Why am I still at work at 9:00 pm on a Friday night?

Your might say, "You're not working.  You are writing your blog."  

That is true, but only because my wife brought me a plate of wonderful food, and I am momentarily distracted from this funding proposal I am trying to write.

So as I pause to take a bite, I ask myself this question, "Why am I working?"

On the surface I would say because I have been trying to find a quiet minute to work on this thing -- even blocked out time on my calendar -- but it just never happened.  Now I am at the deadline.  No more procrastination allowed.

But something inside of me says there is a deeper reason to this madness.

Perhaps the first reason is that I would rather be writing a blog about why I work so hard than writing a blog about why I am so lazy.  It would be infinitely more painful to be called a free loader than to be called a workaholic, so I error on the side of the least painful indictment.  Funny thing is that I actually am kind of lazy, but I write blogs like this so everyone thinks I work insane hours constantly.

Second reason. I don't like to say, "no."  I like to be the one that says, "Yes, it can be done. Just let me do it.  It won't take long."

Third reason. Thorns and thistles.  It is hard to earn a living nowadays -- really since Adam and Eve left Eden.  The proposal is long.  The stakes are high.  The task is tough.  So we sweat.

Forth reason. I am a man.  Women work longer some studies show, but work for women is different.  I forget where I heard it, but someone said that men work with a deep ghostly sense of calling to it.  It is sort of part of us.  Deep inside we know we were meant to do it, so we feel impassioned by it and enslaved to it all at the same time.  Like Captain Ahab in Moby Dick, we flail aimless for all of our lives seeking that elusive vocational success.

Yep, I am Captain Ahab. The whale has taken my previous boat and a chunk of my leg in our last encounter, not to mention a bit of my manhood. 

I am gettin'  'er this time!

Heave hoe

Will I "make it?"

"Who will die next?"

Last Sunday, this question was posed to the group during sharing time.  It's a logical question, but it had an icy truth to it.  Which one of us would be the next one from our church to die?

Last week a dear mother figure in our church, Kanmati Diamand, passed away.   I remember her from when I first came to New York, 21 years ago.  She reminded me a little of the women who followed Jesus around -- not a lot of words but just steady devotion.  Kanmati was so steady that I almost forgot she was there, sort of like the sunrise that freely shares its beauty while I press the snooze button.

She was always sitting there on the right hand side toward the front at church.  When she shared a word, it was difficult for me to understand, and I never put the effort out there to really understand. 

Having been raised in a devout Hindu family, it was reported that she had fierce battles in the spiritual realm, but I never saw those.  Others had done the prayer and fasting as Jesus said, and the Holy Spirit had made His home in her.  The "strong man" was bound, but he kept up his murderous threats.  

As she got weaker and weaker, I wondered if I should go visit her in the hospital, but I didn't really know her, and somehow life just crowded out that thought.  Now there is no more chance.

The day before she died, our pastor, Rich Schwartz, visited her.  She could not speak anymore, but she could write.  She wrote out these words, "God is good all the time."

When I heard she died, an unusual thought crossed my mind, "She made it!"  Like an exhausted marathon runner who is cramping in both legs in the 25th mile, her last mile was not easy.  I quietly worried for her.

But now, she made it!

The last mile is typically not easy, even for Christians.  "Aging includes a series of losses," my Social Work Professor and mentor once said. Siblings pass away, friends pass away, your occupation is gone, your primary roles leave, and finally your independence gradually leaves. All this must be handled in the context of physical pain and discomfort.  Aging is like one big final assignment, the magnum opus of life. Is there any test greater than this?  Can we pass the test? 

I don't know which one of us will die next, but I know I will have been a success if the same words can be said of me, "He made it!"
 

When will I grow up?

Yesterday I was buying something at a local bodega and my eyes wondered toward a security screen. I thought, "Oh, that guy looks kind of like me," then I thought, "No, it must be someone else. He has a bit of a bald spot."

As it turned out, the old guy in the screen was in fact me.

Really?

