I am...Mystery

I reflect a great deal on God’s name, Yahweh, given to Moses when they first met--Moses as Moses, God as perpetually burning vegetation.

YAHWEH has been variously translated.

I am

I am who I am

I am what I am

I am that I am

I will be who I will be

I will be what I will be

I will be where I will be

No kidding; you look in enough theology books, you will see everyone of these

One of those renderings above is “I Will Be What I Will Be.”

This morning on my knees I was praying hard for our little church plant. More specifically, I was working my way through the long list of our inadequacies (team’s too small…not enough Strategy Meetings…and so on). After each, I found myself saying, “but there is no sense wishing we had done things differently, Lord. Here we are, today, in need of you. The situation is what it is, Master, and we are what we are.”

Then came the epiphany (or perhaps Theophany):

Because our situation “is what it is” and is insufficient to God’s purpose, and because we are what we are and what we are is inadequate to worship and serve the Divine Presence, God (who “Will Be What God Will Be”) indwells us. Thus we are sufficient. And only thus.

Which is not to say I claim to have unlocked the deep mystery of Yahweh. God is Creative. (I mean, that whole making-an-ever-expanding-universe thing kind of blows the whole "creativity curve" for the rest of us, wouldn't you say?) And in God's unchallenged role as Creative Creator, The Divine One made intimate introduction--even supplied a name. And in doing so, God gave us more questions than answers about the Divine Nature.

Which is pretty much the perfect name for an Infinite and Infinitely Creative God, don't you think?

Of Course You Are....

Had a Calvin and Hobbes moment with my six-year-old son the other day.

A memorable strip in Calvin and Hobbes is the one in which he is hammering nails into the coffee table. His mother runs up and frantically exclaims, "Calvin! What are you DOing?!"

Calvin looks down, puzzled, looks back up and asks, "Is this a trick question?"

My bookshelves are up and my books are on display. Which means some duplicate books are in a box outside my office to be passed along to someone else. I opened my office door to find the books out of the box, neatly stacked by the wall, and my son seated on the floor, violently and repeatedly stabbing the box with a ballpoint pen.

"Son! What are you doing!?"

Without flinching, without the slightest hint of fear or self-doubt, with--in fact--a sort of eager interest (as if sharing something quite novel) he replied, "I'm making holes in this box with this pen."

Of course he was. And having fun doing so. And doing no real harm. I said the only thing I could say as I proceeded down the hall.

"Enjoy."

That Also Works....

I was in the van with my kids last week, making them run an errand with daddy.

They were telling me jokes. I saw it as a teachable moment, so I reminded them of a series of four jokes which are sure to make most first-graders, and almost all fourth-graders, laugh hysterically.

Here are the jokes:

How do you get an elephant in a refridgerator?
Open the door, put in the elephant, shut the door.

How do you get a giraffe in the refridgerator?
[first surprise ending] Open the door, take out the elephant, put in the giraffe

All the animals in the jungle are at a jungle animal conference. Who's missing?
[second surprise ending] The giraffe; he's in the fridge.

You have to get across an alligator-infested river in the jungle. There's no bridge, and you have no boat. What do you do?
[third surprise ending] Just swim across. All the alligators are at the conference.

So anyway, I said to my kids, "How do you get an elephant in a refridgerator?"

To which my daughter replied, "You eat most of it first."

Well, obviously.

Welcome Back Cotter!

Sometimes life is precisely as described by Judith Viorst in Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day (Aladdin Books, MacMillan Publishing, New York, NY, 1972) which begins with this fabulous run-on sentence: "I went to sleep with gum in my mouth and now there's gum in my hair and when I got out of bed this morning I tripped on the skateboard and by mistake I dropped my sweater in the sink while the water was running and I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day."

Here is my version:

"The cotter pin for the trailer hitch broke on Sunday and the key would not go in the pad lock on the trailer tongue and Kristen had to come from home with another set of keys while Joel was on his way with a hacksaw and the alternate key went in and released the lock but that key would not come out and only one visitor showed up for our first Preview Worship Gathering even though four had promised and then our wireless router stopped working on Monday and then on Wednesday while Luke and I were trying (unsuccessfully) to fix it the sink got plugged up in the kitchen and instead of having a nice dinner with our Home Community we all had to gather in the kitchen and work together to put all the kitchen sink pipes back together and when I arrived at Shari's in Newberg this morning at 6:45, my Bible study partners texted me to say their alarm didn't go off and now I am really, really tired and I can tell I am a Church Planter."

If you've ever read about Alexander, you know his solution is a move to Australia; which, frankly and quite frequently, sounds pretty good to Kristen and I (she's even done mission work there and has lots of friends). At the end of the book aforementioned, Alexander declares, "My mom says some days are like that. Even in Australia."

My version of that succinct ending reads more like, "this morning, when I was exhausted my wife told me that she used her devotional book written just for church planters' wives and that today's devotional was about spiritual warfare and how we are on the front lines where we are vulnerable to hostile fire as well as 'friendly fire' and that 'church planting is bloody and exhausting. So don't be surprised if you are tired.'"

I would probably be just as tired in Australia.

Still, in the midst of this--really--laughable week, I have somehow managed to spend an hour/day on my knees for our team and for our mission, and to be a "non-anxious presence," offering my team the story of Admiral James B. Stockdale, and the assurance that--harsh realities fully acknowledged--we will prevail in our mission.

Plus, I now have a package of four new cotter pins!

To Boldly Go

If you have any desire to get together for lunch, meet for lunch, "do lunch," or "lunch," (apparently there is an inverse relationship between the length of this term and the sophistication of the potential eating companions), please know that Fridays will be a bit hard to schedule for the foreseeable future.

