Hybrid

I’m to never leave out the chinkapin burrs
from my public readings,
or even those private dialogues with friends,
their ghost-hands clenching chamomile citrus
like mighty leaves. The couples we know are especially transparent
in the chairs of our home—domestic pews with felt tipped
legs serving to ease some pain as we drift
from newness. Dogwood and two birds.
I, Imagine they are eighty-five yards away—I could just . . .
touch, weep, invite, steward with one great pass and reception—
this boy and mud.

My eighteen-month old son toddles around—his diaper feathered
vision of beauty flying out
to the other bird—I forgive the clichés in my daily sin life
and reach to embrace him
grasping so tight
kissing his cheek—
my own private betrayal.
once so ambitious, I pounce from dream to dream
until my feet are left supporting ridiculous joints. I’m now
reaching to put this cutting edge mouth-piece into my jaws.
I’m oak-rogue and hard-chested, my teeth
lend new swing-line agility.

Reflection on John 4:1-42

Perhaps, Jesus “had” (v. 4) to go through Samaria because it was really important for him to meet this woman at the well.  The very intimate, one-on-one conversation, ends up touching the woman in a profound way.  Her brush with Jesus turns her life around.  In a short span of time, the reader witnesses the transformation of a woman who, at the onset, is living in shame and operating in isolation.  But, by the end of the narrative, she is the catalyst for a whole town’s renewal.

More than deriving bullet points highlighting evangelism strategy points from the model of Jesus’ missional agenda, I believe the true water to be drawn here lies in the well of his relational connecting.  The greatest lovers know that trust is the currency that moves the cart.  Shady hoaxers give the mere perception of trust and abandon ship when it comes time for accounting.  Jesus offers himself:  the full depth of gushing, white-spray propelling life.  And he has the game to back it up.  This pericope is a sample bite of the “greatest story ever told.”  The narrative through scriptures of how God loves us so deeply and intimately–when we are but touched by Him we are propelled ourselves to gush upon others.  Jesus speaks to the woman’s soul thirst.  Story and parable convey a way of life, or, you could say a culture, an ethos.  Metaphor is the atom of story.  We have to but step into it in humble admission.

There are so many sociocultural, historical, religious, and emotional  barriers present here to prevent these two people from jiving.  Just like there are reasons a get-together or gathering bombs, even with the right food and right music.  There just wasn’t the ‘it’ we feel as we slip bashfully out the door.  Jesus has ‘it’. He and the woman salsa in conversation on a dance floor with no room for jealous men standing rigidly on the walls.   They, who had the courage to stand out of bounds in the margins to allow for unconventional wisdom.  She who was not defensive, but was compelled to share her life with a stranger–drawn into the story, truly moved to worship.  Drenched with love.  The fusion of the common-ordinary-everyday with the eternal.

late nite ramble: leadership in a missional movement

John Hayes, in his book Sub-merge, addressing the question “what is your model” writes that his teams “were often using more than one model of empowerment to realize the potential of a neighborhood”  Each place, he remarks, is different and “reflects the unique genetic code of hopes and aptitudes present among the poor and among our team members.” He and his teams found their ministry to be most effective when driven by story, which are accessible, attractive and memorable for most cultures. Turning to the Gospel narratives was a great tool for them, and they found their culture of ministry to be low-tech and mostly oral.

I believe the crucial dynamic here is that training, or “curriculum”, is spread across a level plane, like peanut butter over bread.   It is not elitist, complex, or programmatic.  It is woven into the Gospel stories–meaningful  because they were picked at freely–the meat in the middle and the hot pot for all– as a palatable feast and exchange like a bazaar, voices volleying Wimbledon quick over market cobblestone.  More succinctly:  power is held horizontally by all and not handed down from above like some secret jewel.   Accessible.  The spirit of Gutenberg.

