Last night our church conducted the fourth of five nights of our annual Vacation Church School. The week's theme is "We Want a King," and last night we learned about Samuel and how God called him out of a slumber and how Samuel had a special purpose in anointing Israel's first king--Saul. In 1 Samuel 3, Samuel answers God with three simple words, "Here I am." This peculiar call and response happens in three's as so many important "God-talks" occur in scripture. "Here I Am"--these are the same words uttered by Moses before the burning bush(Exodus 3:4) and Isaiah at his call to prophecy (Isaiah 6:8). The words are so utterly different than the way in which Adam cowers from God who comes to find him when all Adam can say is "When I heard your voice, God, I was afraid and I hid" (Genesis 3:10). "Here I Am"--these three simple words, which give a location and then the simplest of subject-verb clauses, these three words are so similar to the words God uses for God's self in Exodus 3:14 when he tells Moses his proper and mysterious name. God says, "Ehyeh Asher Ehyeh" or "I Am Who I Am." At least in part, it is as if Samuel, Moses, and Isaiah answer God in the affirmative by the simple utterance of God's name.
When God calls you, will you have the courage, despite your greatest fears, to say, "Here I Am. Send Me"?
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Monday, June 2, 2008
Prerogative
You are a good God
of that I feel sure.
You kept saying that we were
good, in the Creation.
You keep making concessions,
Flood, Manna, Cross.
Though none of it comes on our terms.
You will be what you will be
You are gracious on your terms
You will be merciful on your terms
If I see your face, or I do not,
your prerogative.
Criminals ask for a crumb of your memory,
and you say to felons,
today you will be with me in Paradise.
Can this be?
Some pick grapes for only 60 minutes,
they too, get the usual?
All your grace? Same as me?
This can’t be.
An old Cherokee word,
Hante, means, “I went away and learned.”
Tells of a sojourner with tales of a distant land.
but you raise up a boy who went away
and slept in filth.
Squandered
Wastrel
When do I get mine for staying?
More importantly,
when does he get his for leaving?
So this is what it looks like to follow a good God.
Hard work.
Difficult to comprehend.
Seemingly unfair
But, you did raise the dead, so I guess you could show mercy
to bums like these and me.
*Biblical references include: Gen 1, 6. Ex 16, 3, 33. Lk 23, Matt 20, Lk 15.
**This was written with the help of a sermon by TEK (9/21/08) and the Holy Family book club (9/22/08).
June 1, 2010, preached and taught this poem at the Durham County Detention Center by reading the poem once, then reading the scriptures that were referenced and finally, reading the poem a second time. Roughly 15 men joined for worship and it was a joy to bless the Lord with them. I was inspired to use this poem and method by David Whyte who spoke at Duke on May 21 regarding The Power and Place of Poetry as part of a conference called, Lifelines: Poetry for Our Patients, Our Communities, Our Selves.
of that I feel sure.
You kept saying that we were
good, in the Creation.
You keep making concessions,
Flood, Manna, Cross.
Though none of it comes on our terms.
You will be what you will be
You are gracious on your terms
You will be merciful on your terms
If I see your face, or I do not,
your prerogative.
Criminals ask for a crumb of your memory,
and you say to felons,
today you will be with me in Paradise.
Can this be?
Some pick grapes for only 60 minutes,
they too, get the usual?
All your grace? Same as me?
This can’t be.
An old Cherokee word,
Hante, means, “I went away and learned.”
Tells of a sojourner with tales of a distant land.
but you raise up a boy who went away
and slept in filth.
Squandered
Wastrel
When do I get mine for staying?
More importantly,
when does he get his for leaving?
So this is what it looks like to follow a good God.
Hard work.
Difficult to comprehend.
Seemingly unfair
But, you did raise the dead, so I guess you could show mercy
to bums like these and me.
*Biblical references include: Gen 1, 6. Ex 16, 3, 33. Lk 23, Matt 20, Lk 15.
