A Purpose Driven Prayer for the President Elect

Well, well, my favorite cup of now institutionally brewed coffee, Seattle's Best Henry's Blend, was slightly tainted by the news that the Human Rights Campaign, the largest homosexual rights group, sent a scathing letter to our President Elect for choosing Rick Warren as the inaugural invocator. I quote the HRC: "We feel a deep level of disrespect when one of the architects and promoters of an anti-gay agenda is given the prominence and the pulpit of your historic nomination." Architect Warren, it seems, doesn't draw any sympathy from the group for his and his wife's contributions to the Global AIDS issue here. But what I find most frustrating—and tainting to my morning coffee—is once again the flaw in the doctrine of what we now call tolerance in our country. Again I quote: "By inviting Rick Warren to your inauguration, you have tarnished the view that gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender Americans have a place at your table." Warren's stance against "gay marriage is a sign of intolerance." Are they saying that Warren's seat at an Obama table means that they no longer have a seat there? Or, and most likely, is it a statement: We aren't eating with that guy?

My fellow Americans, please wake up. To adopt a view of tolerance alone, merely leads one to a bankrupt application. The "tolerant" will never tolerate the intolerant. It makes much more sense for Warren, and our President Elect, to bring people together who can speak their minds even when they disagree. What we have here is a tipping of the hand by this particular group, which shows that they are not "liberal" at all. Followers of Jesus, those who view him as the perfect man, the ultimate relater (and he is much more than that!), know that they are flawed people—we are all flawed people—in need of life transformation from the inside out. It is therefore possible—even Christ-like—to adopt the mindset that we desire to please God—even when we do not, and we love others even when they do not. The doctrine of tolerance mandates that I embrace another's view as my own—even when it's not. That is neither safe nor sane. In this way of thinking, I cannot love or care for someone if I disagree with their worldview or lifestyle. From what I see of Jesus, he was not tolerant if that is the marker. If our soon to be President is sincere, and this is not just political posturing, his demonstration of an influential base of balance-- in this day and time—is encouraging. It's when the balance of power gets out of balance—even when I agree with where the skew is heading—that I am most frightened of authority. To me, the necessity of accountability for those in authority is as much an argument for the existence of a personal God as natural revelation itself. But that's another entry.

Waffle House Wisdom

    Cruising across I-85 out of North Carolina and into Georgia, a hungry traveler cannot help but be enticed by the numerous Waffle Houses located in convenient proximity to the interstate. This particular trip I lasted until Cumming. My father introduced me to these fixtures of the southern roadside when I was a boy. One might think that after the palette develops the desire to visit such relatively Spartan eating establishments would be a thing of the past—perhaps blanked even from memory. After all, how can you keep them on the farm once they've been to the city? But not me. I've been to the finer eating establishments in New York, and had what must have been the most overwhelming eating experiences of my life in Napa Valley at Thomas Keller's "French Laundry". Still, I cannot pass but a few Waffle Houses in the early morning hours before I'm compelled to stop for coffee, a waffle and sausage. My friend Mark, an Atlanta native, and I still chuckle about our addiction.

    And yet there is another reason I visit. I'm drawn to the folks who make up the bulk of the Waffle House clientele—old men with plenty of stories. It's not just me. These places are always scattered with Saturday morning dads who bring their kids in for more than just the food, it's the atmosphere in general that keeps you coming back. I think we long as fathers to tell our kids stories. Real stories—not just the cartoon versions. And yet I wonder if most of us dads feel as if we live such uninteresting lives to our kids. We are compelled by our lack of enthusiasm in our own personal histories that we reach outside ourselves to look for greatness. It's sad really that we so very much underestimate our own lives. So we take our kids to the Waffle House where they like the food, so do we, but we are also on a mission of another sort. We are longing to tap into a story I believe. The story of regular Jim's and Joe's who have become old souls. That's what I was looking for in Cumming, Georgia that day. I found it sitting on a barstool, drinking coffee.

