It is nice to imagine that I was post modern before post modern was cool but was it just adolescent rebellion? Let the buyer beware.
Written back in the late 1960s:
The Lost Stone
Speaker 1: (Sadly)
The Stone
Which the builders rejected,
The Stone,
Which became the head of the corner,
The Stone,
Upon which His church would be built
Is lost!
Speaker 2: (Confidently)
Lost? My son you have not been to Our church.
We have a succession line,
Transcending back through time,
Peter's line of ordination,
Precious line of the Lord's creation.
Speaker 1: (Sadly)
But the stone is lost . . . the ordination different from the ordinator.
Speaker 3: (Argumentatively)
Lost? Young radical, you have not been to Our church!
We have the truth - a clear bell tone,
Man can be saved by faith alone,
Luther's theses we still hold,
We have here your Stone of old.
Speaker 1: (Sadly)
But the Stone is lost . . . the person different from His truth.
Speaker 4: (In preacher tone)
Lost? Seeker, you have not been to Our church.
The word of God is where we look,
There are no mistakes in God's own book,
A strong foundation - never weak,
Here you'll find the Stone you seek.
Speaker 1: (Sadly)
But the Stone is lost . . . the path different from its destination.
Speaker 5: (Liltingly)
Lost? Friend, you have not been to Our church.
There we speak with other tongues,
Praising God from out our lungs,
We can show you how to speak,
Limber up, now don't be meek.
Speaker (Sadly)
But the stone is lost . . . the gift different from the giver.
Come search with me brothers,
We seek only one Stone,
Come search with me brothers,
I'll not find it alone
We'll look under your Church,
We'll look under mine,
We'll know when we find it,
The same through all time.
No false combinations,
Our brotherhood true,
We'll understand unity,
when we are through.
Friday, April 30, 2004
Thursday, April 29, 2004
Authority
It seems to me that the post modern antipathy toward authoritative proclamation is simply a plea for good solid reasons, rather than "Thus saith the authority." There is a difference between saying, Hold it, stop right there." and "Hold it, you're one step from fresh concrete." I can understand the speaker's panic in the first statement. I think there is a similar commendable panic in some gospel proclaimers too. They are honestly afraid if their hearer doesn't act quickly there is danger ahead. But I can also understand why someone will be more apt to respond to the second statement. It not only communicates the speaker's sense of danger but also gives the hearer the right to make his own judgment as to the danger. If he wants to walk in wet cement he may.
I am 60 years old. I have been intrigued with the post modern critique of Christianity largely because it echoes some of the problems I have had with the church since a young man. I referred to some of the problem in my last sermon at Jesus People USA.: "I was saved in the 5th grade - The songs we sang pictured my experience, “There’s been a Great change since I been born.” 'The things I usta would love - I don’t love no more.' So I was devoted to Jesus - Then someone told me: If you love Jesus, you will not be ashamed of Him - you’ll go out witnessing !
Oh dread - I was shy - scared to speak in public. I was the little kid peering out from behind his mama’s skirts. But I loved Jesus nevertheless. It wasn't really true that I couldn't love Jesus without rudely blaring the gospel out to people who I didn't know" I know this runs counter to some modern evangelistic paradigms but now, because of the post modern antipathy toward authoritative proclamation I can ease my imputed guilt.
One of my first poems written back in 1959.
Worship Service
The hour has come,
For us to sit,
And stand and sit,
And stand and sit.
We do this to be
Spiritually fit.
Things run smooth,
As smooth can be,
Everything's planned,
For eternity,
We do this because,
We've been set free.
The brass plates flash,
Down every row,
Our hare-earned coins,
And dollars flow,
Our love for God,
These things do show.
Now for a while,
We sit in awe,
The man arises,
Who has "the call,"
His words - raindrops,
Of honey fall
So when the winds
Of life are bleak,
We sit and stand
And give each week
Our spiritual house,
Will never creak.
