A New Christian Holiday Brought To You By Patrick Crossing!

Throughout a significant portion of Christendom, a couple of weeks ago marked the beginning of the Lenten Season with the starting point being, of course, Ash Wednesday. It is a tradition both rich in history, significance and not a little abuse - the most notable of the latter being the wild day of debauchery immediately preceding known as Fat Tuesday. While Ash Wednesday is supposed to replicate a period of forty days of spiritual reflection, fasting, repentance and sacrifice - Fat Tuesday is more like a bachelor party.

            The term Fat Tuesday is the anglicized translation of the French words, Marti Gras. So...is anyone surprised that getting glassy-eyed, drooly plastered and indulging in as much lewdness, leering, lust, lechery, lasciviousness, and leeching as possible – carries with it a French connection?  "Oui! I am about to embark on zee season of fasting, prayer, Almsgiving, and deep reflection regarding zee Passion of zee Christ. Come; let us get skunk-faced!"              

            Lest you think I am being overly harsh on the French, I will humbly acknowledge that just eight days after the beginning of the Lenten Season, when we are supposed to be thinking seriously about our personal wretchedness, the Irish offer us a Lenten "time-out" known as St. Patrick's Day. Last year, as our Celtic Band played at the local pub for St. Paddy’s, I felt as though I were sitting in the midst of the “end o’day” scene from the movie, The Matrix. It was sweaty, pulsating, malodorous, loud and confusing. I had to crowd surf to get to the bathroom. This year I decided to not wear my kilt. (Please contact me on Facebook for a list of reasons). St. Paddy’s Day has become Fat Tuesday on crack.

            There was a paucity of religious observances in the tradition in which I was raised. We said a few words about Christmas and Easter; but otherwise we were markedly, "low church". We had no affinity for such high church traditions as Ash Wednesday, Palm Sunday, Pentecost Sunday, Advent and such.  And, we sure the heck didn’t acknowledge any Saints, except for the St. Louis Cardinals.

            We really didn’t need a special season to feel bad about ourselves. Our preachers pretty much took up that issue every Sunday. As a child, I was raised with bromides. (Note: Bromides: The term "bromide" derives from the antiquated use of certain bromide salts in medicine - usually sodium bromide but also potassium bromide - as a mild tranquilizer or sedative). Brother Bill, as we called him, from a church in our area, loved to thunder: “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”  It was his favorite aphorism, which, because of consistent overuse, became a bromide. After awhile, it lost its ability to trouble, much less terrify. It made us sleepy.

            Most of the sermons could be broken down into three basic categories: “You don’t come enough! You don’t do enough! You don’t give enough!” If it was a really long sermon, the preacher could easily cover all three.  At one revival meeting I attended, the Preacher shouted: “John was called the Baptist! He baptized Jesus! Therefore - Jesus was a Baptist!” (It would be years later that I would become enamored of the discipline of philosophy where I studied, among other things, the area of logic. Within that broad category is the sub-category of deductive reasoning.  A decent example of good deductive reason would go like this: 1) All birds sing 2) A Robin is a bird 3) Therefore, Robins sing.  A flawed example of deductive reasoning would go something like this: 1) All birds sing 2) My daughter Molly sings 3) Molly is a bird. Or, see above: Jesus was a Baptist).

            Sadly, in the past, I have tried to motivate people, congregations, my wife and my kids through guilt. It only works until they are out of site. It also causes resentment.  There are three things I have learned about by trying to motivate people in this way: 1) Guilt-tripping is too much work – you always have to raise the bar. 2) It carries within itself the seeds of its own destruction – eventually people will flee because they already feel pretty poorly about themselves absent my input; and, 3) Guilty Christians are an oxymoron and therefore unattractive. Proselytizing becomes a non-issue – why would a stranger to the faith exchange one misery that they are accustomed to for one which requires missing pre-game during the football season?

            The announcement of strict religious observance seems instinctively to set off a rebellion of panic within most people. Whether it is a seasonal thing like Lent, or a steady dose such as I received in my formative years - there is a yin and yang, a good and an evil, a Luke & a Darth wandering about and at war within all of us. We can only take so much of rules, regulations, and sacrifices, before we explode. Every Ash Wednesday seems to demand its Fat Tuesday.

