Humor Me, Part 1

C.J’s Journal...Wednesday, September 24, 2008, "Somewhere in my yard..."

The daily report...So, after locking my keys in my office and having to track down a spare set of keys from my assistant - I was beat. I had been working pretty much since 5 a.m. that morning. I was now debating whether to go to the grocery store and grab some stuff for the weekly Patrick Crossing meal or just go home and crash. I finally decided that I would just do it and get it over with. So, I bought the groceries for Patrick Crossing along with some nice, fresh chicken for the grill to cook up for the family that night.

When I got home, I noticed fresh mole hills all over my yard. I groaned. I have a mutant version of moles. They thrive on poison, fire, flooding, ammonia and smoke bombs. Recently, I had purchased several boxes of the little smoke bombs that you light and drop down into the holes. Excited the next morning to see whether or not this newest tactic had worked, I strolled down the yard to the place of the worst infestation. I was chagrined not only to see a fresh pile of dirt, but one of the smoke bombs pushed to the top of the hill and perched like a birthday candle. It was like they were hoisting their thin, wispy limbs and giving me the paw. They are like Pharaoh of the Old Testament. No matter what plague I throw at them, they continue to harden their hearts. I have stood in my yard when no one was around (after dark) and in my best Charlton Hesston voice have solemnly cried out, "Let my yard goooooo."

They are now moving from spot to spot. It seems that I am herding them. I long to whack these blind, buck-toothed demons over the head – like that old arcade game – but these cowards refuse to pop their heads up as I greedily stand above their holes with my 9 iron. I am now trying the smoke bombs along with something called, "Uncle Ian's Mole Repellent." (Ingredients: 89% dried blood - no joke). I discovered something about smoke bombs. They actually explode. But I am getting ahead of myself. Before I went out on my nightly mole reconnaissance, I lit the grill and threw the chicken on....

Back to the moles.......So, I am bent over a hole trying a new technique - light two bombs at the same time and drop them in different holes - kind of a Nazi panzer/pincer strategy. The first bomb goes down nicely. I quickly drop the second bomb and it gets stuck. A cloud of toxic smoke is now swirling about my head. I shove real hard on the non-business end of the eight inch incendiary device and... "boom!" The mole bomb blows up in my hand. I am now missing all of the hair on my right forefinger and black scorch marks are trailing up my arm.

But now.....what's that? I smell smoke - an odd smelling smoke - and hear a commotion in the house. I trot back in to wash off the putrid smell of burnt flesh and finger hair stubble and see my family all closing windows and chatting about the smoke. ("Boy that is some smoke. That is really smoky smoke...Smoke, Smoke, Smoke, Smoke...bad smoke.") No one has checked the grill because they think I am outside attending it. I grumble and fly past them to go see about the smoke. As I round the corner, I see flames shooting up the side of my house - three of the logs on my freshly stained log house are seriously blackened and smoking. There is also a dangling, dripping melted cable from my satellite dish - completely fried. I dive in under the flames, grab the grill and pull it away from the house, torching up my fingers, all the while yelling for water.

For whatever inexplicable, boneheaded reason, I decide that I need to check on the chicken. I grab the handle, scream in pain, and am greeted by the fires of hell thirstily switching directions toward this massive new inflow of fresh air. More hair is singed off. Sadly - when the flames die down - I see what appear to be 10 charcoal briquettes resting on the grill. A few minutes ago these were fresh chicken thighs with great potential - now, nothing but charred remains of a once well-intentioned meal.

Martin Luther, he of Protestant fame, spoke often about laughter in the midst of the annoying and painful trials of life. He said this: “The best way to drive out the devil, if he will not yield to the texts of Scripture, is to jeer and flout him, for he cannot bear scorn.” His thought was that laughter is a form of spiritual warfare - that it brings great disappointment and even discouragement to the forces of hell. I like that thought...

Some people - a lot of people - are way too serious and, take themselves too seriously. That seriousness becomes a relational repellent. But beyond that, those who walk through life by taking themselves and the various trials of life way too seriously are – to put it bluntly – liars. They are people who see a molehill and tell you it is a mountain...

(We will be hanging around the subject of humor for awhile...See you soon.)

Becoming A Self-Centered Christian, Part 3

There is a lonely and silent aspect to the Christian life that many find unbearable. Jesus calls us aside and beckons us to a quiet place in order to speak to us, to heal us and to give us clear direction. The silence is deafening. We prefer action, movement and cacophony. It is the world in which we live. In a song written several years ago, Randy Stonehill caught up to our sickness with these words: “It’s the fear of silence that gives us away. ‘Cause when we’re alone, we have to hear, what our aching heart’s trying to say.”

