni Mitchell fan per se, but this week, I am finding the lyrics of this song to be painfully true.

...You don't know what you've got 'till it's gone....


Big Yellow Taxi

They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot
With a pink hotel, a boutique
And a swinging hot spot

Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone

They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

They took all the trees
Put 'em in a tree museum
And they charged the people
A dollar and a half just to see 'em

Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone

They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

Hey farmer farmer
Put away the D.D.T. now
Give me spots on my apples
But leave me the birds and the bees Please!

Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone

They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

Late last nightI heard my screen door slamand
a big yellow taxi
Took away my old man

Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone

They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

I said don't it always seem to go
That you dont know what you've got
Till it's gone

They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

Ctrl + Alt + Delete

We’ve all been there: you’re at your trusty laptop or desktop computer, groovin’ along as you surf the internet superhighway, only to have your computer “freeze up.” Windows will no longer close, the word processor is no longer processing, and your cyber-life, much like Buck Rogers, exists in suspended animation. However, you are not alarmed because restarting your computer, and thus erasing any malfunction, can happen with the stroke of a simple combination of keys: Ctrl + Alt + Delete. Suddenly, your computer shuts down, reboots, and any past infraction is forgotten—all with a simple command.

Unfortunately, real-life does not mirror technology. Restarting a computer: easy. Restarting life: well, that’s an entirely more complicated and delicate matter. Imagine how wonderful life would be if we could erase, reboot, restart when the going gets tough. Scathing words, careless deeds, heartache, sins of human behavior, all gone and erased from existence with a few simple keys, rather than years of resentment, guilt, and therapy.

If life were like an Etch-A-Sketch, where we could shake the screen and remove a previous picture and start afresh, would we be a happier people?

My answer: Yes.

However—this is where God’s Grace enters the proverbial picture. The sad, painful truth [of which I am learning more about each passing day] is that we cannot erase the past. We cannot reboot, shake the Etch-A-Sketch, wave a magic wand, etc. in order to remove pain from our lives. Intentionally (and unintentionally), I have sinned in my life. I have made some bad choices and have wrestled with more than a few demons. Facing these demons is proving to be the hardest thing I have ever done, but facing such demons is necessary in order to conqueror them. I pray for guidance and grace from God and also for patience from my sisters and brothers. Most of all, I wish with the greatest strength and fervor of my heart that some of my past infractions could, in fact, be erased from memory and existence. I am sure that I am not alone in these thoughts.

But my sins are there, etched into a permanent collective of the sinfulness of humanity. I can do nothing to alter the past, nor can I erase the memories of my sins from the consciousness of others. And I also realize that when it comes to apologies, actions are indeed louder than the din of any words. I can type about grace and forgiveness until the cows come home, but without application, all of it is utter and total bullshit. Period.

Ergo, it is time for me and time for you to live into the reality of Grace. Grace is what lets us wake up in the morning. Grace is the small pocket of light in my soul that leads me out of darkness; grace is the “still, small voice” which whispers that all is not lost. Grace is what motivates me to keep on living, keep on loving, keep on learning. Grace cannot erase, but grace is capable of transforming. Like the Phoenix rises from the ashes, so does Grace allow us to rise out of the ashes of our sin.

On this second Sunday of Easter, most churches focus on the account of “Doubting” Thomas, the apostle who demanded to see the risen Lord first hand, rather than believe in apostolic “hearsay.” I find it interesting that when Thomas sees the risen Lord, he sees the scars in Jesus’ hand, the scars from the wounds in his side. Although Jesus is resurrected, his body still bears the mark of human sin. Jesus was not simply “rebooted” when he resurrected; he still bears the evidence of the crucifixion. However, Jesus’ body is newly transformed and although the evidence of sin still exists, through the grace, miracle, and power of the resurrection, the Sin itself is transformed.

So may we all be transformed through this overwhelming love.

Happy Earth Day!

Happy Earth Day, one and all!

A poem from my favorite pre-hippie hippie poet,William Wordsworth:

My heart leaps up when I behold a rainbow in the sky;
So was it when my life began
So is it now I am a man
So be it when I shall grow old, or let me die!

The child is father to the man
and I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each, by natural piety.

***

A lovely day here in the great city of Austin-- I encourage all to spend at least a few moments outside, breathing in the lush greenery of the verdent Hill Country.

We are blessed by this "Good Creation" and therefore are called to be good stewards of the Earth. Wordsworth calls his reverence for creation "natural piety" and I feel that all of us should strive for natural piety-- without going too far, of course [no need to worship trees or anything]. Environmentalism is not a four-letter-word, nor should it be resigned only for crunchy-granola, Nader-votin', tofu-eatin' vegans. All of us, regardless of political party association and theological leanings, can respect the Earth and participate in environmentally friendly practices.