I guess I thought people who are balding would feel different.  Sort of like everything would be clear and life would be settled and normality would reign supreme. I thought I would speak great wisdom in deliberate booming tones like my teachers at Calvary Bible School.

Actually I don't feel much different than when I was 10. As Ray Stedman said when he looked into the mirror, "What's a young man like you doing in an old body like that?"

Its as if the line between immaturity and maturity has become blurred beyond recognition.  I wonder if that's how folks felt when they saw Jesus, this young single guy who never got a real job and settled down -- this guy who walked around telling random stories and deliberately disobeying the sensibilities of his day. He slept in the hills or wherever he happened to be at night time. He played with children and flew off the handle in the temple.

What immaturity!

Hmmmm, maybe the spiritual journey is not about growing up. Maybe it is about growing down.

Why be normal?

Sitting on the J train flowing with the crowd toward Manhattan thinking about my trip North.

Everyone wants to be extrodinary these days. "Go Beyond your Barriers" an advertisement in front of me says, but folks at the end of life don't say that.  They talk about more normal things like spending time with people, like recognizing when you don't know something, and loving amid uncertainty.

The advertisement continues, "You have seeds of greatness."

But I think, "What about bed pans? Who changes the bed pans if we are all busy being great? That's what I would like to know."

Dad gave me this book. It talks about normal things like death and forgiveness and grace.  That's what we need -- normal stuff.

NYC doesn't value normal things very much. Everybody seems to want to be the next Donald Trump or Jay-Z or Picaso or they just want to stand out. Where else can you see giant waterfalls 6 stories high erected as art, or like today, a chair shaped like a giant hand. That's one of the reasons I like it here; there's always something abnormal to see or do.

But tonight I think I will just go home and do normal things -- like playing with legos or asking my wife about her day.

What does love look like exactly?

Recently, my 7-year-old son and I were out shopping for mommy's birthday present.  I asked him what we should get, and he said, "Oh, I guess chocolate and flowers . . . stuff like that."  He is getting the hang of it I thought, but today I am thinking again.

What does love look like exactly?  Is it the embrace of two Hollywood stars as the music rises and the cameras rotate around the immaculate couple?

I think it looks like a step-mom getting up at 1 and 4 am every night to check on her husband.
I think it looks like the same woman loving his children and grandchildren as if they were her own.
I think it looks like a meaningful card and kind words.
I think it looks like a twinkle in the eye when planning family visits even if they take away from time she could have spent with her other family.
I think it looks like scrubbing all sorts of bodily fluids out of the carpet.
I think it looks like her being willing to reminisce about her husband's other wife with reverence, openness, and sorrow -- setting aside her own unique journey to enter into ours.
I think it looks like someone willing to work hard providing primary care only to make a quick trip to the funeral home to hold the hand of another grieving grandmother.
I think it looks like someone willing to read the fine print of 6-10 prescription bottles and know things so well that she can even correct doctor's mistakes.
I think it looks like romance created uniquely within a complex story long after the typical age of Hollywood lovers.
I think it looks like traveling all over the country and world to the point of exhaustion just to be with her hyperactive husband.
I think it looks like a kind word even after cancer turns most of us into grumpy old men.
I think it looks like laughs at the silliness of hospital appliances and clothes.
I think it looks like pausing to understand hard news.
I think it looks like tears in the night.

Move over Hollywood,  this is what love looks like.

Why is going home such a big deal?

Waiting for my plane. Ready to fly North.

 

It is the third time I am traveling those 2,000 miles in the last 4 months, but, like every trip home, it feels entirely unique.

 

What is it about going home?

 

I am sure you know the feeling. There is excitement and also a feeling like a wet rag is stuck in your gut somewhere.  Places we live as adults are chosen.  I moved on my terms. But not home. You don't choose where is your home.  It chooses you, and you are internally compeled to go back.  There is an un-named longing, part joy and part anxiety. In relation to your home, I think one is always a child.

 

Maybe that is why it is hard. You must become a child to go home.

 

Is that why so many stay away?  Is it why others refuse to leave?

 

I am going home.  My dad is also getting ready to go home. 