            But, is that point of Christianity – causing people to explode – or to always feel like exploding?  Are we promoting a schizophrenic religion that pushes for seasons of sorrow that is preceded by, interrupted and followed by Athenian decadence? Is that a good plan? I think not. You see, I do not feel any particular loyalty to either increased depravity or augmented religiosity. They can both be traps that leave us alienated from our true purpose.

            Jesus stared down this dichotomy in response to His critics with these words…

For John [the Baptist] came neither eating nor drinking, and they say, ‘He has a demon.’ The Son of Man came eating and drinking, and they say, ‘Here is a glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and sinners.’ But wisdom is proved right by her deeds.” Matthew 11:18,10

            Do you get that?  John the Baptist lived the life of Lent – every day of his life. And, without meaning to sound at all blasphemous or disrespectful of Jesus - the rap coming from his critics seemed to suggest that He represented a version of Fat Tuesday every day of His life.

            The larger point to be made is that neither life – one that appeared outwardly austere or one that appeared outwardly free, could please the expectations of established, organized religion. Why? - Because the rules always change and the goalposts are always on the move. One man’s spirituality is another man’s burden. One man’s freedom is another man’s sin.

            For the Christian – for the one who truly understands the freedom we have in Christ – the freedom for which it was His purpose to live and to die – every day is, if you would, both Fat Tuesday and Ash Wednesday. It is "Fat Ash" if you would...

            Now, do we pay attention to holiness and goodness? Sure, but Jesus told us not to make a show of it. Do we celebrate freedom from rules and endless regulations? Yes, but we are not to make a show of that either. You see, for the Christian who is “getting it” – neither freedom nor holiness is calculated, nor are they separate issues. Freedom and holiness are cut from the same cloth. We are free because we are holy. We are holy because we have been made free. It is a beautiful spontaneity. “Planning” to be holy – to get your “holy on” say…next Wednesday…simply stirs the pot of rebellion in one’s own heart. It is the religious antithesis of the Fat Tuesday phrase: “Let’s go get wasted.” Both are dangerous. The first can make you feel spiritually superior – a very bad thing. The second usually fills you with some sort of regret – also a bad thing. Both are less than what Jesus has in mind for us.

            The last part of the above Scriptures has Jesus saying this: “But wisdom is proved right by her deeds.” In reference to John the Baptist, his wisdom was proven by His austerity. John needed to behave the way he did in order to outduel the religious, judgmental elites of his day. In other words – no one could claim to “out-holy” John. Thus, you find even the Pharisees lining up to get baptized. With Jesus, it was just the opposite. Was He holy? - Absolutely. But where do we find Jesus? He is constantly hanging out with the wrong crowd – the I.R.S. agents, the whores, the hounds and the misfits.

            His first miracle was making about 300 gallons of wine. When a significant portion of your disciples are sailors, wine depletion can be a major problem. Was that a necessary miracle? Yes, especially if you’re out to prove that the popular conception of God has become all twisted up by organized religion. A sermon I heard as a youth  which declared that Jesus had actually made up big vats of grape-juice at the wedding do not take into account the astonishment and pleasure of the Jewish Maitre’d who announced that the best wine had been saved for last.  Who is to question a Jewish wine expert?

            The point is this – being a Christian is not so much pre-planned, as it is simply, lived. Jesus signed up to walk out and work through this life with us, side by side. He makes it up as He goes. Yes, there are some things that are wrong that will always be wrong. There are such things as absolutes and propositional truths. I get that. But there also is a wide-field of freedom where Jesus will take us where we somehow sustain the path of holiness and freedom in the midst of a dark and hurting world. When we once step into that freedom, we will find two things: 1) We will never – EVER – want to go back; and, 2) We will gain a lot of critics – just like Jesus and just like John.  But that won’t really matter. We are designed, as believers, to please only One. Life is good when that becomes our standard. As Jesus said, “Wisdom is proved right (over time) by her deeds.’

            So, with that freedom in mind, let me be the first to announce that our ministry, Patrick Crossing, is declaring a brand new observance for the liturgical calendar. I am going to borrow an insight from a few paragraphs ago and announce the commencement of: “Fat Ash Day.”  I like it. It blends the spontaneity of freedom and the responsibility of holiness. Be sure and tell all your friends so this thing can go viral.

Be well blessed…

-CJ

Merry Christmas!

