Songbird

Winter is somber beneath grey skies,
Autumn mouldering in scattered leafpiles,
Summer's ember a mere memory,
Spring a songbird long flown south.

Sheol opens his mouth and closes his eyes,
So the dead earth comes as no surprise
Here in December's darkling days,
When life's dim flame is guttering out.

The year's last sharp moonsliver
Is smothered by cloudwisps
Here in the last, darkest hour
Before the final dawn.

Wind whips anything it can,
Driving the enduring chill
Down through skin, down through bone,
Down, down, down to the depths.

It is hard to remember the songbird's breath
Here in a land of cold, dark death,
But her return does not depend
Upon our belief or remembrances.

Make no mistake: She will return.
As surely as the dancing spheres
Bring dawn and winter's end,
We will hear birdsong again.

Afterdeath

I wait in the parking lot
Until I can finish sobbing along
To songs about the Resurrection,
Then walk through the parking lot,
Admiring the waning blue moon
As she wanes on the western horizon --
We will not see another such for years --
And go inside to numb my fresh grief
Among orderly lines of code.

(My friend, Father Thomas McKenzie, died yesterday in a car crash on I-40 west of Nashville. I hope to meet him again when the earth is remade by its glorious Redeemer.)

II. Per Aspera

From the moment he first drew breath

Through bluish infant lips

And let out a mighty wail 

Protesting the crushing pain

Of his journey into the world,

The cold cruelty of the open air 

After the enveloping embrace 

Of his mother’s womb,

I have loved him more than life.

I marveled at his first step,

Delighted myself in his baby laughter,

Wept for his broken bones, his broken heart,

Thanked the Maker for his strong body

And his clever mind.

And now that same Maker demands his life,

So I lay him on the rough stone altar --

My beloved, trusting, obedient son --

And pray in desperation 

That somehow death might be rendered harmless,

Fully eclipsed,

Swallowed up by life.

This is the price I paid for the stars

In all their galactic glory,

The swirling Milky Way,

The strong and silent Hunter, 

The Big and Little Bears:
I laid my dearest dream out to die

And wielded the knife myself.

NoPAD Chapbook 24: I'll Be ______

One of these days, I'll be dead
And you will live on, I trust,
My lovely ones,

For lovely you are,
And I have loved you fiercely,
Faithfully, sacrificially:

My beautiful bedmate,
My strong young sons,
My delightful daughter.

You'll know I did not love
As well as I had wished, and yet
You'll know I loved the best I could.

When I have gone, as go I must,
May echoes of my imperfect love
Birth joyful melodies in your souls.

Jesus Wept... But Why?

The Scene: A RURAL FIELD just outside the town of BETHANY.

The Cast:
JESUS, a popular teacher who has fallen out of favor with the religious and political authorities.
His loyal DISCIPLES, who fear for JESUS's life more than he does.
MARTHA, a calculating, practical-minded woman whose brother LAZARUS has just died.
MARY, the less practical sister of MARTHA and LAZARUS, given to grand gestures and occasional hysterics.
A variety of MOURNERS (LAZARUS was popular, and also fairly rich, which probably helped with the popularity).

The Background:
A week or so ago, LAZARUS came down with a mysterious disease. After he took a turn for the worse, MARY and MARTHA dispatched messengers to JESUS, saying, "He whom you love is sick." JESUS got the news, predicted that it wouldn't end in LAZARUS's death, waited two days, and then set out for BETHANY.

Fast-forward to now: MARTHA meets JESUS outside of town and tells him LAZARUS has been dead for four days. The first words out of her mouth are: "Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died."

After some confusing talk about the coming resurrection, MARTHA sends MARY out to see JESUS. MARY collapses dramatically at JESUS's feet, wailing up a storm. She manages to choke out, "Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died." The MOURNERS come along with her, and they add to the storm that she is a-weeping up.

Then, the funniest thing happens: JESUS weeps right along with them. This causes some of the MOURNERS to remark, "See how He loved him!" But some of them also say, "Could not this man, who opened the eyes of the blind man, have kept this man also from dying?"