It is on Fridays at 11:05 that I am graciously received by my daughter and her fourth-grade classmates in the cafeteria at Archer Glen Elementary. After a short break, I return and finish my lunch with my son at 11:35 when the first-graders have their go at noising up the lunchroom.

But last Friday was special. While the kids who did not bring lunch from home were still in line, my son confided in me importantly that today was Tristan's first Hot Lunch. My son, man of the world that he is, has already had Hot Lunch twice, and wanted me to know that this important rite of passage was now bestowed upon Tristan.

We chatted, we ate, others began to arrive and regale me with "Knock-Knock Jokes" (my fault. I started it the first week I was there). Then I heard a voice behind me say, "excuse me...excuse me...excuse me...excuse me....Mr.--Bradley's dad? This is my first day to have Hot Lunch."

I congratulated him with a solemnity appropriate to the situation.

Lunch went on. Knock Knock Jokes became more...spontaneously composed. Only on this day, those jokes were punctuated by numerous, ever-more-creative mentions by Tristan of the deliciousness of his lunch, the substantial portions to which he had been treated, how amazing it was that he was able to go back for seconds, and so on. Matching his passion and enthusiasm for each of these comments seemed the very least I could do. For Tristan was having a first--and one to which he had looked forward for some time.

I got a hug from my son as they all headed off to Lunch Recess. I count those hugs an honor and privilege; for one day he will be embarrassed to show me such affection in the presence of his peers. Tristan, Isaac, and my son walked off together. But I like to think Tristan's was more of a swagger. He had grown up just a little extra that day. He had joined a fraternity of some noble reputation. Bradley and Isaac had been his friends all the year long. But now he shared with them the experience of Hot Lunch.

Well. That's it. I have no brilliant conclusion. Perhaps you could supply it in your comments?

In an effort to re-enter the blogging world, I humbly submit a letter, written to my friend Howard on July 22 of this year.

Howard,

On the occasion of your 40^th birthday, having already supplied you with a gift (and one for next Christmas), allow me to give you something much more valuable: an orientation to life after 40.

Really, there are only two things you need to remember (which will become increasingly difficult):

Wacky stuff is going to start happening to your body

Nobody cares.

Let me expand upon those.

Wacky stuff...your body.

I don’t just mean that your eyebrows are going to go crazy, and little tiny hairs are going to start to grow in and on your ears. I am talking about your body beginning to betray you in ways you never thought possible. Any condition you had before 40? It is going to go on steroids after 40 (sometimes literally under a doctor’s care); gradually at first, but with increasing tenacity and ferociousness. For example, I have problems with my right inner ear. Occasionally, it feels plugged. Then I feel a little unsteady on my feet for a day or so, then it subsides. Recently, this condition graduated from Eustachean Tube Dysfunction to something called Ménière's Disease. So it was that a few weeks ago the afore-mentioned unsteadiness was full-blown vertigo. Vertigo, Howard. All the way, throwing up, had-to-go-in-for-an-anti-nausea-shot vertigo. There is no comfort in vertigo. Laying down makes it worse; closing one's eyes makes you throw up more. In hell, Howard, everyone will have vertigo. The whole time.

Now you would think this would elicit some sympathy from others. But this brings me to number 2.

Nobody cares.

You tell someone who is not yet 40, and they feign sympathy. But inside, they are thinking, “better you than me, pal. I’m just glad I’m never going to deal with junk like that.” They’re wrong of course, on both counts. But they still think they are going to live forever, and no amount of convincing will disturb this happy illusion. It will be disturbed soon enough without your help; let it go.

You tell someone 40 or older and they pretty much don’t even feign sympathy. Why, you ask? Because wacky stuff is happening to them too (they've got their own number 2 to deal with). I know a guy who had to have hip replacement surgery before his 50^th birthday. You think he’s got any sympathy for me that I’m into wacky-stuffs-ville? Not on your life—which is ebbing away, by the way.

I know you neither fear death nor entertain serious doubts about the general resurrection. So I am not writing this under the erroneous presupposition that anything I say will send you spinning into a midlife crisis. I just wanted you, my dear friend, to know the simple rules—to reiterate, wacky stuff is going to start happening, and no one really cares. The best you can hope for when relating your ills to another person this side of 40 is that they will find it interesting, and regale you with stories of their recent occurrence of kidney stones, or impending knee surgery. Such stories were of no interest to you before 40—you feigned interest at times, like the rest of the poor self-deceived youngsters. But now (and maybe this is the third rule) you actually find them interesting.

I am not sure why these things are suddenly of interest, but I will suggest three possibilities. One is the simple fact of commiseration. For thousands of years, misery has loved company. For reasons which only the fall of mankind can begin to explain, we find comfort in the fact that someone else is suffering as we have. A second possibility is that it is a trade-off. If you are interested in their ills, you find—if for a brief moment—someone to be interested in yours. And that feels good--it's the closest thing you will get to actual sympathy; so enjoy it. Finally, it adds to your database of free medical advice. Whatever you learn about their situation prepares you for the possible, maybe-even-likely eventuality that you will go through it. Maybe the conversation will allow you to recognize the symptoms when they come your way—which is an exponentially higher probability the further you get from 40.

Well, there you have it, my aging friend. I hope this orientation has blessed you—even if it has failed to lighten your spirits--as you begin your descent. Always remember what Paul said, about inwardly wasting away but outwardly being renewed, and never forget: Sixty is the new forty.

Commiseratingly,

Wilson

Finally!

Just posted at Blogging Luke for your enjoyment.