**This was written with the help of a sermon by TEK (9/21/08) and the Holy Family book club (9/22/08).
June 1, 2010, preached and taught this poem at the Durham County Detention Center by reading the poem once, then reading the scriptures that were referenced and finally, reading the poem a second time. Roughly 15 men joined for worship and it was a joy to bless the Lord with them. I was inspired to use this poem and method by David Whyte who spoke at Duke on May 21 regarding The Power and Place of Poetry as part of a conference called, Lifelines: Poetry for Our Patients, Our Communities, Our Selves.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Nostalgia
This is my oldest child, George IV, at age two in the basement of my parent's home in Charlotte, North Carolina. I know...he's so cute. The image is making me feel very nostalgic. This picture could easily have been me, 31 years earlier at the same chalkboard, different basement, in Fredericksburg, Virginia at the home of my mother's parents, William and Ruby Lee Johnson, my beloved grandparents. My sister and I used to play down there for hours at that chalkboard and with games like Chinese Checkers. In the winter the furnace was always blazing hot. I remember watching A Christmas Carol, the George C. Scott version, one X-mas Eve, and thinking how the setting was perfect--smoky smelling and cozy with that black knit blanket, or bundled up in that green sleeping bag/blanket that had bottons that mummified the wearer. That chalkboard was always at the foot of the basement steps. To see my children draw on it now takes me back to my earliest memories, mostly the smells of that old homeplace on William Street.
I'm about to turn 33. George IV is nearing his 5th birthday. The years are floating by now as quickly as days, even minutes sometimes.
A week ago I was ordained as a minister in Christ's Church at the Myers Park Baptist Church, Charlotte, NC. It was one of the greatest days of my seemingly short life. Friends sharing in blessings and prayers. The same friends heard my promises to God about how things would be the same, but different. Ministry will somehow become more focused, more guided, it would seem. Getting it right matters. Formal schooling is over, at least for now. Mentors preached and prayed and gifted me with embraces. Parishoners who have watched over me since I was young enough to first scribble on a chalkboard prayed in my ear that I would be a faithful servant to God.
Present at the ordination service, to my shock and surprise, was my 93 year old grandmother, Ruby Lee Johnson. Our youngest, William, is named after her husband, William Scott Johnson, dead now 15 years of cancer. He was as honest and loving as any person I have ever known. As I wept during the Laying on of Hands by each of the 100 people present at my ordination, I felt his old weepy self crying right along with me.
Looking at this picture is a way back into the story of my life and an ordination last week that was as culminating an event of God's work in my life as my birth, baptism, marriage to Kristen, or the birth of any or all of our three children. I have not been able to write too much about the ordination yet, at least not anything of significance. I feel anxious to get it all down, but I am praying for patience. I don't think the weight of that Sunday afternoon will depart me anytime soon.
Peace.
P.S. Here is another picture from that weekend. Our son sure was a cutie! He still is--just taller.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Doors closed for good
Doors closed for good. Joseph says these words to his brothers after they tried to kill him and after a life in Egypt for which he had not planned. "Although you intended me harm, God intended if for good." Has this ever been true for you? Bad stuff is happening all the time--missed planes, injured legs, criticisms we did not want, things we wish we had not said. Sometimes though, the seemingly bad turns out to be for the good. Look for that today.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Down, but not out
I'm going to write about a personal thing, running, that so pales in comparison to the spiritual thing, Jesus' death. Still, the parallel is on my mind.
I've been second at my last four races. Bel Monte, Loco Ocho, Owl's Roost, and Anne Springs Close Greenway. The distances were 25K, 8 miles, half marathon, half marathon. I can't seem to win. I'm just a little off my game. Frustrated, but guilty feeling that I am complaining about such great results.
Dale Earnhardt once said, "Second place is first loser." I have felt this way.
Here's to winning. Someday.
Dale Earnhardt once said, "Second place is first loser." I have felt this way.