...a word from Pappy McVulgar, Fuck the earth, let it rot, let it burn, let it overpopulate, love it, like it, do it. It is what Bono would want...now back to Mere.

Sorry for the vulgarity from Pappy McVulgar. He hijacked my laptop from me and proceeded to write vitrolic comments. See that kids??! That's the kind of devolved, uninformed attitude I'm addressing-- and nobody fucks with my Bono!

Hug the World!

God is Dead...well, maybe

I’m beginning to wonder if God might be dead.

Perhaps my statement may seem odd and the antithesis of all that we are encountering in this “Bright Week,” the holy week wherein we observe the resurrection of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Christ is Risen—he is risen indeed! O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?

Surely God is not dead; so much beauty in the world serves as a testament to the God’s eternal creating spirit. I look out the window and see the earth renewed by gentle evening rains. Trees worshipfully extend leafy branches to the sky, as if to shout eternal “Hosannas!” Without extending too much into natural theology (I’m trying to avoid at least some heresy), I know that, to quote G.M. Hopkins [again]: “the world is charged with the grandeur of God.”

Surely God is not dead; in this age of mass-media, God has never been more accessible. We are blessed to live in a society where books no longer exist in musty chained libraries but are inexpensive and bountiful. God is, literally, everywhere.

Yet, I am beginning to suspect that American [specifically, United States] popular culture is precipitating the slow, stifled death of God. Religion in this country is the proverbial “hot commodity;” Jesus not only saves--he sells. Christians across the country have historically been an untapped resource and major corporations have now realized that Christians will snap-up Jesus themed t-shirts, household accoutrements, and what-not faster than a greased snake on a slip-n-slide. Forgive me for sounding a little harsh, but I equate the selling of Jesus merchandise with the archaic practice of selling indulgences. Buying christo-religiocentric merchandise is a way for good, God-fearin’ folks to satiate a consumerist appetite while mitigating guilt.

I suspect God is dead when we no longer believe in the actual God, but instead place our faith in the impotent God of commercial consumerism. If we believe in and worship “false gods” [whatever these may be], does our one true God, the Holy One of Israel, cease to exist? Most of us in Western culture are familiar and well indoctrinated with Arthurian legends, all of which are set within the cultural context of the schism between the ancient Pagan world and the birth of Medieval Christianity. During this era of ancient myth, many of the kings and peoples in Britain have converted from paganism and have begun to embrace monotheism and the Christian God, a change which serves as a powerful contrapuntal theme throughout the legend. This schism was addressed in a fairly recent television mini-series, Merlin. The dark-sorceress, Queen Mab, is dealing with an inevitable fact that human beings no longer worship and revere the “old ways,” the ways of pagan ritual and belief in magic. Subsequently, as increasing numbers of human beings begin to worship the Christ rather than Mab and her minions, the figures of the pagan religion begin to fade out of existence. Because human beings no longer believe, the old ways cease to exist.

Once again, I find that an archetypal story continues to resonate with the modern world. If we put our faith in human strength and human constructs, will God, like other ancient Gods, fade into oblivion?

As a good reformed theologian who believes in the full-sovereignty of God, I would have to answer that regardless of human actions and interactions, God will always exists. We call this divine aseity—God did not create because God has low self-esteem and needed creation to justify God’s existence. Because God is the “ground of all being,” according to theologian Paul Tillich, the very fact that we exist is proof that God exists. God, after all, is not “a being,” but rather “being itself.” God is different from the self-centered and self-serving ancient gods, sorcerers, and supernatural beings because God’s existence is not contingent on human response.

Still, I am concerned with the state of religion in America. Ours is a nation suffering deep hurt, resentment, cynicism, and superficial spirituality. A deep pain permeates our national psyche, a pain that continues to motivate senseless consumerism, ego-centrism, and blatant disregard for the global community. Assuredly, God is not dead—but God may be dead in our lives.

I intend to further investigate this matter in future posts. Until then, peace unto all.

Requiem

In honor of Good Friday and in keeping in line with National Poetry Month, I offer the words of one more eloquent than I.

Oh, where, in this hurtful, hateful, Good Friday World is the promise of the risen Christ? How can we find hope when all is lost, when all is a "cold and broken hallelujah?"

***

Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever; I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood,
For nothing now can ever come to any good.


-- W. H. Auden

A Moment of Zen

Baseball season is nigh!

Here's a moment of Zen for all you sports fans [and even those who aren't].


"You see the ball, you hit the ball. They hit the ball, you catch the ball. You catch the ball, you throw the ball. That's it."

-Kirby Puckett's Zen of Baseball