    He had a pack of Pall Mall cigarettes peeking out of the center-breast pocket of his worn denim overalls. Underneath he wore a slightly newer red/black plaid flannel shirt. His feet were well protected by what looked like steel-toe workboots, and he capped his fine gray hair (what was left of it) with a red mesh ball cap. I thought it odd that his hat was unbranded. I expected a man of his age to identify with Peterbuilt or Kenworth, Pioneer or John Deere, Dale Earnhardt, anything other than a simple solid red face. But there he sat without a logo. Even the waitresses referred to him by a nickname, not his given name. They called him "Old Goat" and he didn't seem to mind. In fact after listening to their conversation for a moment it was obvious that he was a daily customer with lengthy stays. It looked like an inviting place so I took the stool beside him.

    "Boy, it sounds like they're being hard on you", I said to his right ear. "Yeah, I let 'em think they've got the best of me", he replied with a glance at the one behind the register. "Looks like you've been coming in here for a while?", I asked. "Longer than you've been alive, probably", was his reply. It was all he needed to prompt him. He knew he had another soul who would listen to him—and without further delay, he took off into sharing his past with me. He was raised "just down the road" and worked around Cumming for most of his life. In World War 2 he was a member of the 82^nd Airborne in the "European Theatre" where he did a 37 month tour. He met the love of his life before his stint as a soldier but waited until after he returned to marry her "because I just couldn't see dying over there and leaving a widow back here."

    So in 1944 they married, went on to have three children (the latter two were twins) and settled down in Cumming. For 55 years she woke up with him, fixed his breakfast and "took car e of things." He went off to work each day and provided for the family. "We had a real good life", he said as he sipped the last of a cold cup of coffee. "Lost her in '99, haven't been the same since", he went on. "We were home together, sittin' and talkin' after a walk together. She got up and kissed the top of my head, went toward the bedroom and just dropped. Dead before she hit the floor." He said this staring out the window, obviously reliving the shock of the scene in his mind. He turned and looked at me. "You married boy?"

"Yes, sir", I said. He leaned in. "You'll see one day. You live with a woman that long…..You just really depend on them being there….Don't know what to do with yourself after they're gone……Wonder why you don't go before them….Doesn't seem right to do that to 'em…..You'll see." I nodded. "Yes sir, I think I do." He was quiet for a moment and his eyes grew a little misty. I began to wonder if I'd trespassed somewhere in the memories of this man. Memories he may not have dealt with for a while. We hurry so quickly to heal from the pain of such losses. Maybe he'd done that because he was a soldier. Maybe the pain of many losses were attached to his tears, the pain of his wife's passing as the capstone of all his hoarded anguish (He also experienced the death of his oldest child 2 years later). I don't know. Mustering a final act of courage, the old man looked again at me, leaning in as he'd done before. "Son, if there ain't no heaven then there ain't no point."

    I never got his name. I don't recall he ever said the name of his wife, though he spoke heartedly about her. He simply laid $1.37 on the counter and with cracking knees ambled out of that Waffle House. No need for good-byes. He planned on seeing them the next morning. But if he didn't, I gathered, his hope rested in another place—a place where the story could continue. I believe it's that hope which keeps him alive—keeps him going. If there ain't no heaven, there ain't no point. Something in him wouldn't let him believe otherwise. Even at times when he couldn't make sense of it, he refused to believe his story was pointless. So do I.

    "Therefore, since we have been made right in God's sight by faith, we have peace with God because of what Jesus Christ our Lord has done for us. Because of our faith, Christ has brought us into this place of undeserved privilege where we now stand, and we confidently and joyfully look forward to sharing God's glory." Romans 5:1-2

Breakfast with John Owen 1

What do Coldplay and John Owen, the English Puritan, have in common? Maybe nothing other than I am listening to the one while considering the other. I'm quite sure it's not what Owen had in mind, but it's not all that's changed. In Communion with God, he writes in Chapter 1: "Human wisdom sees such an infinite disparity between God and man that it concludes there can be no communion between them. The knowledge that God and man can live in fellowship together is hidden in Christ. It is too wonderful for sinful, corrupted human nature to discover. Human wisdom leads only to terrors and fears when it thinks of coming into God's presence. But we have, in Christ, the way into God's presence without fear."