The reason I call this a funny thing is that JESUS had very, very little reason to weep. Quite the opposite, in fact -- I would have expected him to comfort the weepers, to offer them hope, to try to shush them. Because -- SPOILER ALERT -- JESUS is going to raise LAZARUS up from the dead.

My question, then, is why? Why the tears and the mourning and the anguish? What purpose does any of that serve? It's not making LAZARUS any less dead, that's for sure.

But let's back up a step and look at this a little more methodically and a little less theatrically...

Reasons Jesus Didn't Need to Weep

1.) He had already predicted the outcome:

• This sickness won't end in death (11:4a)
• Spoken to his disciples. Just think, by the way, of how they must have felt when they got there and found out Lazarus had already died before Jesus had even said this. Disappointment? Disillusionment? Deception? Betrayal?
• He ends up being right -- it won't end in death. But it will go through there.
• Lazarus has fallen asleep; I'm going to wake him up (11:11-14)
• Of course, the disciples don't get it. "Hey, that's good news! If he's sleeping, that will help him rest up and get better!" 
• Wrong, boys.
• Your brother will rise again (11:23)
• Like the disciples, Martha misunderstands this. She thinks Jesus is slinging platitudes. "Yes, I know that he will come back to life... when the resurrection comes and everybody does." 
• Wrong, Martha. I am the Resurrection. 

2.) He knew God had something good in mind:

• This will be for God's glory (11:4b)
• Jesus delayed His coming on purpose (11:5-7)
• He did this at the Father's leading, of course -- see also John 5:19-21
• My opinion: God did this to ensure Lazarus was good and dead. After four days, there's no possibility that people will think of this as a mere swoon or deathbed recovery.
• Jesus had faith in God's plan and timing despite other people's opinions of it:
• You're going too soon (11:8, 14-6)
• You didn't come soon enough (11:21, 32, 37)

3.) He knew he had the power and the prerogative to bring Lazarus back. He knew that:

• This is why God allowed the sickness to occur (11:4)
• This was why he was being called back to Bethany (11:11-15)
• He himself was the resurrection and the life, not only for Lazarus, but for all who would be raised up on the last day (11:23-27)
• God would hear his request and honor it, because the Father was where this whole plan came from in the first place (11:41-42)

If ever there were excellent reasons not to weep, these are. We often weep from lack of control or power over a situation, overwhelming despair, or utter hopelessness. But Jesus had none of these motivations. He knew the outcome would be powerful, glorious -- the very best best-case scenario imaginable. He knew he would grapple with the grave itself and come out on top. 

And yet, there's verse 35, in black and white: Jesus wept. 

So why would the almighty maker, the life-source, the conqueror of death, the victorious one, the winner, succumb to tears right before the moment of his greatest triumph yet?

Here are a few possible answers:

1.) He missed Lazarus and was sad that he had died. This isn't too far-fetched -- it's actually what the people observing the scene thought, too! "See how he loved him!" (v. 36). And well they might think this. When our loved ones die, we lose something of ourselves. Of course, one could also argue that Jesus knew it wasn't for keeps, so this seems to be a less likely motivation than some others.

2.) He saw Mary and the other mourners weeping and was deeply moved and troubled in spirit. I cheated a little bit on this one -- it's from verse 33. So this is actually as close to a "right" answer as I'm going to get, I think. It's right there in the Bible, so I believe it's true. The problem is that this answer doesn't really get to the heart of the matter: Why was Jesus moved? Why was he troubled in spirit? It approaches an answer to this question, but never really arrives there.

From here on out, the answers are a little more speculative, so proceed at your own risk...

3.) I'd argue that Jesus was moved because he was very empathetic. He saw the sorrow of his good friends, and because they mourned, he did, too. I'm reminded of Romans 12:15:  "Rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep." The weeping of our friends can bring great healing. In my greatest moment of grief, I went off by myself because I couldn't bear to be around everyone else. Then, a godly man came and found me in my hiding place. He could have offered me platitudes, scriptures, or words of wisdom. Instead, he only offered me a big hug and his tears. I can't tell you how much it meant to me to know he was sharing my mourning. I also suspect I wouldn't have been nearly as comforted by any words he could have said in that moment. I think Jesus knew this, too: Sometimes loving people means simply crying alongside them.