I am 60 years old. I have been intrigued with the post modern critique of Christianity largely because it echoes some of the problems I have had with the church since a young man. I referred to some of the problem in my last sermon at Jesus People USA.: "I was saved in the 5th grade - The songs we sang pictured my experience, “There’s been a Great change since I been born.” 'The things I usta would love - I don’t love no more.' So I was devoted to Jesus - Then someone told me: If you love Jesus, you will not be ashamed of Him - you’ll go out witnessing !
Oh dread - I was shy - scared to speak in public. I was the little kid peering out from behind his mama’s skirts. But I loved Jesus nevertheless. It wasn't really true that I couldn't love Jesus without rudely blaring the gospel out to people who I didn't know" I know this runs counter to some modern evangelistic paradigms but now, because of the post modern antipathy toward authoritative proclamation I can ease my imputed guilt.
One of my first poems written back in 1959.
Worship Service
The hour has come,
For us to sit,
And stand and sit,
And stand and sit.
We do this to be
Spiritually fit.
Things run smooth,
As smooth can be,
Everything's planned,
For eternity,
We do this because,
We've been set free.
The brass plates flash,
Down every row,
Our hare-earned coins,
And dollars flow,
Our love for God,
These things do show.
Now for a while,
We sit in awe,
The man arises,
Who has "the call,"
His words - raindrops,
Of honey fall
So when the winds
Of life are bleak,
We sit and stand
And give each week
Our spiritual house,
Will never creak.
Wednesday, April 28, 2004
Penelope the Pigeon God
I’ve been wondering why the homeless have such a penchant for feeding the pigeons in the city. One day I saw a big bag left on the sidewalk, the kind of bag the shelter gets filled with bread donations. Aha, Dr. Watson, someone has been feeding pigeons with shelter bread.
Penelope the Pigeon God
Even the Mayor had her number
This enemy of the city
This corruptor of the alleyways.
A long history,
The signs!
Don’t feed the pigeons
Under statute number
117c(547p, amended)
The police patrol
Couldn’t catch her in the act
And the remains were everywhere
Because they didn’t give the birds
Unstructured time to eat.
Where does she get all that bread,
The Mayor said.
Detectives were directed.
Forensic evidence,
Showed donated homeless shelter bread
They said, She’s stealing
From the Homeless Shelter
Sirens to the shelter came
Fred, the Homeless Shelter
Inside man said,
No, she’s living here
It’s her bread, said Fred
The sirens swooped
The mayor had his (old wo-) man!
Bright lights, hot beams
Her diminutive form
Took up half the interrogation chair
Hands folded in her lap
And then, the confession,
Of Penelope the pigeon god
“The birds love me,
To them I am like God,
They come at my coo and call
That makes me feel better,
To be on top for once,
And so, I feed them.
What kind of a God is she
Who doesn’t answer pigeon pleas?
Penelope the Pigeon God
Even the Mayor had her number
This enemy of the city
This corruptor of the alleyways.
A long history,
The signs!
Don’t feed the pigeons
Under statute number
117c(547p, amended)
The police patrol
Couldn’t catch her in the act
And the remains were everywhere
Because they didn’t give the birds
Unstructured time to eat.
Where does she get all that bread,
The Mayor said.
Detectives were directed.
Forensic evidence,
Showed donated homeless shelter bread
They said, She’s stealing
From the Homeless Shelter
Sirens to the shelter came
Fred, the Homeless Shelter
Inside man said,
No, she’s living here
It’s her bread, said Fred
The sirens swooped
The mayor had his (old wo-) man!
Bright lights, hot beams
Her diminutive form
Took up half the interrogation chair
Hands folded in her lap
And then, the confession,
Of Penelope the pigeon god
“The birds love me,
To them I am like God,
They come at my coo and call
That makes me feel better,
To be on top for once,
And so, I feed them.
What kind of a God is she
Who doesn’t answer pigeon pleas?