I am wondering whether or not Owen would say the same to mankind today? I've written previously about approaching God with what Nichole Nordeman (in her song Tremble) identifies as the tension between the causal and reverential approach toward God. We now live in a culture that has removed the exclusive nature of the Christian religion and substituted a hearth-like cultural warmth, a comfortable spirituality that is casual if not downright cavalier (Nordeman's term). Should I be listening to Coldplay and contemplating the theology of Owen?

In Owen's day humanity was terrified of God and longed for the mediation of Christ. In our day it seems that most live a practical atheism at the very least where to be in the presence of God (if he does exist) is like bumping into Mickey Mouse at the Wal-Mart. Or it's like God is in some room of the house (if He is there at all), probably watching the news and drinking coffee or tea. He is accessible when needed but unnoticed like a fire hose behind easily broken glass. Even there, who needs a mediator? Just ring the servant's bell. This would be the Grand Creator of all mind you. Making that assumption, maybe the "professors" state their point by wearing their God-understanding on their sleeves. Take note and beware. When it comes to God, we're all experts then-- and let no man become our teacher. We'll treat God as we know best and call it a private matter. We have our beliefs and prefer them unchallenged-- for to question an expert's assessment is the height of disrespect and intolerance.

Or maybe it's just my perspective tainting what is true about this posture of humanity. Perhaps the masses are afraid of God's presence. Maybe Owen is current. Maybe our society has forced the issue too much, so much so that we tip our hand and show our fear. To have God on our terms without further examination leaves us in the comfort zone. To consider a relationship with Him on His terms—to even entertain that he would have terms—brings the unknown into view and that is far too unsettling. To keep this fellowship devoid of definition through Christ allows one the ebb and flow of relativism. Only when I admit that God is not marginalized, that he owns and occupies not just the TV room, but the entire estate do I see him as he is. He owns my life. I was born to live for His purposes. My life is not my own. I am loved but not excused. Guilty but pardoned. Accountable to his authority. Yes, that would be terrifying. "But we have, in Christ, the way into God's presence without fear." Such a progression of thought would make Owen's point a current event. Let's deal with it.

For Barb, who knows this all too well

I think it human nature to want to discover an area where we can shake our fists at God and say, "You don't know what it's like to be me right now!" I also believe we desperately want to find no such thing. Until recently I never thought about this drama in the context of what the apostle Paul calls his "thorn in the flesh" (2 Corinthians 12). Paul states: "So to keep me from becoming proud, I was given a thorn in my flesh, a messenger from Satan to torment me and keep me from becoming proud." (v 6-8) He goes on to say that he pleaded with Lord three times to take this perturbation away, whatever it was. And that has always been the issue. We, read "I", have spent tons of time trying to figure out what this "thorn", this "messenger of Satan" was—so much so that we miss a great parallel from the life of Jesus.

In Mark 14, we read:

32 They went to the olive grove called Gethsemane, and Jesus said, "Sit here while I go and pray." 33 He took Peter, James, and John with him, and he became deeply troubled and distressed. 34 He told them, "My soul is crushed with grief to the point of death. Stay here and keep watch with me."

35 He went on a little farther and fell to the ground. He prayed that, if it were possible, the awful hour awaiting him might pass him by. 36 "Abba, Father," he cried out, "everything is possible for you. Please take this cup of suffering away from me. Yet I want your will to be done, not mine."

37 Then he returned and found the disciples asleep. He said to Peter, "Simon, are you asleep? Couldn't you watch with me even one hour? 38 Keep watch and pray, so that you will not give in to temptation. For the spirit is willing, but the body is weak."

39 Then Jesus left them again and prayed the same prayer as before. 40 When he returned to them again, he found them sleeping, for they couldn't keep their eyes open. And they didn't know what to say.