I was driving around town the other day trying to knock off a number of errands prior to the arrival of holiday guests. Before the day came to an end, I would run fourteen errands. With that much windshield time it was perhaps inevitable that a few things would cross my field of vision that would make it into your inbox.

I have a friend I call fairly regularly with my Durango traffic reports. Basically, these are nothing more than giving eyewitness updates regarding the bumper stickers I am reading while stuck in traffic. I only call with the best. For example, the other day I was following an 80’s era Ford Ranger that was happily belching out its emissions with the following pasted on its bumper: "Fossil Fuels Are Dead." Feel free to supply your own commentary. Normally, I do not swing at such softballs lobbed in my direction.

Yesterday had me reaching for my phone as I sat behind a car that was a rolling display of self-declaration. In the center at the top of the back window was a happy "Save The Whales" picture. Below that and to the left was a sticker that coldly announced: "I hate people!" On the left side of the bumper (where I suppose "bumper" stickers are meant to go) was this gem: "This is what an angry feminist looks like." And, finally - amazing for its endurance - was an old, raggedy "Kerry-Edwards" presidential campaign sticker.

My mind began to engage with each bumper sticker. I was wondering why anyone would care to announce that they were an angry feminist. One would probably figure that out pretty quick without the bumper sticker. And, one would also be wise not to mention it. "Oh...NOW I get it. YOU are one of those ANGRY feminists! That explains a lot!" (Obit: His friends called him C.J. He was 51 years old. He enjoyed cinnamon toast with lots of butter. He is survived by...Services will be held at...etc.)

And this - being a trained philosopher in the Socratic tradition, I wondered what the antithesis of an angry feminist might be? - a happy masculinist??? Hey, count me in. Order me a bumper sticker.

I like whales. And I do agree - people can be very trying, although I try not to hate them. But...with that much driving I also experienced a road-rage incident yesterday that temporarily lured me toward the "hate people" consideration - if only for a moment. Let me set it up for you. One of my errands yesterday was to get our ancient, decomposing old Pug, Moe over to the good folks at Puppy Love whose love for animals is truly St. Francis-like - the man who happily preached the gospel to small woodland creatures. (Perhaps he didn't like people either. We'll never know). Those nice ladies gave Moe a good Christmas bath and adorned his fat little neck with a dashing holiday scarf. As I was waiting at the intersection on my Moe pick-up run, I was happy to be in the front of the line awaiting the green light - a small grace. When it turned green, I eased out into the intersection, heading straight, matching the speed of traffic that was turning left. Evidently, because I didn't lay rubber when the light turned green, the crazed demoniac in the pick-up behind me became undone. I heard a loud, prolonged braying of his truck horn and noticed that both of his hands were off of his steering wheel. Both of those hands were going through the universal signage of displeased driver angst. I have witnessed this in every country in which I have had the pleasure of driving. It is a sign that my wife once scolded me for when we were driving in the Dominican Republic and I had no way of expressing my feelings fast enough in Spanish. It seemed to me an appropriate, short-handed (finger actually) lingua franca. And yes, my sign language WAS understood - no Spanish required. Jan really hates to be wrong.

Anyway...I proceeded through the intersection, giving the gesticulating fellow who was now riding my bumper (and still honking - now, little staccato beeps) the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he had an emergency. I held fast to that thought for about three seconds. I held it up to the very moment I saw him leave my train and take a hard, fast turn right into the liquor store that I had just passed. Evidently, "beer-thirty" had struck and I can only assume he was anxious they might sell out before he got there.

Yes - I like whales. On that I agree with the earlier mentioned driver - the angry feminist. I have gone whale-watching many times. In fact, Jan and I, along with my daughter Molly and son-in-law Erick, have gone sea-kayaking and paddled right above a mama whale and her calf. They were wonderful. I have never been flipped-off by a whale - at least not that I'm aware. Although I do remember once seeing a humpback whale, with its long pectoral fins, roll over and sort of wave at a boat I was on. Perhaps we were getting "the fin." I wouldn't have blamed him. Many folks were standing aft, leaning over the back rail and steadily depositing their previously consumed breakfast into the whale's living room.