4.) My next idea actually comes from my good friend Mike, who I was discussing this passage with this week. (So if you disagree, I'll be glad to give you his number so you can give him a piece of your mind.) Mike's idea is this: Jesus was human. Too often, we put Christ's deity so high in our minds that we forget he shared our infirmities, too. He shared our emotional nature. Sometimes, he was overcome by feelings he had no control over. Of course, he never allowed his emotions to be a conduit or an excuse for sin, but he was subject to their influence nonetheless. To overlook Jesus's uncontrollable emotions would be to deny his nature as Emmanuel, God with us.

5.) Perhaps Jesus was mourning over something bigger than the immediate situation. More than anyone else, Jesus knew the whole picture. He had seen heaven's holiness. He had seen mankind's bliss in the garden of Eden. And he had seen the horrible consequences of sin. He had seen pain, sickness, and misery beyond all reckoning. He had seen the ravages of lust, and murder, and death. What if Jesus was weeping over death's very existence? What if he wept because, even though he knew he would bring Lazarus back, his good friend still had to taste the bitter cup that Jesus himself would soon drink? And so many countless others would taste it, too. Seems like a pretty good reason to cry, if you ask me.

Regardless of why Jesus wept, we can take several important lessons from this passage.

1.) Crying isn't a sin. Too often, we try to pave over pain with words like, "Well, everything happens for a reason!" or "The joy of the Lord is my strength!" We try to pretend things are all right when they are most definitely not all right. Through his own weeping, Jesus gave you and me permission to weep. Now, it's also true that our tribulations are a cause for rejoicing (see Romans 5:3 and James 1:2). But that doesn't mean you have to be all smiley about them right away. It does mean that God will inevitably transform them into a something glorious, which is great news. But it's OK not to feel that at the time. (What we must avoid is the temptation to unnaturally prolong our weeping and misery. Our flesh sometimes likes to hold onto pain long after healing should have begun.)

2.) Crying with others can be a service of love. Again, remember Paul's exhortation to the Romans: Weep with those who weep. This doesn't mean to have a never-ending pity party. It does mean that we ought to work to cultivate empathy -- the ability to see and feel things from someone else's point of view. Again, we do this in an effort to love and serve one another as our Savior loves and serves us.

3.) Don't assume you know what's going on in God's plan. Like Martha, the disciples, and the mourners, we don't know what's going on with God's plans. We might think he intends to do one thing, when his actual plan involves something completely incompatible with that thing. Sometimes, Lazarus dies.

4.) Don't assume you know what's going on in people's hearts. If I'd been there, I'd have been tempted to say, "Hey, now, Jesus. It's OK. Martha was right -- Lazarus will rise again in the resurrection. I know you loved him; I did, too. Let's just celebrate the things we loved about him, OK?" Or even, "Well, Jesus, everything happens for a reason!" I suspect this sort of comfort wouldn't have been a blessing to the weeping savior.

5.) Don't mistake an intellectual answer for an antidote to sorrow. Jesus had literally all the answers in this situation. If ever there were a place and time for explaining away sadness, this was it, and he was the man for the job. But it wasn't, and he didn't. He did offer explanations to Martha, because she wanted and needed them (though it's not clear that she really understood them). To Mary, though, he offered only his tears... and, then, after the tears, her heart's desire.

Well, I'm afraid I probably haven't given a very satisfactory answer to why Jesus wept. But I have arrived at one very definite conclusion: I want to get better at weeping like him.

Winter's Last Chance

An icy north wind,
Blowing with desperation:
Winter's dying breath.

Ash Wednesday

Dead, winter-ravished Earth
Begins to thaw at last.
Sun's life-giving lips
Brush her icy cheek,
Bring her forth from the grave.

Twelve cheery robins
Congregate, famished,
In my barren front yard.
They peck at the promise
Of life within dead grass.

A distant crow croaks
His harsh message
From the western hills:
"Repent! For the Kingdom
Of Heaven is at hand."

Thanksgiving Eve Communion Meditation

Take a moment to consider what you are thankful for tonight. Is it family? Friends? Food to eat, clothes to wear? A warm place to stay?