41 When he returned to them the third time, he said, "Go ahead and sleep. Have your rest. But no—the time has come. The Son of Man is betrayed into the hands of sinners. 42 Up, let's be going. Look, my betrayer is here!" (NLT)

Did you see it? When facing the cross, Jesus appeals to his father three final times for another route to redemption. The Passover cup of wrath is now to be poured out not on Egyptian first-borns, but on the Son of God nailed to a Roman cross. Jesus saw that road map to Golgotha, a dark and lonely path which would end with his Father no where in sight. Could there be another way? Mel Gibson captures this side of Gethsemane with Satan's appeal to Jesus: "Surely this is a burden too great for you to bear?" In a vivid burst of victory after his agonizing moments in prayer, the heel of God crushes the head of the serpent (Genesis 3:15). What did Jesus hear from heaven that gave him such strength to mount the cross?

I believe we have the answer to the three questions Jesus asked in the answer he gives to the three questions Paul asked: "My grace is all you need. My power works best in weakness." His grace is all we need. When the thorns won't come out. When we scream at heaven with the injustices of the world. When we shake our fists and say, "You don't know what it's like to be me right now." It is then we find ourselves with him in the garden. He does know what it's like to be us—in every way. He knows. And the same thing he says to us, is the same thing he said to that great apostle. It is, I believe, what Jesus heard from his own Father in that hour of deep despair. "My grace is all you need. My power works best in weakness." It may not be the answer we are looking for but it is usually what we get. I am trying to trust that it's also what we need.

Out of the Fog

Millstone offers a great name for its morning medium roast--Foglifter. I've never had it but I'm willing to cut it some slack due to this fantastic name. I wish I had it on that fateful day back in February 1980 when my neighbor Todd Parson and I went into the woods beyond Greasy Creek to hunt quail. There was a dusting of snow on the ground which makes birds stick longer before they break to flight. Quail are hilariously funny to watch when they are on the run.
After spending an hour or so shrouded in the beauty of frosted timber it was time to leave for home. We'd made the trip many times but this one was different. A fog came across the lake and settled into the entire acreage. We knew exactly where we were, but not where we were going. Our bearings were entirely off kilter--lost in a whiteout of snow and fog. If we walked too far west, we could fall through the ice on the creek, too far south and we would be on a thinly frozen lake. It was terrifying.
I grew up hearing my Grandfather preach about Jesus saving those who were lost. I was quite certain that I could only be sure of heaven if I first knew I was lost. That frightened me initially because I didn't feel particularly lost. The only other time I was lost was when I was 5 at a Christmas parade in Providence Ky. It was a three minute eternity of horror that was immediately remedied by the sight of my mother. The contrast in emotions when one is lost and then found is forever etched on the soul.
As I've gotten older, I'm more comfortable with the feelings of lostness. On the occasions I get lost (Hey, I'm a guy!) I still don't like it, but I always sense an assurance for coming through it. In matters of salvation, I wasn't lost because I didn't know where I was, I was lost because I didn't know where I was going, and my options were far more perilous than I wanted to entertain. And just because I didn't feel lost didn't mean I wasn't.
Todd and I determined that day to stay put and stay calm. But the fog didn't lift and it was getting darker. I'm quite sure that moments before we both died from heart failure, through the fog, we heard a voice calling our names. It was my father's voice. He suspected our predicament so he made his way up the trail and called to us from the ridge above the bottoms. We immediately had our bearings. We knew where we were going.
I still get lost from time to time. The fog rolls in and though I know where I am, I don't know where to go. I think back to that day in the whiteout, and I listen for my Father's voice.

A midlife crisis?