 

Jeaus said you must become like a little child to come to him. I wonder if this is the feeling he was talking about, the feeling that something deep is carrying you along. Something wonderful and scary and entirely greater than you is gently compeling you, carrying you home. 

 

God give me the strength to let you carry me home. God, please give dad the same.

 

 

Why don't my sand castles last?

It happened again last night. One of my key staff resigned. Over ten years it has happened about that many times. A staff member that is competent moves on to bigger and better things.

I am happy for them, but I have a bit of that "left at the altar" kind of feeling. Or like that feeling when you build a nice big sand castle only to see a big wave come and level it in a moment.  There is nothing to do but sigh and start building again.

Bummer.

Why is life is like that?

When I got my first job after high school, my brother told me that sometimes you can't see that you built anything, so you have to get satisfaction from knowing what you have survived.

I would rather have a monument to my success -- something to "justify my existance" as an old friend used to say.

But it seems that sometimes we are called to be poured out. I am thinking I will stumble into heaven all exhausted without a lot to point to. My proverbial tail will be dragging, and I will have nothing to say.  Gabriel will ask, "What did you accomplish on earth?" I will say, "uh, nothing much."

He will say, "Why are you here?"

I will say, 'cause for some random reason God decided to let me in.

That's it.

That's all.

I guess come to think of it, that's enough.

What is it about birthdays?

I love birthdays.  People over 40 aren't suppose to love birthdays, but  I still love birthdays. Today is my wife's birthday.

I love birthdays because I love sugar.

I also love birthdays because my wife makes them special.  She has helped me to love birthdays in a new way.  She brought the prayer of blessing and thanksgiving into birthdays.  It is so appropriate. 

Birthdays make me think about life, the beginning so many years ago, the end ever closer. I think the candles, bright colors, joyous song, and sugar are all made to distract us from sinking down into these existential questions.   

But the questions are good. Why am I here? What have I done? What am I going to do?  What about this story leaves me empty? What matters?

I am so glad I live with a wife and a God who can ask hard questions

It's what birthdays are for?

Why does life make me want to cuss sometimes?

In my 5th year of college to become a counselor, I finally stumbled on a theory that made sense to me. I remember right where I was sitting in class when the professor explaned it. A light bulb went on. It was Existentialism. Before you send my name out on a prayer chain, hear me out.

Existentialism as a counseling theory says that we need to get to a place of exasperation where life doesn't work, then and only then true change happens.  Our life must become meaningless before we will seek true meaning. The theory clicked and since that day I have seen this all through Scripture. Solomon was a prime example. He had it all yet he called it all meaningless before he whistfully came to the chief duty of man.  The man who found the pearl of great price is another example.  When he knew that all his posessions were meaningless, he was changed.  Job feel down with his hand over his mouth and gave up all his rationalization.  I also see this thought in the statements of Jesus, "except a grain of wheat fall into the ground and die" and "he who  would save his life must lose it."

Paul is my favorite and he is the one who gives me the courage to cuss about it. In Phillipians 3, he called it all a pile of sh@$#.  All his success, all his theology, all his reputation, all his relationships, all his safety, all his heritage -- everything he was and had achieved was only worth getting flushed down the toilet.

Sploosh!

And can't you tell when you meet someone who has been to the bottom? Like Gandalf after the battle in the Mines of Moria. Like Aslan after the stone table is broken. Like C.S.Lewis after his wife dies of cancer. Like my dad after the accident.

No need to sugar coat anything anymore. The carefully laid house of cards comes crashing down.  Well defined theology rattles. Only what is real remains.

Sploosh!

What's the thing about corporations?

One of my favorite places in New York is Union Square.  You can't go more than 20 feet without seeing an artist or political protester and inevitably there is someone there decrying the evil of some corporation.

Honestly I can see their point. Corporations have done much evil the world over all in the name of efficiency which can be another term for greed. It is too easy for them to hide behind "policies" and do things that no indicidual would choose to do on their own. (similar in some ways to armed forces).

But the more I reflect on it, I also love corporations. I like going to Wal Mart and Home Depot and Geico.  What keeps me going back to these places? 