Inagrace Diettrich drafts chapter 6 called:  “Cultivating Communities of the Holy Spirit” in the book Missional Church.  In a similar movement, she argues that a powerful witness of missional communities resides in how they “share power and influence in their decision making.”  This is counter to the decision making culture of the church which usually falls within an organizational framework.  Communal decision making according to Diettrich is pneumocratic (rule of the Holy Spirit) where authority “is found neither in particular status nor in majority opinion. It is dispersed throughout the whole body through the illumination and empowerment of the Spirit.”  Once again, what is necessitated here, is the overturn of a hierarchical structure of authority flowing from the top to the bottom.  It is the peanut butter dynamism at work again–dialogue, listening, trusting, offering–power spread across a plane.

I used tell students I worked with while a staff worker with InterVarsity at the UW that we needed to go ho.  This was a phrase I borrowed from my ultimate frisbee days that is short for Go Horizontal. What I meant in this was that we needed to build a fellowship structure/culture that was horizontal.  Where our patterns of decision-making and leading and ministering were stretched or unfolded or kneaded in such a way that power was distributed across the board.  The impetus behind this call to “lay-out” came in the observation that we, especially in the leadership team, had grown stagnant.  We were too set in our structures, too set in system of vertical role and entitlement.

When the protection of role, status, and title become paramount, a culture of authority where leaders “lord it over” others becomes tantamount to or even greater than the vision which first moved the group in a fresh spirit of servanthood.  The water must be kept fresh and flowing at all times.

The missional leader is an artist of discernment and a super-encourager.  She is a skillful story-teller, able to weave individual stories and articulate them as a larger, unified narrative.  The story of God and his people.  The story of our community right now in this time, during this crisis, at this crossroads.  The green leaf of Aaron’s staff in the midst of our fear–we will move in faith. In this room, a child can speak and elders fall to their knees in humble conviction.

Tantrum

Just today, I was home with Isaiah who was sick and held from daycare. Being a curious bird, Isaiah is constantly getting into things:  drawers, cabinets, dog food, poker chips, Christian’s canned foods, toilet bowl.  On this day, Isaiah was getting into Daddy’s important things. I firmly said “No, Isaiah” and carried him away from my vital documents.  As I set him down on the floor, he preceded to kick and scream and cry and flail his arms wildly at me.  Then, he stood up and began making a bee-line for the forbidden zone.  Now this is pretty new behavior for him and a new challenge for a first time father like me.  I said “No” again and moved him away after which, the true Sim emotion and will manifested itself right before my eyes.  Isaiah was kicking and screaming and crying and flailing and jumping up and down and crazily diving onto the floor, flopping around dramatically . . . wow I thought  I’m glad I’m not at Safeway.  What a baby!

Reflecting on this incident now, I realize that though I can easily write Isaiah’s behavior off as him ‘just being a baby’, I can strangely remember moments when I myself, the big adult, have felt as frustrated, as angry, as powerless and have behaved as irrationally, though maybe not as demonstrably.  At least Isaiah has the ‘lack of articulation’ in his defense.  As adults, we may still throw tantrums, but it is definitely unacceptable.  Please see Rachel Maddow’s conversation with Melissa Harris-Lacewell here

right wing racism revealed

for a ‘wise’ discussion on emotional tantrums.

Back to the word powerless I wrote above.  In my experience it is often the luxury of the powerful and ‘in charge’ to be the cool and articulate ones, as they look down cautiously at the silly people  raging and pounding their chests around them.  But what happens when the cool get on tilt?

A good illustration of this is the evolution of Jack Nicholson during the trial in the movie A Few Good Men.  To start, his character was a smooth, dignified, well-respected, and powerful man.  But I love how Tom Cruise draws the monster out of him as the scene progresses, culminating into an insert foot in mouth incident–you’re damn right he ordered that code red!

