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.