I'm such a schmuck. Two days before we went on vacation-- that would be two weeks ago-- I bought a motorcycle. Not a month earlier I had poo-pooed the idea with Gary the Globetrotting Evangelist that I'd never risk endangering my life--not to mention the future of my children's image of my death--by riding a motorcycle. That went out the window for reasons that I'm not certain of at this point. Simply put, I want to conquer my fear of riding this machine on auto infested roads. Being a country boy I rode nobby-tired dirtbikes over the open spaces of my rural upbringing. City riding is more of a challenge-- a fear I want to put to rest. Too much of my life is controlled by fear of stuff..and people. I want to check this thing off my list.
Second of course is all the hullabaloo I hear from riders who speak of how it makes one feel to embrace the elements on two wheels-- words like freedom, relaxation and young-again come to mind. Thirdly, four dollar gas! Though many have told me I'm wasting my time pursuing the cost benefit by the time you buy the bike and all that goes with it.
I have yet to feel any of these presumed benefits but I did take a ride through McCutchanville today and the wind under my helmet and against my shirt gave me some sort of satisfaction. Right now I'm just struck with the "coolness" of it all. I haven't felt cool in a long time. Maybe that's why old guys like me do this thing. Maybe it's a ploy to keep me chasing the cool of my youth while forsaking the wisdom of age. I hope not. That would be a tremendous regret. So right now I'll settle for conquering a fear. That seems noble enough. I'm celebrating with a cup of Myron's Kilimanjaro blend!

Lipstick on the Rim

The cafe of the day is my kitchen table. It's the 4th of July, my family is visiting Grandparents in Louisiana, and I'm alone, in the quiet, to take a personal inventory, a life self-exam, which is very scary. The flavor of the day is Starbucks Tarrazu (a gift from Donna Zinn), which is superb—even though I got the grind wrong! Drinking from Andrée’s Rooster Mug (it reminds her of France), I feel like I have her close to me. Chuck Loeb is playing a great riff in the background (the house was too quiet!).

I was told to never drink after anyone, and by no means should I put my mouth to a water fountain. The warning always came with the tag: “You’ll get trench mouth!” As I got older, I realized that I never knew anyone who contracted trench mouth, so my best friend, John Wimsatt, and I started drinking out of each other’s glasses. There were no apparent side effects. My mother was still horrified. I’ve often wondered if she was more worried that I’d catch “Catholic”, which John was, more than any biological disorder. No trench mouth and I remain pretty firmly Protestant.

So I sip from Andrée's mug and think about having her close. Even when you aren’t fully engaged in a house with people, there’s proximity with them that is always, shall we say, “streaming”—to borrow a net word. The stream is broken when they leave. Like most mugs that belong to females, this one has been through the dishwasher but still has a slight remnant of her Revlon Coffee Bean #101 on the rim.

She’s tortured me with that lipstick ever since we dated. My first encounter with it in a personal way was just after I’d professed my love for her. Before making my 7:45 Greek class, I put a note on her car that read “Good morning Sweetie! I love you!” Later that day, I found a note under the wipers on my car. She had taken my note, blotted her lipstick on it in the shape of a kiss and wrote, “I love you too!” I went through a molecular destabilization on par with that of mutated superheroes. I still have that note.

I write this entry, I think, because my heart is preoccupied with the events of the past few days. A husband and father from our church, very much like me, buried his soul mate yesterday. He had tons of time to prepare for it, but how can you prepare for what it does to you when the house is too quiet? Would you still listen for the garage door to open as if she’s returning from the grocery? How does one ever stand at a sink again to brush your teeth or comb your hair? She was always there—either right there, or “streaming” somewhere around the house. What do you do with all the stuff? Her stuff? Everything you touch tells a story. The story of you, together. I wouldn’t get past the lipstick drawer for years.

I drink great coffee from a special mug, tainted with just a tinge of lipstick, a tinge of her. Our dog likes to lounge on an article of her clothing. The 3-year old wants to sit in her lap and touch a mole on her neck. I understand now. We need contact points when those we love aren’t around. We need them with God too. The patriarch, Jacob, needed some rocks at Bethel to remind him of God’s presence, a tangible reminder. My dog needs something from the dirty clothes. I need to put my mouth to a ceramic utensil that bears the imprint of my wife's lips. To do so is to have her here, with me in the quiet.