Seems like there’s been a lot of revealed monsters these days in the great US of A.  The image I get is of a kid lifting a big rock away from the ground to find moist soil along with a hidden world of crawling things: rolie polies, centipedes, beatles, etc.  A lot of shocking bugs being revealed these days in this season of economic turmoil and change.  In the midst of this, we’ve seen a housing market crumble under shady lending practices, big powerhouse banks and automotive giants go down, politicians drop like flies in scandal (or just drop off for no apparent reason at all), execs get fined and investment managers go to jail.  To throw fuel on the fire:  many of our baseball heroes have actually been juicing up all along.  What the heck?  Makes you not want to turn over those rocks for fear of what more lies beneath.   I feel like Cops and Cheaters should stop going to Lakewood and hang out on Wall Street and Capitol Hill some time for the real scandal and drama.

The monster is definitely being unleashed.  It was always there, tucked away, brought out like hornets from a fallen nest.    After the ridiculousness revealed in Wall Street, why would I ever trust big money and big corporation?  Quite frankly, I’m thankful for the Fed and its regulating these days.  I would love to see more light and truth shed on greed and corruption in our country.  The greed and corruption of the few, rich white male elite seems to me to be the real enemy of capitalism.  More should be done to shed light.  More should be done to regulate.  Can we ask how is Med Street serving Main Street?  It’s not like it ain’t already broke now.

Cleaning house is so hard when you’re facing comfort and privilege as an opponent.  It hurts.  And things could get outright vicious.  Our country is in desperate need of a new generation of leaders with character and integrity to match their authentic servant hearts.  Folks who won’t sell out and will do the thing right.  We should take all the teachers in the cities and towns  and make them CEO’s and politicians, because at least we would know for sure that they won’t be in it for the money, but for the love.

I tell a lot of young in-their 20’s folk that I think they will be the change agents of the future.  We need to get juiced on character and integrity. I think the emerging leaders of color, especially, have much to offer.   I believe it is a necessity, an imperative, and inevitability that the platform for the minority voice in America grow.  There’s a natural discourse and relationship with suffering involved here.  Suffering lends to character when dosed with vision and love, and unadulterated by privilege.   I pray for our nation to have the humility to sit at the feet of those wise voices and learn.

How did I get off on all of that?  So Isaiah threw a tantrum today.  All the books say the best thing to do is not panic or react, show him you’re there with him and loving him, but stay firm.  I hugged Isaiah and played vrrooom vrrrooom with the cars for the next hour.

Refuse to Lose

I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m a hard-core homer when it comes to sports.  Huskies, Seahawks, Sounders, Mariners, Son–uhhh (ouch).  Seattle, Seattle, Seattle.  I believe.  Now is always the time.

I always hope that my team will turn it around and make the play-offs until they are absolutely mathematically out of it.  Until then, my heart is out there, raw and pumping–vulnerable with loyalty and belief.

My voice of reason points out that the M’s are at this very moment in a nose-dive out of contention.   No doubt they have teased even the most cynical of us with some hope:  is the mojo back? Reason urges me to draw back into self-protection (convincing others to do the same) before my heart is crushed and  I am left sitting enraged and frustrated, provoked even more by 95 degree frickin weather.  Isaiah bouncing up and down, screaming, crying, fists clenched for his bottle–empty, empty, empty.  Is there a God in heaven?

The smart thing to do would be to let go, look to the future, and trade away some of our guys while they have value with the deadline looming.  The smart thing to do is let it all slide off the back, roll with the punches, and laugh it off.

So it is with people and friendships and those we invest in and lead and mentor and father and raise.  We don’t put it out there.  We don’t chase.  We don’t become pot-committed.  Or go sky-diving with Albert Brennaman.  Our scars–they still smart and we remain elusive as if in a gaggle of strangers, though we call them family.

In ‘95 the M’s were 13 games behind the Angels in the middle of August.  We went 25-11 the rest of the way to force a one game play-off with California after which we clinched our first play-off birth.  The Mariners of 1995  Refuse to Lose.