Tuesday, April 27, 2004
Post Modernism and Christianity
I have been studying Post Modernism and it's effect on culture in general and on Christianity in particular. The study has been like taking a small tiger cub into my life, finding it fun and playful especially for what it does to the old modernist armchair (its upholstery is torn to shreds.). I like that, I always hated that armchair anyway, never sat in it. But I look in the eyes of my new little pet and ask "What exactly does your DNA require you to become?" I am increasingly wondering what it will grow up to be. I went to a conference last week where Brian McLaren presented a paper that gave me a glimpse of what was touted by the responding paper (by Dr Duane Litfin, president of Wheaton College) to be a very toothy grown up tiger. Brian had said, "I have put my eggs in the basket that suggests we need to rethink our understanding of the gospel -- both for the sake of faithfulness to Holy Scripture, and for the sake of mission in the emerging postmodern culture." Dr. Litfin objected pointing out that Paul had clearly stated the gospel in, I Cor. 15:1-8
1Moreover, brethren, I declare unto you the gospel which I preached unto you, which also ye have received, and wherein ye stand; 2By which also ye are saved, if ye keep in memory what I preached unto you, unless ye have believed in vain. 3For I delivered unto you first of all that which I also received, how that Christ died for our sins according to the scriptures; 4And that he was buried, and that he rose again the third day according to the scriptures: 5And that he was seen of Cephas, then of the twelve: 6After that, he was seen of above five hundred brethren at once; of whom the greater part remain unto this present, but some are fallen asleep. 7After that, he was seen of James; then of all the apostles. 8And last of all he was seen of me also, as of one born out of due time.
Duane was actually in good post modern form in that the gospel turned out to be a story, a story that needs interpretation to get at its real meaning. In many other places Paul does interpret the meaning of the story. What exactly is Brian's point? It seems simply that we as the church may have misinterpreted the story, or may have misunderstood Paul's interpretation. That seems simple enough, and possible.
I still like this little fella. Listen to him purr.
1Moreover, brethren, I declare unto you the gospel which I preached unto you, which also ye have received, and wherein ye stand; 2By which also ye are saved, if ye keep in memory what I preached unto you, unless ye have believed in vain. 3For I delivered unto you first of all that which I also received, how that Christ died for our sins according to the scriptures; 4And that he was buried, and that he rose again the third day according to the scriptures: 5And that he was seen of Cephas, then of the twelve: 6After that, he was seen of above five hundred brethren at once; of whom the greater part remain unto this present, but some are fallen asleep. 7After that, he was seen of James; then of all the apostles. 8And last of all he was seen of me also, as of one born out of due time.
Duane was actually in good post modern form in that the gospel turned out to be a story, a story that needs interpretation to get at its real meaning. In many other places Paul does interpret the meaning of the story. What exactly is Brian's point? It seems simply that we as the church may have misinterpreted the story, or may have misunderstood Paul's interpretation. That seems simple enough, and possible.
I still like this little fella. Listen to him purr.
Sunday, April 11, 2004
Love in the Ruins
Love in the Ruins
I was so young at fifty
When we talked about infatuation and love.
Poor girl; she didn't know what she was getting,
A mime lover
Who could flail his arms
And churn his legs
And make his face be whatever was called for
In a pantomime dance
And the answer was
I love you like a tiger
With a roar that makes the jungle mute
But I can't find your language . . .yet!
And you can't guess my pantomime.
(With apology to Walker Percy)
I was so young at fifty
When we talked about infatuation and love.
Poor girl; she didn't know what she was getting,
A mime lover
Who could flail his arms
And churn his legs
And make his face be whatever was called for
In a pantomime dance
And the answer was
I love you like a tiger
With a roar that makes the jungle mute
But I can't find your language . . .yet!
And you can't guess my pantomime.
(With apology to Walker Percy)
Saturday, April 10, 2004
the Attic of the World (a dream)
I wanted to get in to the attic of the world..