Here's to winning. Someday.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Language Matters
Language matters. The words that we use, particularly those most common in our speech, are as important to who we are as the food that we consume, the clothes that we wear, and the neighborhoods where we live. Language is essential in the human experience and caring for our language is one of our greatest responsibilities. We have formed habits that affect our language and speech and our writing. We need to be thoughtful where language is concerned.
I have noticed a disturbing trend in the last decade, primarily among the running community. I am not certain if this misuse of language is ill-intentioned, but I think we can do better. When middle of the pack runners refer to those who win prestigious races, they use a common term—“Kenyans.” We who use this language are almost exclusively slower than the elite and we are almost always White or Caucasian. White upper-middle class folks represent the majority of the endurance running community. We also represent the power structures of the world, and I think it is time we take better care of our speech. We are using the term, “Kenyan,” a bit too haphazardly. We have become sloppy with our speech.
How many times have Haile Gebrselassie or Kenensia Bekele been labeled as a Kenyan when finishing at the front of a major race? My guess is that it is not once or even twice that these gentlemen have been mislabeled. Granted, it is possible that the next 10 finishers were all from Kenya, perpetuating the word choice, by the very excellence and accomplishment of runners from Kenya. But these gentlemen are Ethiopian, an entirely different nationality. What they do have in common with many elite Kenyan distance runners is that they are fast and their skin color is dark. I am not of the belief that because I am white and a mid-pack runner that it is just okay for an onlooker to assume that I am Canadian. I am from a whole other country. In the case of Gebrselassie and Bekele, it is even more insulting given the pride that they take in their homeland. They are always seen wearing the colors of Ethiopia. Gebrselassie has given his country an amazing economic boost from his personal success. At various times in his career, he has held every world record from 3000 meters to the Marathon. If I am distance running fan and I call him a Kenyan, I am ignorant, and I insult him.
This article intends no disrespect to any Kenyan or the nation of Kenya. Kenya has produced some of the finest distance runners the world has ever seen, but not all African runners of success are Kenyan.
How is this assumption, this lumping together of fast runners of African descent, any different than labeling all Latinos as Mexicans? We need precision in our language.
Are we using the term Kenyan collectively because names like Robert Cheruiyot, Abderrahime Bouramdane, Khalid El Boumlili, Gashaw Asfaw and Kasime Adillo are too much trouble to try to learn how to pronounce? Is there skin color a latent factor in our lack of care to know them by name and by country? Is there a subtle religious arrogance, since some of them are of Muslim descent? These names represent the top five finishers at the 2008 Boston Marathon, yet only one of them, Cheruiyot, is from Kenya. Many of us who might see the results and lazily say something like, “The Kenyans finished an hour ahead of me at Boston. I can’t believe how fast they are.” How is that different than making an off-handed remark like, “The Mexicans who cut the grass in our neighborhood, they are really great guys.” What if it turns out that in fact the lawn service is two brothers from El Salvador and the simple fact is that I have not bothered to find out where the men were born and from which Spanish speaking country they come from.
Even when our remarks are basically well-meaning, acknowledging an excellent running performance or being thankful for those who work hard, we need to be careful with language. It is not simply that we live now in “P.C.” or Politically Correct world where we have to walk on egg shells in order not to offend. It’s more than that. Being careful with language reflects how we take care of one another. Labels matter. Whenever we begin to speak of people collectively we had better know what we are talking about and who we are talking about. Runners from East Africa have revolutionized distance running around the globe from Kip Keino to Juma Ikanga to Sydney Maree and Paul Tergat. Let’s not call them all Kenyans because they look like they might be from Kenya. Ethiopia, Tanzania, and the like, deserve their props as well.