I do have a point - a Merry Christmas point - with all of this verbal sauntering. Christmas is a reminder that God created everything and called it good - whales and all. According to the narrative, mankind screwed everything up because the word "no" in relation to just one freaking tree was too much. The whales didn't jump out of the ocean and take the forbidden fruit, nor did a mouse or an orangutan. It was us. Scripture tells us in Romans that all of creation "groans" for a restoration to occur that would bring all of creation back to Edenic beauty. The animal kingdom and all of nature suffers because of us. If a whale had a bumper sticker, I doubt that it would say anything all that flattering about mankind. God - at Christmas - began the process of changing it all back.

So - am I saying that God agrees with my angry feminist? Well, yes, at least the whale part. I wouldn't presume to comment regarding God's view of the Kerrey-Edwards ticket, or the angry feminist stuff - but I can guarantee you that God digs saving whales.

And, God digs saving people too. That is where He and the angry feminist would part company. Although, I would venture to guess that He could very well sympathize with that opinion - we being what we are. However, He doesn't hate us. In fact, the Bible tells us this: "But God demonstrated His love toward us, in that, while we were still sinners, Christ died for us." Romans 5:8.

Christmas is the beginning of the story that ends in Christ's death for us on the cross. That is God's mysterious plan that He has undertaken to "Save The Humans." That is His favorite bumper sticker.

I grew up a child of the sixties. While my parents tried their best to blunt the influence of drugs, sex, rock-n-roll, and all of that - it didn't mean for a second that it abated my curiosity. I always felt like I was missing out on something. One of the things I do remember - I think it was from a Coke commercial that ran during that era - was the that sense of a global, hand-holding community of people. Everyone from every nation was holding hands singing along with a beautiful hippie woman these words:

I'd like to build the world a home/and furnish it with love/grow apple trees and honey bees and snow white turtle doves...I'd like to teach the world to sing/in perfect harmony/I'd like to hold it in my arms and keep it company...

Then amazingly, the whole world starts singing in harmony about buying the world a Coke. That was before Coke became evil. Back then, that sugary product managed to bring the world together in a warm moment.

That's the world the world loves: One that is holding hands, singing in harmony, drinking Cokes and raising honey-bees. But that is not the world we live in and we all know it. We live in a world where the desperate need for a six-pack causes one driver to flip off another driver because, what - 7 seconds have been wasted? That's much closer to reality.

Yet, the hippie 60's image, the utopian moment captured in a song of mankind all holding hands is alluring. THAT image of mankind would, for even my angry feminist friend, transform the bumper sticker into "I love people." And some people pull this off - kind of. They are lovers of mankind. They love humanity. But so often - I would say most of the time - they can't lift a finger to help their neighbor. Or better, they will gladly lift a finger if their neighbor doesn't move fast enough through an intersection.

The point is this: God does both. He loves mankind. And, He loves you. You - in all of your craziness, inconsistency, hypocrisy, (Yes, even you are hypocrite! - Me too!) sin, self-centeredness - He loves you through it all. Read this - 700 hundred years....700 hundred years before Christmas, a man by the name of Isaiah was given a prophecy about Jesus that was so accurate it is breathtaking. I quote at length:

Isaiah 53

¹ Who believes what we've heard and seen? Who would have thought God's saving power would look like this? ^2-6The servant grew up before God—a scrawny seedling, a scrubby plant in a parched field. There was nothing attractive about him, nothing to cause us to take a second look. He was looked down on and passed over, a man who suffered, who knew pain firsthand. One look at him and people turned away. We looked down on him, thought he was scum. But the fact is, it was our pains he carried— our disfigurements, all the things wrong with us. We thought he brought it on himself, that God was punishing him for his own failures. But it was our sins that did that to him, that ripped and tore and crushed him—our sins! He took the punishment, and that made us whole. Through his bruises we get healed. We're all like sheep who've wandered off and gotten lost. We've all done our own thing, gone our own way. And God has piled all our sins, everything we've done wrong, on him, on him.^7-9He was beaten, he was tortured, but he didn't say a word. Like a lamb taken to be slaughtered and like a sheep being sheared, he took it all in silence. Justice miscarried, and he was led off— and did anyone really know what was happening? He died without a thought for his own welfare, beaten bloody for the sins of my people. They buried him with the wicked, threw him in a grave with a rich man, even though he'd never hurt a soul or said one word that wasn't true. ¹⁰Still, it's what God had in mind all along, to crush him with pain. The plan was that he give himself as an offering for sin so that he'd see life come from it—life, life, and more life. And God's plan will deeply prosper through him. ^11-12Out of that terrible travail of soul, he'll see that it's worth it and be glad he did it. Through what he experienced, my righteous one, my servant, will make many "righteous ones," as he himself carries the burden of their sins. Therefore I'll reward him extravagantly— the best of everything, the highest honors—Because he looked death in the face and didn't flinch, because he embraced the company of the lowest. He took on his own shoulders the sin of the many, he took up the cause of all the black sheep. "

And that's it - that is the Christmas message. You are loved. You were worth a visit from heaven. You were worth suffering and dying for. Hold that close to your heart, embrace it, revel in it - and your life will change forever.