(A dream)
It was a snowy field down a gentle slope. A bright sunny day
I need to tame the beast, I said to my companion; the wolf who has been the antagonist of my youthful, dreams, The chaser. Many times I have escaped his snapping jaws in a mad rush through the forest leaping just in time up to the back porch of home.
I was a man in a child's body. I said to my pal, I want to have the wolf as a friend, my dog, my pet, to play and scamper with. And then I looked and behold the wolf chasing a prey, not me this time, thank God.
Let's get him, I said, at the same time recoiling at the task. My comrade rushed ahead. We were both calling to the beast. I thought, he is too caught up in he chase. He will never stop, but my buddy caught him by the fur. There was no fight, no rending of flesh. And as the wolf came panting up to me and licked my fingers I saw his essence appear under my caressing hand. The wolf was just a manifestation of another beast, a bull with long horns and massive, rippling muscles. The long, long horns were the last of the vision to merge back into the fur, teeth and paws of the now dog friendly wolf.
I looked at our troupe, a team set for adventure; I, the wolf and she who caught the wolf for me.
We traveled on, across the snow, up and up to where the sky began. And right there I could see that only thin board separated between me and the attic of the world.
I began to tear away at the barrier. This was my task that I could do for my companions. Some of the boards came easily. Others, I had to snap and break. I was afraid to make noise because the adults would make me stop and not let me go in to the attic. I stopped for a moment peering through the hole I had made. I could see the rafters and roofing boards. I knew there would be no decorating there, no painted or plastered walls. This was liebenstraum, a place for us where we could always be together. Somehow I knew it was populated only by children. There, we could peek out upon the world.
And now I am falling asleep, writing this, but back then, I woke up and knew it was all just a dream. But some day, some night, I'll just crawl right on in and watch all you through the slits and cracks. . . you children in your awkward, earth-prohibited adult bodies. Can you hear the children laugh?
(A dream)
It was a snowy field down a gentle slope. A bright sunny day
I need to tame the beast, I said to my companion; the wolf who has been the antagonist of my youthful, dreams, The chaser. Many times I have escaped his snapping jaws in a mad rush through the forest leaping just in time up to the back porch of home.
I was a man in a child's body. I said to my pal, I want to have the wolf as a friend, my dog, my pet, to play and scamper with. And then I looked and behold the wolf chasing a prey, not me this time, thank God.
Let's get him, I said, at the same time recoiling at the task. My comrade rushed ahead. We were both calling to the beast. I thought, he is too caught up in he chase. He will never stop, but my buddy caught him by the fur. There was no fight, no rending of flesh. And as the wolf came panting up to me and licked my fingers I saw his essence appear under my caressing hand. The wolf was just a manifestation of another beast, a bull with long horns and massive, rippling muscles. The long, long horns were the last of the vision to merge back into the fur, teeth and paws of the now dog friendly wolf.
I looked at our troupe, a team set for adventure; I, the wolf and she who caught the wolf for me.
We traveled on, across the snow, up and up to where the sky began. And right there I could see that only thin board separated between me and the attic of the world.
I began to tear away at the barrier. This was my task that I could do for my companions. Some of the boards came easily. Others, I had to snap and break. I was afraid to make noise because the adults would make me stop and not let me go in to the attic. I stopped for a moment peering through the hole I had made. I could see the rafters and roofing boards. I knew there would be no decorating there, no painted or plastered walls. This was liebenstraum, a place for us where we could always be together. Somehow I knew it was populated only by children. There, we could peek out upon the world.
And now I am falling asleep, writing this, but back then, I woke up and knew it was all just a dream. But some day, some night, I'll just crawl right on in and watch all you through the slits and cracks. . . you children in your awkward, earth-prohibited adult bodies. Can you hear the children laugh?
Friday, April 09, 2004
Tiger Love
I'm not very well taught in love so don't listen to me. Just skip over this to tomorrow - things will get better.