You probably didn't say, "The gruesome execution of an innocent man." In fact, though, that is precisely what we are here to remember, to celebrate, and to give thanks for.

Tonight, we remember our abject failure, both individually and collectively, to do things God's way. We remember our willful treachery toward a loving Father. (And let us not deceive ourselves: ours was a betrayal every bit as vile – and every bit as permanent – as Judas Iscariot's.) We remember the dark, despairing night of our sojourn among the hopeless dead.

We remember, too, a blameless man who loved, healed, and forgave as freely as He breathed. He was the obedient son, a perfect foil for Adam’s rebellious race. He gave of himself with an intensity greater even than our self-seeking greed. Everything he did was perfect, since he followed in his heavenly father’s perfect steps.

And this faultless one, this perfect son, was the man who stood in our rightful place under the wrath of a just judge. He bore our iniquities and the punishment for our sins without a word of complaint. He drank the cup of God’s wrath down to the last bitter dregs.

Isaiah wrote this about the suffering servant:

1 Who has believed our message?

And to whom has the arm of the Lord been revealed?

2 For He grew up before Him like a tender shoot,

And like a root out of parched ground;

He has no stately form or majesty

That we should look upon Him,

Nor appearance that we should be attracted to Him.

3 He was despised and forsaken of men,

A man of sorrows and acquainted with grief;

And like one from whom men hide their face

He was despised, and we did not esteem Him.

4 Surely our griefs He Himself bore,

And our sorrows He carried;

Yet we ourselves esteemed Him stricken,

Smitten of God, and afflicted.

5 But He was pierced through for our transgressions,

He was crushed for our iniquities;

The chastening for our well-being fell upon Him,

And by His scourging we are healed.

6 All of us like sheep have gone astray,

Each of us has turned to his own way;

But the Lord has caused the iniquity of us all

To fall on Him.

7 He was oppressed and He was afflicted,

Yet He did not open His mouth;

Like a lamb that is led to slaughter,

And like a sheep that is silent before its shearers,

So He did not open His mouth.

8 By oppression and judgment He was taken away;

And as for His generation, who considered

That He was cut off out of the land of the [k]living

For the transgression of my people, to whom the stroke was due?

9 His grave was assigned with wicked men,

Yet He was with a rich man in His death,

Because He had done no violence,

Nor was there any deceit in His mouth.

10 But the Lord was pleased

To crush Him, putting Him to grief;

If He would render Himself as a guilt offering,

He will see His offspring,

He will prolong His days,

And the good pleasure of the Lord will prosper in His hand.

11 As a result of the [p]anguish of His soul,

He will see it and be satisfied;

By His knowledge the Righteous One,

My Servant, will justify the many,

As He will bear their iniquities.

12 Therefore, I will allot Him a portion with the great,

And He will divide the booty with the strong;

Because He poured out Himself to death,

And was numbered with the transgressors;

Yet He Himself bore the sin of many,

And interceded for the transgressors.

So, tonight, we remember this prince who died the ignoble death of a slave on our behalf. We remember the one who willingly braved a dark, deadly path to redeem the lost souls of his straying people. And we are thankful, more than words could express, that he was willing to be utterly broken so we might be made whole again. Only God’s matchless mercy could have achieved this. Let’s thank Him for the provision of such a marvelous savior.

Who to Blame

In case you didn't know, a bad man killed a lot of people (including 20 children between preschool and 4th grade)  in Connecticut yesterday. This was an abhorrent act, perpetrated by a strong man in the prime of his youth on some of the weakest people around.

Of course, cable news networks being what they are, the "experts" started coming on within minutes of the event, making intelligent-sounding noises for as long as the show's host would allow them to. They claimed to have the answers for the questions each viewer was asking: Why did this tragedy happen? Where does the blame lie? How can we fix this?

It seems like heartbroken people are most easily comforted when they can pin the blame down. That way, at least you have someone or something to direct your anger toward.