I have noticed a disturbing trend in the last decade, primarily among the running community. I am not certain if this misuse of language is ill-intentioned, but I think we can do better. When middle of the pack runners refer to those who win prestigious races, they use a common term—“Kenyans.” We who use this language are almost exclusively slower than the elite and we are almost always White or Caucasian. White upper-middle class folks represent the majority of the endurance running community. We also represent the power structures of the world, and I think it is time we take better care of our speech. We are using the term, “Kenyan,” a bit too haphazardly. We have become sloppy with our speech.
How many times have Haile Gebrselassie or Kenensia Bekele been labeled as a Kenyan when finishing at the front of a major race? My guess is that it is not once or even twice that these gentlemen have been mislabeled. Granted, it is possible that the next 10 finishers were all from Kenya, perpetuating the word choice, by the very excellence and accomplishment of runners from Kenya. But these gentlemen are Ethiopian, an entirely different nationality. What they do have in common with many elite Kenyan distance runners is that they are fast and their skin color is dark. I am not of the belief that because I am white and a mid-pack runner that it is just okay for an onlooker to assume that I am Canadian. I am from a whole other country. In the case of Gebrselassie and Bekele, it is even more insulting given the pride that they take in their homeland. They are always seen wearing the colors of Ethiopia. Gebrselassie has given his country an amazing economic boost from his personal success. At various times in his career, he has held every world record from 3000 meters to the Marathon. If I am distance running fan and I call him a Kenyan, I am ignorant, and I insult him.
This article intends no disrespect to any Kenyan or the nation of Kenya. Kenya has produced some of the finest distance runners the world has ever seen, but not all African runners of success are Kenyan.
How is this assumption, this lumping together of fast runners of African descent, any different than labeling all Latinos as Mexicans? We need precision in our language.
Are we using the term Kenyan collectively because names like Robert Cheruiyot, Abderrahime Bouramdane, Khalid El Boumlili, Gashaw Asfaw and Kasime Adillo are too much trouble to try to learn how to pronounce? Is there skin color a latent factor in our lack of care to know them by name and by country? Is there a subtle religious arrogance, since some of them are of Muslim descent? These names represent the top five finishers at the 2008 Boston Marathon, yet only one of them, Cheruiyot, is from Kenya. Many of us who might see the results and lazily say something like, “The Kenyans finished an hour ahead of me at Boston. I can’t believe how fast they are.” How is that different than making an off-handed remark like, “The Mexicans who cut the grass in our neighborhood, they are really great guys.” What if it turns out that in fact the lawn service is two brothers from El Salvador and the simple fact is that I have not bothered to find out where the men were born and from which Spanish speaking country they come from.
Even when our remarks are basically well-meaning, acknowledging an excellent running performance or being thankful for those who work hard, we need to be careful with language. It is not simply that we live now in “P.C.” or Politically Correct world where we have to walk on egg shells in order not to offend. It’s more than that. Being careful with language reflects how we take care of one another. Labels matter. Whenever we begin to speak of people collectively we had better know what we are talking about and who we are talking about. Runners from East Africa have revolutionized distance running around the globe from Kip Keino to Juma Ikanga to Sydney Maree and Paul Tergat. Let’s not call them all Kenyans because they look like they might be from Kenya. Ethiopia, Tanzania, and the like, deserve their props as well.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Ionesco and Memory
At Durham Nativity School our Thought for the Week of April 14 is by a early 20th century French dramatist. Eugene Ionesco writes that "Dreams and anguish bring us together."
When Eugene Ionesco writes about dreams and anguish as uniting forces in our lives, he is speaking more broadly about memory। In some cases a collective memory of suffering and anguish are a uniting force. For groups that are tortured or enslaved, it is their anguish that unites them. What other groups are bonded by collective suffering?
Ionesco also writes, The light of memory, or rather the light that memory lends to things, is the palest light of all। I am not quite sure whether I am dreaming or remembering, whether I have lived my life or dreamed it. Just as dreams do, memory makes me profoundly aware.”
How do you remember your greatest achievements? How do you remember your greatest failures? Are all these memories strictly self-generated or do they somehow have a corporate life with those who share in them?
