Why do people die?

It's been a while since I have written anything on this blog.  You see, my dad died, and I haven't felt like I had much to say.

I have been trying to get back into life this week, but my feet are dragging.
I have everything -- hundreds of condolences, plenty of vacation time off of work, frankly, we have been treated like royalty.  There is nothing anyone could do better than what has been done for us.

Yet, there is still the ache, deep down inside.
My dad is gone.

He was like the sky, something you don't notice most days, but you never actually even wonder if it is there.  You just assume it is there.  You mostly don't stop and look
until it is time for the sunset.

Well I have been stopping and looking, and it has been beautiful.
I even told people it is morning now,
but it still feels like midnight.

Why do people die?

I thought of various redemptive meanings. Every great conflict needs a buzzer to end it all, to signal the victory.  There needs to be a climax and an end to any great story.  There is a rhythm to life and death that somehow keeps things going.
but tonight I say hogwash.

Death is the enemy.

Why do people die?  Because someone has sucked the life out of this world, that's why.  It's not the way it is suppose to be. It was not their time.  It is not that God needs another flower for his garden.  It's not that he lived a good life and was 81.

I used to think that the death of old people was legitimate, in the sense that, "What else did you expect? Your grandmother was 96.  Do you really miss feeding her every day and watching her drool?"

I see it differently now.  Death is always the enemy.  God is life.  Death came by sin. Death hurts.

So when I miss my dad, I am not dealing with something very logical or unusual or even entirely unexpected, but I am beating my head against the universal wall of mortality,
and it sure does hurt,
period.

There is that place in Scripture where Jesus wept.  I have heard that story in sentimental terms, but I read something else recently.  The more little rendering apparently is that Jesus groaned with sorrow mixed with anger.  Ughhhhh, the enemy stole another one. 

This rendering also sheds a different light on what happens later.

Jesus speaks in a very loud voice.  The description is more like a war cry. Its as if he is speaking straight into Hell -- the place he himself is going to enter and bust open in a few months.  Its as if his mission is becoming clearer by the moment, and he screams with the clarity only great conflict can bring, "Lazarus, come forth!!!"

Why I never liked Jesus?

I never liked the stories of Jesus when I was a kid. Many times I still don't, and I recently stumbled on why.

I didn't like his personality. Perhaps it was well-meaning theologians who were trying to wrap it all into a single character. Trying to include his omnipotence and omniscience they stripped him of all the grit necessary for adventure and love. Think for a minute. How would it be like to hang out with someone who never took any risks, never was vulnerable, never knew fear, always knew what to say, always stayed in control, never had emotions at the top or bottom end of the norm, and never was uncertain about anything.

No wonder I didn't like Him.

What if I told you it was a fake -- a religious veil we put over Jesus because we don't want Him quite so close.  That image of Jesus has more to do with the insecurities we have. We prefer a God who is in control instead of a God who who struggles in Gethsemane.

We explain away the anger and certainly any uncertainty because we fear these things ourselves.

We want a Jesus that will enable us to rise above it all rather than a Jesus that joins the muck of life.

The purpose of religion is to explain and eliminate the uncertainty of life. Jesus doesn't follow this agenda. He didn't get that memo.

So the first generation of hypocrites killed Him. The next 60 or so have covered Him with a pius  invulnerability.

Recently, I read a book about Jesus that made me weep and worship (Beautiful Outlaw). This got me thinking like this.

I hope you bump into the real Jesus sometime like I did.  You might get dirty. You might get rocks thrown at you. You might even fall in love.

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!