Much Love & Merry Christmas,

CJ

Rest Up

I was having a quiet moment the other day seated by the fireplace and enjoying the shelter from what turned out to be a very blustery day. As the wind whipped and yelped outside I noticed a flock of leaves moving purposefully in the air toward my neighbor's yard. That made me very happy. Evidently God had better ideas for the use of my time than raking and bagging the deciduous remains from our row of ancient Cottonwood trees.

I have always lobbied pretty hard against raking. I think I read somewhere that someone said something about leaves providing a pleasant mulch for your yard. And because I have such a strong respect for the authority of the anonymous and ubiquitous "They said" folks, I have attached my natural disdain for this annual autumnal task to the wisdom represented by "them". I thus have a scientific botanical platform from which to form my non-raking philosophy. God firing up His leaf-blower seemed like an affirmation.

I also have made my peace with dandelions. Leaf -raking is the final task of yard chores for the summer. Dandelions are, for many people, the first business of spring - except for me. Rather than spreading poison, or worse yet, getting down on my knees with a little dandelion fork and digging them up - I treat dandelions with the gentle respect and admiration they deserve. These little yellow-headed prognosticators announce that the long winter has passed and that all shall be well. They summon the honey-bees. Nature is re-born once again.

I have a neighbor whose yard looks like astro-turf. It is a family sickness. The whole lot of them go to war each year with dandelion forks, rakes, pesticides and such. They even bag their lawn-clippings. For a brief period in my life I experienced "lawn-envy." I got past it. I like our yard. I like watching my wife bring to life crazy flower gardens that bespeak Edenic beauty. I like our Aspen trees that have stood up to both blizzards and hungry deer and which carry the scars of their desperate ravaging. I like to imagine that my neighbors say bad things about the guy who allows dandelions to grow unfettered and disgorge thousands - perhaps millions - of their tiny offspring to find temporary shelter in their overly manicured yards.

For the cynical reader, you might be saying right now, "He has just given us four paragraphs to justify not raking leaves and not tending to the eradication of dandelions. He is just lazy." Perhaps. But, on the other hand, I prefer to think of it as a sign of spiritual growth that reflects the helpful platitude: "Don't sweat the small things."

For many years and over many issues I did sweat the small things. I am not even sure where the Obsessive-Compulsive behavior originated. All I know is that I have spent many hours of my life making sure: that every drawer in the house was pushed all the way in; that all the dishes were clean and put away before bedtime; that my work-space was immaculate; that any drinking glass that was set down anywhere in the house was "out of place" and needed to be whisked away to the dishwasher, etc. (The glass thing REALLY annoyed my family and friends who would turn around to reach for their refreshment and find it unceremoniously dumped and ready for a ride in the dishwasher). When my family and I watched the movie "As Good As It Gets", where Jack Nicholson played the role of a guy with OCD, I heard them snickering and pointing at me. From my point of view, carrying one's own eating utensils to a restaurant didn't seem that over the top to me. I have seen the help and could well imagine the multitudinous and nefarious tongues that had passed over the silverware prior to it being placed beside my plate.

Without the help of Sigmund Freud or Carl Rogers, God slowly but gently pulled me to a place where I began to reflect upon this constant buzz within me to set the world in order. What was it about? Was it shame? Was it fear? Was it control? God didn't seem all that interested in leading me to that sort of in-depth analysis. His purpose was more direct and more simple: "Son, learn to rest. Learn my rhythms. Learn of me."

He reminded me of the sister Martha that he loved so dearly but for whom He had a gentle word of correction, "Martha, Martha - you are concerned about so many trivial things - but you have missed the point. I am the point. Take a load off and settle down like your sister Mary here and hang out with me for a bit."