You would be at least partly right to blame any of these:

• People who insist on having the right to obtain and keep deadly weapons, regardless of how this right (or these weapons) could be misused
• A culture that doesn't take mental illness seriously ("If I can't see it, it doesn't exist!")
• Parents who get divorced when they discover that marriage is hard, leaving their children with gaping emotional wounds
• A media establishment that glorifies violence until it actually happens in the real world, at which point it becomes, of course, an unthinkable tragedy
• News shows that run stories with headlines like "Inside the Mind of Evil," trying to define what makes "those people" different from good, normal, upstanding folk like you and me
• A community that doesn't engage people, connect to their places of greatest need, and bring them the deep and abiding healing of true fellowship

As you listen to the "experts," you'll notice a pattern. Most of their ideas involve legislative fixes to perceived problems. 

This is true for the rest of our culture, too. We feel that if we can all just agree on the problem and the solution, then we can simply change the law, and voila! No more problem. So we lobby for stronger gun-control laws, for more mental health funding, for better security systems in schools.

But regardless of how hard we work to fix them, the problems keep recurring. No matter what laws are made, we can't seem to get past the fact that people do terrible things to each other.

So who do we blame for the deeper problem here? The one we can't seem to solve? Here's what I believe: 

The light has come into the world and people loved the darkness rather than the light, because their deeds were evil. For everyone who does evil deeds hates the light and does not come to the light, so that their deeds will not be exposed. (Jn. 3:19-20)

And just as they did not see fit to acknowledge God, God gave them over to a depraved mind, to do what should not be done. They are filled with every kind of unrighteousness, wickedness, covetousness, malice. They are rife with envy, murder, strife, deceit, hostility. They are gossips, slanderers, haters of God, insolent, arrogant, boastful, contrivers of all sorts of evil, disobedient to parents, senseless, covenant-breakers, heartless, ruthless. Although they fully know God’s righteous decree that those who practice such things deserve to die, they not only do them but also approve of those who practice them. (Rom. 1:28-32)

 Making laws, starting committees, and working for social change might have some effect on the world, just as a properly applied piece of gauze might have some effect on a gushing carotid artery. But this patient is going to need surgery if we're going to keep him from bleeding out.

That's why the story of the school shooting is a perfect accompaniment to Advent. It is yet another example of the pain, sorrow, and utter brokenness that Jesus Christ was born to heal.

In Christ God was reconciling the world to himself, not counting people’s trespasses against them, and he has given us the message of reconciliation. (II Cor. 5:19)

I haven't shot 20 children in cold blood, but my sinful heart is capable of such evil. And so is yours. He came to right our wrongs and to bring wholeness to a people sickened unto death. He came to heal the rift between God and man -- a rift that we feel most keenly in tragic circumstances.

His death and resurrection on our behalf offers redemption and restoration to you, me, and others just like us whose faults are more evident (and seemingly more tragic).

Amen. Come, Lord Jesus.

Poems Inspired by John's Gospel

My Hutch-friend Rebecca has written some really good poems about the Gospel of John. I have been meaning to link to them for a while.

Here are some lines from her latest one (The Little Boots Liturgies: John 20):

They sat in blanked silence,
retracing the death of all known belief,
yielding to every aftershock,
as it rolled through the dry earth of their bodies.

“It is finished!” 
They had heard it with their own ears.
They had watched
while each last hope pulled shut

like a bolted door,

through which
Hope passed (even yet)
and stood among them.

“Peace, be with you.”

See Him there,
transposing physics.

OK, so I wanted to go on quoting, but pretty soon I would have posted the whole poem, and then you would have no reason to click on the link to her site.

Don't just sit here; there's poetry to be read! What are you doing still reading this?!

On Potato Salad

One of my Hutch-buddies wrote this post on life, death, and funeral food: Feasting in Life | The Quirky Redhead. This reminded me of an essay I wrote a few years ago and have been meaning for some time to post here. So, here it (finally) is.

I have been suspicious of potato salad for as long as I can remember.

Nonetheless, I love it: The soft, satisfying chunks of tuber, the gentle bite of pickle juice, the sweet, smooth, tangy mayo, the occasional crunch of onion. Its texture is every bit as wonderful as its taste. It's pleasing to the eyes, too, garnished with careful slices of hard-boiled egg, perfect parsley sprigs, and vivid dashes of paprika.