I remember a canoeing trip when I was thirteen years old. It all culminated in the last rapid, the Nantahala Falls. To go back there now to that whitewater, as I have done many times since, the Falls are never as big as they were on that hot July afternoon in what must have been 1988. Jeff Barr and were each 75 lbs. soaking wet and we muscled around a big Green Bluehole--a 16 foot whitewater canoe. We managed a 360 in the top hole which means that above the bottom drop we managed to turn our canoe in a full circle before going down the falls. We peeled out of truckstop, a massive eddy on river left and headed toward the center of the river with me in the stern controlling the 45 degree angle to the right. When we flopped down over the top hole, Jeff laid down one of his brilliant draw strokes and with that magnificent stroke and the force of the water we had hit the top hole as an eddy and quickly prepared to peel out before getting side surfed in the turbulence of the top hole. I exposed the bow to the quick moving down stream water and before we knew it we were heading back down stream and over the falls. Meggan and Brian, our counselors, and the other paddlers on our trip cheered over the loud pounding of the frothy water. We were heroes.
I've not written of this story ever, nor thought of it in several years. If not for memory, it would be all but gone, as though it never happened. I can remember it more clearly because it did not happen separate from community. The cheerers on that trip would have retold that story when we returned to camp that evening. They would have even encouraged Jeff and I to retell the story. If it happened alone, I'm not sure I could recall it in the same way. Not to say that significant occurrences do not happen alone, but they are quite different than experiences that others witness and share in. Thanks to memory and the dream of a special moment in a young boy's life, I can recall it as easily as I can breathe. Thank you memory. Thank you Eagle's Nest Camp.
When Eugene Ionesco writes about dreams and anguish as uniting forces in our lives, he is speaking more broadly about memory। In some cases a collective memory of suffering and anguish are a uniting force. For groups that are tortured or enslaved, it is their anguish that unites them. What other groups are bonded by collective suffering?
Ionesco also writes, The light of memory, or rather the light that memory lends to things, is the palest light of all। I am not quite sure whether I am dreaming or remembering, whether I have lived my life or dreamed it. Just as dreams do, memory makes me profoundly aware.”
How do you remember your greatest achievements? How do you remember your greatest failures? Are all these memories strictly self-generated or do they somehow have a corporate life with those who share in them?
I remember a canoeing trip when I was thirteen years old. It all culminated in the last rapid, the Nantahala Falls. To go back there now to that whitewater, as I have done many times since, the Falls are never as big as they were on that hot July afternoon in what must have been 1988. Jeff Barr and were each 75 lbs. soaking wet and we muscled around a big Green Bluehole--a 16 foot whitewater canoe. We managed a 360 in the top hole which means that above the bottom drop we managed to turn our canoe in a full circle before going down the falls. We peeled out of truckstop, a massive eddy on river left and headed toward the center of the river with me in the stern controlling the 45 degree angle to the right. When we flopped down over the top hole, Jeff laid down one of his brilliant draw strokes and with that magnificent stroke and the force of the water we had hit the top hole as an eddy and quickly prepared to peel out before getting side surfed in the turbulence of the top hole. I exposed the bow to the quick moving down stream water and before we knew it we were heading back down stream and over the falls. Meggan and Brian, our counselors, and the other paddlers on our trip cheered over the loud pounding of the frothy water. We were heroes.
I've not written of this story ever, nor thought of it in several years. If not for memory, it would be all but gone, as though it never happened. I can remember it more clearly because it did not happen separate from community. The cheerers on that trip would have retold that story when we returned to camp that evening. They would have even encouraged Jeff and I to retell the story. If it happened alone, I'm not sure I could recall it in the same way. Not to say that significant occurrences do not happen alone, but they are quite different than experiences that others witness and share in. Thanks to memory and the dream of a special moment in a young boy's life, I can recall it as easily as I can breathe. Thank you memory. Thank you Eagle's Nest Camp.
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