Wow. That kind of advice would cost you $150 per hour from a trained psychiatrist. Jesus gave it to us for free. "Calm down. Relax. You are not God. Ultimately - you cannot control anything. Let it go. Enter my rest, my yoke. My burden is easy. I've got the raking covered. I dig dandelions. They look so lovely against the green grass. I'll be God and you be you. Trust me - it works."

-CJ

My Good Friend...Dr. Vernon Grounds

I received word a few days ago that my dear friend; mentor; counselor; and confessor - Dr. Vernon Grounds - passed peacefully from this earth and awoke at the place of his heart's desire. My little offering is but a widow's mite in respect to the rich volume of sentiment that has been expressed around the world the past couple of weeks. But, add to it I will because of the wisdom, kindness and grace imparted to me by this beloved man.

Dr. Grounds served for over sixty years at Denver Seminary. He was a professor, a president and finally Chancellor Emeritus. That last title sounds really important and dignified. If anyone earned such adulation from mere man - he certainly did. I first met Dr. Grounds several years ago while taking a doctoral class at Talbot Seminary in La Mirada, California. At the beginning of the class, the director of the program asked if any of us students would be willing to transport Dr. Grounds to and from his hotel each day. My brother, who was also taking this class, looked at me, smiled, and we both said, "Yes!" at the same time. Dr. Grounds was already somewhat of a legend by then and we felt incredibly honored to be able to squeeze in a little extra time with him. Before the week was over, he was referring affectionately to my older brother, Chris, as "Big Brother" and me as "Little Brother." When he would call on me in class he would say, "Tell me, Little Brother, what do you think of that?" I loved it. Taking a class from Dr. Grounds was, in a word, breathtaking. Does that sound hyperbolic? Perhaps. But to take a class from a man who never used a note, who could recite philosophers, Shakespeare, the ancient texts of Scripture and other notable authors from memory was...well...breathtaking.

But it wasn't just the style points that enamored me - it was also the content of his character. He was a tiny man with a very big heart, coupled with the grace of humility so rarely witnessed by leaders in our day - church or otherwise. Many times throughout his life he had been tempted to take strong polemic stands in order to exhibit the "purity of his faith" to some of the firebrands who supported the seminary. He rarely, if ever, took the bait. His view of education was liberal in the old sense of the word - not that battered, anemic and so easily offended demonstration of it we see today. He would say, "If you want to be taught what to think, go to (unnamed seminary). If you want to be taught how to think, come to Denver Seminary." Even with such obvious pimping of his beloved school, he would say it with a twinkle in his eye and a smile on his face. If the man ever actually despised anything - and that is up for debate - it would have been the sloppy moralizing and the intellectual laziness of Christians. He also cured me of the tired habit of speaking platitudes into the tragedies that I would shepherd as a minister. In other words - he taught me the grace of keeping my mouth shut and my hands busy in the company of grief.

I would be the negative recipient of that last grace a few years after my initial encounter with Dr. Grounds. For reasons I still do not understand; or, at best - can only offer opinion in regard to - "Big Brother" decided to end his life. I was mowed over by the well-meaning "platitudinous." It felt as though a host of well-meaning people were standing in line reading from a Hallmark card - really bad ones in some cases.

After the God-empowered adrenaline given me to share at my brother's funeral, I began to experience the crash. That's one of the things I have learned about grief...we each have to work through it. It is why counselors call it "grief work" because it is both of those things. One day, many weeks after the sad event, my phone rang. I said "Hello." I could hear on the other end a heavy sigh and these words, "Oh...Little Brother...ohhhh...." and then...quiet. I started weeping and the wonderful thing about Dr. Grounds was that he was totally comfortable being silent, not offering one ill-chosen, ill-timed word or platitude. It was beautiful then. It is a beautiful memory now. As I sit writing this I am weeping again at the minimalist and understated art that is true grace.