I remember sitting in the kitchen one sweltering Fourth of July morning, watching my mother drain a pot of steaming, brown-jacketed potatoes ("If you skin them before you boil them, the texture isn't as good," she explained). I remember my small fingers laboring to peel an egg, exasperated by the tiny bits of shell that never seemed to trouble my mother. ("It sometimes helps if you peel it under running water.") I remember cutting the eggs very carefully ("Never toward your hand!"), forming perfect circles of rich, crumbly yellow inside perfect circles of smooth, solid white. I remember teasing the boiled skin off the soft potatoes, using my clean fingernails ("Always wash your hands!") to pinch and pull, trying to remove every last bit of brown.

And, after the mysterious alchemy of mayonnaise and onions, of parsley and pickle juice and paprika, after the mixing and seasoning and stirring and garnishing, comes the glorious eating. 

If anything is more delightful to the palate than potato salad, it must be potato salad that you yourself have had a hand in preparing. It goes into your mouth and, as you chew, attains a miraculous homogeny, a wondrous e pluribus unum of flavor and texture.

So you see how enormously it pains me to suspect potato salad of anything besides being the perfect side dish for any informal dining occasion. Nonetheless, the circumstantial evidence is simply too great to ignore.

***

Exhibit A: Grandma's potato salad in a green Tupperware bowl sitting on a battered folding table in the cool, dark basement fellowship hall of the Belleville United Methodist Church, Belleville, KS, October 1986.

Great Aunt Marjorie, Grandma’s sister, has just died, and we are celebrating. 

That, at least, is how it seems to my five-year-old mind. I cannot fathom why this death, this ceasing-to-be of a human being, would be cause for rejoicing. But there it is, the delightful potato salad, just like it was at my birthday a week earlier, when Aunt Marjorie wasn't dead in a box upstairs.

Perhaps Aunt Marjorie is hiding in the basement closet that holds the musty old choir robes. Any moment now, she will burst gloriously forth into the fellowship hall, and we'll all know it was just a trick, a magnificent joke that fooled everyone but me. We will see that the life really hasn't ebbed from her wizened old body that smells of peppermint and lavender soap, and we will offer her some of Grandma's delectable potato salad.

I begin to grow uneasy as the festivities die down without event. The joke has become less funny; when will Aunt Marjorie return from the closet to the land of the living? She must be awfully hungry in there. I wonder if I should take her a plate of food.

"Micah, find your jacket. It's time to go." My mother's voice doesn't sound quite normal. She must be tired.

"Mom," I want to ask, "when will Aunt Marjorie stop hiding?" And I almost do ask, but then I am afraid of the answer.

The last bite of potato salad sticks in my throat as I search the basement for my jacket. I sneak a peek into the robe closet. Nothing is there but ancient, faded cloth saturated with smells of armpits and mildew. I decide not to ask for potato salad on my next birthday.

***

Exhibit B: An educational electronic display at the Exploration Place museum, Wichita, KS, June 1996.

The museum display features an electronic screen with a large, colorful drawing of a picnic, complete with a number of cartoonish people. In front of the screen is a bank of buttons, including a big red one labeled "Start." The sign above the screen tells me that I am a detective who must solve the case of the mysterious illness that afflicts the people in the picture.

I am intrigued. I have just finished the complete works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. In my mind's eye, I am Sherlock Holmes, wearing an overcoat and deerstalker and smoking a pipeful of rough-cut tobacco (which I took from my Persian slipper before leaving Baker Street this morning). I am ready to come to the aid of the poor, ignorant denizens of the drawing.

I follow the instructions and press the red button. 

A disembodied voice assesses the situation for me: "The Smith family is in trouble! Their day of picnicking and fun in the great outdoors has been ruined by upset stomachs. Some of them feel nauseated and miserable. It's up to you to find out why they're sick. For information that might help, press a button that corresponds to a family member's name. Good luck, detective!"

I have not emerged from my education with Sir Arthur without learning a thing or two about observation. 