As the M’s are getting whipped tonight 11-4 by the Blue Jays–I’m reflecting, fighting off the desire to punch something.  Reflecting on a spiritual analogy, self-teaching moment.  How I’ve learned to give up too soon on people.  How I diss God, tired of waiting.  The entropy of losing.  The sickness of hope deferred dominates my posture and the way I walk and let conversations end.  Vision and excitement disintegrate like cotton candy.

But I want to refuse to lose! I want anyone reading this to refuse as well– keeping her raw, pumping heart out on the table.  Heart on his sleeve like kimchee, beer, and conversation.  We’ve not been promised painlessness–but we’ve been given Presence and this is sweet, sweet, sweet.  It is not time to sell.  We are buyers today.

I’m a Dad? Get me Maury.

I thought  I was a pretty  selfless guy . . . until I got married.  What a crucible and reality check.   I’ve looked at the man in the mirror and seen the true depth of his selfishness.  The scene is playing in my head now–an image and a tune. My wife’s voice and an oven mitt for a white sequin glove– the hand on hip:  if you wanna make this house a betta place, you gotta get off that couch and wash this diiiissssh!!!

Shananah na na na nah!  Secret recipe and true story:  happy wife, happy life.

Isaiah

Enter Isaiah.  I have become increasingly aware of an amorphous mush ball of insecurity in my gut.  I will never be ‘man’ enough to raise this boy into a man.  Even at the age of one,  I sense he gazes up at me seeking the Tiger.  I feel but a kitty.  This is enough to make me want to bail.

I remember Henri Nouwen writing about how he interacted with the parable of the lost son differently at various seasons in his life.  In his book, The Return of the Prodigal Son,  he writes how, earlier in his life, he resonated exclusively with the renegade younger son.  Later, however, he transitioned into a season when he played the role of the joy-sapped, dutiful older son.  And finally, he felt challenged by the call to love and embrace as a gracious father to people in his life and under his care.  I’m a rogue son learning to be a father.  Pray there’s room to crash and burn without too many casualties.  Is anyone dead?  Did anyone lose their faith?

The Father’s love.  Running at you, full sprint.  Undignified.  Unconditionally bear-hugging you.  Pawing you and anointing you with kisses.  You’ve come home.  He loves you just the way you are–more than Darcy.   For who you are, in the most profound way.  Ring on your finger, cloak around your shoulders.  Claimed.

Suddenly, I feel ashamed for those times stealing bites of Isaiah’s food.  Do you see how small and skinny he is, and, come on, do I really look like I need to eat more? What is the weird welling of resent I feel when my wife isn’t lavishing undivided attention to me? I want to kick my dog Edie.  It seems so out of place, so juvenile.  This instinct for passiveness and withdrawal–when intimacy doesn’t seem to jive with my weapons cache of competence.  Glued to my computer when Isaiah’s been tugging at my pant leg, looking up at me for engagement.

Really, I don’t know how much I have to give.  There are moments I could just Richard Jefferson on out of here.  The need to be on all the time.  To be responsible, present, engaged and above reproach.  To be able and willing to change a crappy diaper at a moments notice.  Now that’s love.

I believe this a part of living the ‘epic life’.  This heart-stretching nonsense.  Sheer boredom and masochism.   Not just to have enough to be a father to Zaiah, but to give away my father’s love to those God has entrusted to me to love in the church–as well as the stranger who walks hungry and naked before me.  The wide, wide arms of a father.  Really, I don’t have enough to love my son, as cute as he is.  There will always be times where my immediate instinct for self-preservation/survival will trump even the vision of posterity.  I will cannabalize myself every once and while for the pleasure of jacob’s damn soup.  Yet it must be inn beauty, that his grace propels me to love all with a father’s wild abandon.  Unleash me.

Going Postal: a look back at a season of growth

Me and Jose

When I left campus ministry a few years ago, I needed to land a job to pay the mortgage and put food on the table.  Granted, it wasn’t going to take landing anything spectacular to replace my InterVarsity paycheck, but still, the transition was as real as buying my wife a new pair of jeans and taking care of that leak in the basement.  My rescuer at this crossroads and time of need was none other than the United States Postal Service.