That is not to say I am incapable of love. I love fiercely, like a tiger; I love dramatically, like a torrid novel; Love bursts in me like molten lava, like Old Faithful, like Mount Saint Helens. It just don't get out very well. "In me," did you catch that - in me! Inside of me, that means, like a tiger caged, like a torrid novel unread, like Old Faithful, capped! In me. Inside of me. . .
Don't you dare say I do not love. I have had that knife nick my ribs till marrow bled. And it hurt a lot, and that tiger eventually died.
But now the tiger lives again and feels more alive than ever before!
That is not to say I am incapable of love. I love fiercely, like a tiger; I love dramatically, like a torrid novel; Love bursts in me like molten lava, like Old Faithful, like Mount Saint Helens. It just don't get out very well. "In me," did you catch that - in me! Inside of me, that means, like a tiger caged, like a torrid novel unread, like Old Faithful, capped! In me. Inside of me. . .
Don't you dare say I do not love. I have had that knife nick my ribs till marrow bled. And it hurt a lot, and that tiger eventually died.
But now the tiger lives again and feels more alive than ever before!
Friday, April 02, 2004
For My Children
I've been thinking that one of the reasons I like journaling is a family thing. My dad left a lot of writing type things behind him when he died. I liked that. It helped me understand myself to come to understand him better. I realize that one of my goals in journaling is to give that kind of a gift to my children. That also is one of the reasons I don't like a rambling type journal. I want to cut to the useful meat of the matters so as not to waste other peoples time with the mundane side of my life.
I visited everyone in Eau Claire, Wis. last week. Had a chance to do some work on daughter, Bethany's house. It was a great time. I didn't get to do all the things with the grandchildren that I wanted but we had some fun times. I love being with my family. They always make me feel welcome. I was also very glad to get back to JPUSA. That doesn't mean I do not value my family enough or love JPUSA more. I wrote in a poem once that in the midst of my children - there's the real me. On the other hand being amongst a people who have taken me in, in the midst of turmoil in my life, who have given me a place of ministry alongside them, I love them too. Do I love my children because they are perfect? No. Do I love my brothers and sisters at JPUSA because they are perfect? No. It is all relationship.
I visited everyone in Eau Claire, Wis. last week. Had a chance to do some work on daughter, Bethany's house. It was a great time. I didn't get to do all the things with the grandchildren that I wanted but we had some fun times. I love being with my family. They always make me feel welcome. I was also very glad to get back to JPUSA. That doesn't mean I do not value my family enough or love JPUSA more. I wrote in a poem once that in the midst of my children - there's the real me. On the other hand being amongst a people who have taken me in, in the midst of turmoil in my life, who have given me a place of ministry alongside them, I love them too. Do I love my children because they are perfect? No. Do I love my brothers and sisters at JPUSA because they are perfect? No. It is all relationship.
Thursday, April 01, 2004
Journaling
I'm starting up this journal again after reading about the value of journaling from Rick Warren's book, The Purpose Driven Life. I've started many journals and they all lasted only a short time - Either I run out of ideas or time or brain memory cells. Probably most of my ideas are too intricate. I do that a lot - make a plan that crosses all the t's and then it is to complicated and time consuming to maintain. I'm going to start at a lower level here - just write something on as many days as I can.
My turn for Sunday's sermon I am thinking of using Mary's anointing of Jesus. She was criticized for how she exercised her devotion. The point will be - Others may not agree with our kind of devotion to God but that doesn't make it wrong. There are a few tests for real devotion/Christianity. 1. Devotion must be toward Jesus. 2. Devotion must recognize who He is. 3. It may be expensive or it may be a mite. I'll see if I can extract any more from the passage.
My turn for Sunday's sermon I am thinking of using Mary's anointing of Jesus. She was criticized for how she exercised her devotion. The point will be - Others may not agree with our kind of devotion to God but that doesn't make it wrong. There are a few tests for real devotion/Christianity. 1. Devotion must be toward Jesus. 2. Devotion must recognize who He is. 3. It may be expensive or it may be a mite. I'll see if I can extract any more from the passage.
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