There is a pride attached to busyness. To be burned out and bone-tired is a badge of honor. There are not many who like to answer the question: “So what have you been up to?“ with: “I have been working on slowing down, relaxing and being quiet before the Lord.” There is no “snap” to such a reply. Rather, we much prefer to share a litany of suspect accomplishments in order to secure our place in the “world of worth” based upon our exhaustion. If we are more exhausted than our neighbor, we win.

This game of one-upmanship has one other benefit – it creates space. If I can convince enough people that I am about to become unhinged because of my busyness, then, “They’ll leave me the hell alone.” Oftentimes, the distancing that takes place by our projected busyness includes our spouse, our children, and our friends. If we succeed, and are left “the hell alone” – that is usually what we get - hell…alone.

“Hell alone” is the wrong kind of quietness because it is not all that quiet. It is a cave with many voices echoing in disunity throughout our internal world. There is one voice that begins a conversation with: “Man, I wish I made more money and had a better job…” and before that sentence is even finished, another voice interrupts with: “I can’t believe how he/she treated me today…” and, before that thought is completed: “I hate the way I have let myself go…” and on, and on. All of the voices “appear” to be our own voice. I suspect however that the voices we hear as our own are borrowed from a more malevolent source. The Dark Lord, the master of confusion, has littered our mind with a world of anxious offenses and faithless ideas. He then, in a grand act of hellish ventriloquism, uses our voice to create his own inner playground of torment. We awake the next day – not so much as one who is alive - but as one who merely exists.

We are called to a better existence. It begins with a dose of what we have called Christian narcissism. If I am not caught up in “me”, I will be no good to Him – or anyone else. It seems strangely antithetical to all of what we have understood Christianity to be – populated with such themes as: love of others, self-sacrifice, and good works. The effort we are called to give seems to be “other” oriented. But here is the thing – the inner reserve for such selfless living is actually fueled by self-centered attentions.

Early in His public ministry, Jesus demonstrated what we have been discussing. In the Gospel of Mark, in one day, Jesus heals a man at the local synagogue in Capernaum, and then ends up at the home of Peter’s mother-in law. The poor lady is so ill she cannot even put some dinner out for Jesus and his disciples. That is a very embarrassing situation for a Mideast Jewish host. Jesus heals the woman and she immediately runs to the kitchen and, as Mark tells us, “…begins to serve them.” It took about a minute for the word to travel around the village. Before night fell, the yard was full of the moaning sick and the howling demonized. Jesus healed them all. And then what? He left the scene of busyness and success and we find these penetrating words from Mark: “Very early in the morning, while it was still dark, He got up, went out, and made His way to a lonely place, and there He prayed.” Mark 1:35. This moment of apparent “narcissism” didn’t sit well with the disciples. When they finally tracked Jesus down, they were all in a bother about the crowds that had already gathered at revival central, formally known as the in-law’s house. Jesus would have none of it. Neither the pleasure of perceived success, nor the pride of laborious busyness could detract Him from His mission. It was in the quiet place that He was given His direction for that day.

I close with a word about false humility. Real humility is a good thing. God tells us to humble ourselves so that we will be lifted up at the right time. [Just a side note: God doesn’t humble us – He tells us to humble ourselves. It is interesting to note that the method of demonstrating humility, of humbling ourselves, falls nicely into the category of Christian narcissism. According to the Epistle of Peter, we demonstrate humility by: “Casting all of our cares upon Him.” This is the lonely act, the selfish act. All of those cavernous echoing voices meet their match as we humbly cast our cares upon Him. See I Peter 5:6, 7] False humility is not real humility. False humility is characterized by a person who constantly belittles his or her own spiritual vitality or future spiritual prospects. Phrases such as: “I am still just a sinner saved by grace” is not so much a sign of humility as it is a flashing sign that announces: “Beware – I am still so enamored of my flesh that I can go off at any moment and behave as if…I am still a sinner.” While the phrase sounds spiritual – it is anything but. We can run up any number of things that is offensive to God: gossip; lust (boys will be boys); blue humor; unforgiveness; greed; covetousness; anger; etc. – so long as we end with the phrase: ““I am still just a sinner saved by grace.” It is the Protestant equivalent of priestly absolution. This phrase betrays a lack of lonely time spent with the Master where all such things are weakened and then vanquished – not justified. Only a purposeful narcissist will care enough to find that quiet place where all can, and will be, healed.