I like the low prices but I think there is something deeper because I will even waste gas to get to a corporation sometimes!

I think the reason I go is that corporations provide predictability.  I know exactly what I can buy and what it will taste like the minute I see the lovely Panera Bread logo.  It provides a little shelter and sanity for my otherwise battered existance. Rather than go talk to a real person I prefer the ease of looking at the familiar Starbucks glass case of pasteries.  Corporations are one of the most predictable parts of life. They are my pacifier. How sick is that?

What if?

Yesterday was not the best of days.

There were 200 or so people in a room made for 150. I was one of the people standing along the back of the room trying to take notes on the back of the agenda while holding the other handouts.  The meeting was three hours long.  The microphone didn't work well.  Worse than all of this, the tone was typical of many government agencies.

You need to color within the lines !  No coloring outside the lines !  Ever !

Us community-types huddled like little parochial school children on the first day of kindergarten.

A few ventured random questions and were soundly scolded as I knew they would be. I had been in that room many times before.  I knew the drill. You have to figure out stuff on you own.  I can figure stuff out on my own.  I have been coming to this room for 10 years now.

After 2 1/2 hrs. or so, I saw my chance.  I slipped out undetected and made a hasty escape down the elevator.

I took a little walk in city hall park just to clear my head.  The expectations and obligations of life were like a 5 foot tap worm eating the life out of my bowels.  The tone of the meeting had crept into my thoughts about life generally.

Then a new thought crossed my mind -- a questions actually -- that went something like this:

What if you heard the words, "You are doing enough."
What if someone who truly knows said that I had done all I need to do?
What if there was no one left to impress?
What if there was no more wondering if I had been successful?
What if there was no more wondering what I need to do next to stay ahead?
What if no one ever yelled at you?
What if you didn't have to hold it together?
What if you didn't have to play any more games?
What if you never got in trouble for anything ever again?
What if you knew you were taking care of your family well?
What if there was no doubt they felt loved and cherished and protected?
What if your work could be filled with beauty and creativity?
What if you never had to worry about food on your table and clothes on your back?
What if you didn't have to wonder if someone might wrap your knuckles with a ruler?
What if you were accepted?
What if you were in?
What if you were no longer out?
What if you were accepted?
What if you were important?
What if you belonged?
What if you could rest?

Why?

So I am thinking about starting a blog.  Why?  Because there are not enough words out there?  No, I think there are enough words out there.

I think it will be as much for me as it is for the potential readers.

I think it could be a place for me to put some of my thoughts out there and see if they resonate with anyone.  I am an introvert and most of the time I don’t really have a chance to say the things that I think.  Perhaps in saying them, they will become more clear for me as well.

So, why, is my title "Why?"  Basically, I have not come up with any clever sounding trendy name.  Also, because I think we actually need more questions than answers.  I have been impressed by people with all the answers, but it isn't too long until I see the veneer crumble.

When the Biblical character, Job, debated with his friends, it sounded like a broken record.  The bulk of his book in the Bible seems to go around in circles all wrestling with the problem of evil and by extension the meaning of life itself.  "What's really happening here?" seems to be the underlying question, and the book is full of theorization. 

And I love the climax near the end.   God himself shows up, and here is the amazing thing, he doesn't give the answer.  He sounds so unlike the religion and philosophy departments of the world -- at least the Western streams of the thought to which I belong.  Rather than giving answers, he gives more questions -- quite a few in fact.  The next several chapters are filled with question after question. Why?

It seems that Job didn't need answers, he needed questions.

The climax grates on our Western nerves.  Why doesn't God explain?  If only He would tell us the real story?  What is really happening here?

Two or three millennia later when God himself comes to earth again He's not much different.  He tells entertaining stories, the point of which we continue to debate to this day.  So many questions;  so few answers.  The people longed for resolution and sanity.  He gave them none, so they killed him -- but others loved him.

Peace and resolution to the chaos of the stories of our lives comes less in having the right answer and more in asking the right questions.

So on this soap box, I want to offer questions and random observations.  Perhaps you will start to think of a few questions of your own.  I would love to hear them.