Dr. Grounds was known as somewhat of a mystic. He believed very strongly in practicing the classic disciplines of the Christian faith such as meditation and prayer. I have tried, very feebly, to follow his lead. It is difficult. Sometimes, it is quite boring and seemingly unproductive. To this feeling, common to all who attempt to develop the interior world of the spirit, Dr. Grounds preached a wonderful sermon where he gave a very helpful platitude (they are not all bad!). He said this: "The ruts of routine, over time, become the grooves of grace." One of the grooves of grace that Dr. Grounds imparted to me was the steady pursuit and impartation to others, of joy. Many Christians are angry. I chose a few years ago to leave them to ply their trade if they felt that was their calling. It struck me that they seemed to have enough anger, angst and judgment in them to cover my shift. My little contribution to repairing the image of Christ in this world is to carry the joy that so consumed Dr. Grounds. I have learned this: Joy is the present awareness of His presence - the moment, by moment, by moment, by moment sense of awe that He really is "Emmanuel", God with us. Such wonder, once embraced, can sustain us in our busyness and our anxieties at a deep and subconscious level. Embrace the thought, early in the morning that, "God is with me" and your spirit will rise, capture that truth, and keep it burning throughout the day like a pilot light. When the bitter wind of adversity, fear, self-doubt, or despair blow on you, know this - the pilot light will hold steady, ready to ignite the bigger flame of faith once more...at a moment's notice.

I have always been of the school that fancied the notion that God gives dearly departed loved ones a chance for one last peek. I have amassed too many stories where the lines between eternity and time get blurred during times of grief to believe otherwise. If that is so, let me say this: "Enjoy your reward Dr. Grounds. Give my Savior and "Big Brother" a kiss from me. See you on the other side...Love, Little Brother."

-CJ

Scraps

Let’s see…where were we? Doesn’t matter. I am still alive and am very much committed to blogging the arbitrary thoughts that flood my brain. I see that my last official blog was sometime back in February. How sad. It is not as though I have been sitting still. A lot has happened since then. But finding that right moment to slow the mind down and get all wise and erudite has escaped me. I needed a reason to slow down and write, and thus, came up with a really good one – my birthday.

Yes, August 3rd marks my 51st trip around the sun. My wife celebrated her 50th very quietly earlier this summer. While women complain a lot about how society allows a man to age gracefully, how the touch of gray around the temple is considered dignified and handsome – I can guarantee you that on my 50th I was not allowed “quiet.” And, I can also guarantee you that my wife didn’t receive 50th “non-dignified” birthday greetings adorned with Doctors with rubber gloves, wheelchairs, oxygen tanks, etc. The way I see it, it all evens out. Women are allowed to celebrate (?) their milestones quietly. Men are savaged.

51 is not a milestone year. The milestone years, except for 18, end in a 0 or a 5. I have four humdrum birthdates coming up until the 55th. That will be a weird one. I remember the Jimmy Carter years when the President who taught us the word “malaise” mandated that the top speed across the country would be 55. That came at an unfortunate time in my life. I was just beginning my driving career and I lived in the Midwest. Our scenery consisted of…corn. How phenomenally boring to putt across the prairie in an 8 cylinder Ford Galaxy 500, with bench seats that would comfortably seat: 8 people, a senator, and a small herd of goats. The trunk was so large that it would create echoes if I sang into it. I was stuck going 55. I wonder if turning 55 will feel that way four years from now? I’ll keep you posted.

On July 17th we married off our last child, Riley, to a beautiful young lady, Kristy. She is Irish looking enough that I am quite pleased. So far, the empty nest thing is not a tortured affair of padding aimlessly about the house, mumbling, and looking at old pictures of the family. I am enjoying it. It is not that I do not love my children. They would each report that I am a doting father, but…hey, it is nice to see a clean kitchen and not worry about running out of toilet paper. The peace that these modest pleasures afford cannot be measured.

Our ancient and regal Chinese Pug, Moe, is quickly drifting off to his dotage. I affectionately refer to him as “Moe the Worship Dog” because he always seats himself prominently in front of the musicians when we lead worship at Simple Church. One of his great pleasures seems to be to watch the audience sing. I find that interesting because he is stone deaf. You can shout out his name from 12 inches away and he doesn’t budge. He is also blind in his right eye. If you toss him a scrap of food toward his right eye, it bounces off his face. He still catches well if you toss to his good side. He no longer hears but he can feel vibrations. If a car comes up the drive he still shows up to his station on the second step and dutifully woofs. Sometimes he will do a two-second staccato woof for 30 minutes or so – like a record that is stuck. The vibrations have long ceased but I am sure that the woofing makes him feel useful and stirs fond memories of his young dog days.

The good report is that, at 51, I feel great. I do not sit around mindlessly woofing and I still feel as though the best days lie ahead. I pray the same for you.

Be abundantly blessed…
-CJ