Before I go any farther, I take careful stock of the scene. Several happy digital children play Frisbee in a field of pixelated grass. Nothing seems to be wrong with them. 

Nearby, there is a table with some adults sitting at it. Two of them look greenish and uncomfortable. Spread across the table are plates, napkins, and a variety of food: Hot dogs, buns, condiments, chips, vegetables, cole slaw, potato salad, cookies, and canned soft drinks. 

Off to the other side of the picture, an adult and several children lie in the sun on blankets, watching the clouds. One of the children looks as if she will be violently ill in very short order.

My stomach sinks as I begin to suspect the reason for the mysterious illness. The first button I press, next to the name “Betty,” confirms my suspicions. 

A young girl’s voice comes over the speaker: “We’ve been here all afternoon. After having a picnic lunch, Tom, Mike, and Amy went over to toss he Frisbee around. Meanwhile, Mom, Dad, Cindy, and Uncle Bill went for a walk together, and Toby and I decided to watch the clouds with Aunt Cathy. When Mom, Dad, and Cindy got back from the walk, they were hungry, so they had seconds. Uncle Bill stopped to pick wildflowers, but he got back later and joined Mom and Dad at the table while Cindy came over to watch the clouds with us."

Even Dr. Watson couldn't get this case wrong. It's obviously food poisoning. And I have a very good guess about which food is responsible.

Cindy's account leaves little doubt in my mind: " I was sooooo hungry! I don't eat meat, but I really liked the cole slaw, veggies, and potato salad. Ugh! Now I’m going to be sick!"

That narrows it down to three. Even though I don't need any more clues -- sometimes a detective just knows -- I am sure Holmes wouldn't stop until he had eliminated all other possibilities, so I interrogate the other witnesses anyway.

Dad Smith, one of the sufferers, informs me that he "can't stand cabbage," and the green-gilled Mom Smith tells me, "Even though my diet doesn't normally allow it, I splurged a little bit and took some potato salad to go with my hot dog." 

To clinch the matter, Uncle Bill (who is feeling perfectly well) says he wanted potato salad when he got back, but it had all been eaten.

As I press a button to confirm that potato salad is the culprit, something within me protests -- how could such a delightful dish cause so much discomfort? How could something so delicious harbor such danger? Nonetheless, once one has eliminated all other possibilities, whatever remains, no matter how unlikely, must be the answer.

And it is. The display goes on to inform me that potato salad is the picnic food most prone to feed bacteria and is consequently the most common source of food poisoning at picnics. The screen says that potato salad, if not kept under 40 degrees Fahrenheit, can be contaminated with dangerous Latin words like Bacillus cereus, Staphylococcus aureus, and Clostridium perfringens. The very sound of them makes me queasy, but I set my jaw and act as if it's not a big deal. Just another case solved.

As I walk away from the exhibit, I wistfully puff my imaginary pipe and wish the cole slaw had been the guilty party.

***

Exhibit C: A stack of green plastic serving bowls beside the dishwashing sink in the back of the kitchen at Kansas Bible Camp in Hutchinson, KS, July 2001.

I have been here at camp all summer. Most of that time, I have been the dishwashing crew chief. I coordinate the cleaning of 150 plates, glasses, forks and spoons per meal, along with 28 pitchers, 14 serving utensils, two water coolers, a dozen pots and pans, sundry cooking implements, and occasionally the monstrous, greasy old grill wedged into the corner between the mop sink and the convection ovens. I also ensure that the kitchen and dining room get mopped and that the groceries get put away where they belong.

This afternoon, I have made the mistake of letting my dish crew go early so they can see the Fourth of July parade in town with the families (including my own) that are camping here this week. I assumed that I would have very few dishes to do, since we ate lunch on paper plates out on the lawn in front of the rambling old camp building. The meal was quite simple: Hamburgers, potato salad, and watermelon, with cookies for dessert. Normally, the only dishes for such a meal are the forks, serving dishes, and utensils, so I reasoned that I would be able to handle the dishes without my crew’s help. Unfortunately, I forgot about the grill.