What a weird time.  I still can’t believe I was a bona fide friendly neighborhood mailman for two years!  I’ll never forget working the 6 days/wk for 50+ hours, hiking suburban hills around Wallingford/Grnlk, climbing ridiculous amounts of stairs to reach door slots, tripping on the way down and dropping the perfectly ordered mail, then having to trek back up moss grown slick stairs to make the next delivery.  The worst thing was realizing you forgot to drop that 30lb package in your satchel off at the last house, or discovering to great dismay that you’ve been day-dreaming while delivering the mail one house number off for the whole block.  I miss all those dogs–”man’s best friend”–giving me heart attacks as they lunged at me from outta nowhere, at gates or inside windows or on porches, barking viciously.  I always had my pepper spray close at hand, ready to go Will Smith on those canines!

Gary and Me

Those were the hell times:  10 hour days of hardcore mail delivery followed by 3 hours of class in the evening.  Working 6 days a week, taking 3 masters-level classes, and serving at church on sundays.  rough, rough days.  But when I look back, I see that time as a very formative and life-giving season of rest.  A time where my heart–in it’s wailing ambition and screeching frustrations (along with the rage)–found peace and solace in the chest of the Great One.  By all accounts, in the eyes of the elite in this culture, I was going nowhere.  God, however, had me where He wanted me.

Kung Fu Panda

But aside from the physical rigor (I did get pretty ripped), a really good part of the job was all the time of solitude I got to spend walking outside in God’s creation.  I remember walking my 15 minute swings (up one side of a street, then back) and just chanting something simple like  “thy kingdom come thy will be done” under my breath as a constant prayer.  Then on the next swing I would breath continuously “less of me, more of you”. Try 5 or so hours of that straight and you start to become what you pray.  This, I believe is the meaning of ‘abide’.  God was teaching me to be still.  Telling me in whispers that He loved me no matter what I was doing.

I met some good people with the USPS.  I really enjoyed the 2-3 hours of ‘casing’ in the office in the morning.  It was a zoo with all the loud banter, singing, and joshing each other.  But there were also times of depth.  People new I was an aspiring pastor, and they would definitely test me or bear their hearts to me.  They also had a lot to offer and teach me.  The USPS is one of the most diverse companies in the US–and every day was a glimpse of the Kingdom.  Good times.  Good guys.  Here’s a shout out to my boyz at Wally World!

My encouragement to anyone going through a rough patch:  look to your relationships.  What is God saying to you right now?  How can you love like a champion those who are around you?

Insomnia

I’m in that place–the jacked up, confusing spot.  Like a playa with out-dated pick-up lines, stuttering in a new economy.  There are big changes ahead and how have you been investing your time, your talents, your God-given gifts–as if Jesus were singing:  oo — oo — oo-yeah. What have I done for him lately?  Beats me.  Coasting and blaming, more than likely.

I’m searching the shadows–in blogs and old essays–for memories and residual love—nostalgia and vision-falls, abundant and wet.  When I was such a fiery radical.  IV is so yesterday and now I think I’m dying with the vine.  Me, a slick seal now drunk wobbling speculatively for rebirth under mashed-potatoed skies like a .ob penny stock.

Wife and child are sound asleep now in this quiet townhouse.  I’m pushed to prayer, but it’s so dang hard with the bursa sacks of my heart inflamed, joints grating.  I’m too young to be so arthritic.  No doubt, Jesus’ grace is around the corner . . . and somewhere here in all this muddle, I’m to act.  Bust out and dance like I’m Bad, jamon . . . you know it.

Jesus, here I am, your servant–your Kingdom come your Will be done.  Just let me take part in the ride–whether it be small or large.  Give me a little boost here:  with my white glove, toe-tap, and twirl–we’ll moonwalk outta here–so smooth–and into bed.  In the morning we’ll continue to live the epic life.  Faithfully, with humility.