The grill is my perennial enemy. Each time it is used, I must attack it with my degreaser and scratchy pads to rid it of its greasy, baked-on residue. The process, helpfully outlined on a filthy 3” X 5” card Scotch-taped to the wall behind the grill, is both simple and demanding:

1. Pour water on grill to cool it off
2. Using rubber gloves, spread grill with diluted de-greaser
3. Scrub with grill block; rinse degreaser off
4. Repeat 2 and 3 as needed
5. Wash grill with soap and water; dry with paper towels
6. Apply a coat of Crisco to season grill

The grill is hot this afternoon. As I pour water on it, a burst of steam hisses upward, almost stifling me. 

I sigh, wipe my forehead with a paper towel, and start scrubbing the grill down. I don't bother with the gloves or with diluting the chemicals. The stronger they remain, the sooner I'll be done.

As I finish the grill, the smell of leftover bits of potato salad mingles with the odor of the degreaser to create a new and horrible olfactory sensation. It makes me envision deadly little Latin words swirling around the room, all clad in tiny rubber gloves. 

Moving on to the dish sink, I decide to clean the serving bowls before doing the silverware.

I don’t especially like camp potato salad. It’s made for 150 people, so it isn’t prepared nearly as lovingly or carefully as my mother always made it. Besides, the cooks here use mustard instead of pickle juice, and that gives it too much kick. I’ve never enjoyed potato salad that bites me back. Nonetheless, it’s better than no potato salad, so I had a generous helping at lunch.

As I start spraying the residue off the bowls before washing them, I begin to wish I hadn’t eaten quite so much potato salad. The heat of the day is lukewarm in comparison with the scalding water that shoots from the sprayer. It doesn’t have a temperature control, since no cold-water pipe goes to that part of the kitchen. 

I suppose whoever plumbed the building decided he didn’t need to run two pipes to the sprayer when the dish crew would just want hot water all the time anyway. He obviously did not foresee how uncomfortable it would be to stand in the kitchen on a July day and feel the steam rising from the sprayer. And I’m certain he didn’t know that the hot water from the sprayer could lift the scent of potato salad from bowls and disperse it into the miserably warm kitchen. 

At times, I am so overcome with the all-permeating odor and heat that I almost gag.

Finally, after hours of battling the hamburger grease on the grill and the potato salad residue on the bowls, my last dish is done, and kitchen’s unpleasant smells have all but dissipated. 

I drain the sinks and glance at the clock above the kitchen doorway: 3:15. Just enough time to jump in the camp’s cool, clear swimming pool before the staff prayer meeting at 4:00. I smile and leave the sweltering kitchen to change into swim trunks. I wonder if the families have gotten back from town yet. I haven’t seen my brothers very much today, and they went to the parade earlier. I hope they’re at the pool – they always make my day better.

As I walk into the poolyard, the first person I see is Sam, my 13-year-old brother. He looks as if he’s fighting back tears.

“What’s the matter, buddy?” I am concerned. Sam is normally easygoing and good-natured. If he is distressed, something is severely wrong.

“Something bad happened to Tim.” 

I notice that his eyes are red.“How bad?” 

I think of all the times Tim has been hurt in his 15 years: he has always been the brother with bandaged arms or legs, the one who cracks his head open on playground basketball courts, the one who constantly tries to tackle guys twice his size when we play football in the park. He is wild and reckless, and I love him for it.

“Real bad.” The tears break through Sam’s defenses, and I pull him into a rough hug to help him recover.

Between pauses to regain his composure, Sam tells me the story. They were canoeing and decided to stop at a little sandbar about a mile upstream. The sand there is bleached white, so we’ve always called it Fiji Island (even though it’s neither an island nor especially Pacific in appearance). 

As Sam and the others were writing their names in the sand with sticks, they heard a splash and noticed Tim was missing. When he looked at the creek, Sam saw a bit of Tim’s swim trunks sticking up from the murky water – an air bubble, he quickly concluded.

Thinking that Tim was playing a joke on them, Sam waded across the creek to where Tim was and picked him up out of the water. Tim seemed dazed.“Are you OK, Tim?” Sam asked.

Tim mumbled something that Sam thought was a “Yes,” so he let him go. Tim dropped back into the creek with an unnatural-sounding splosh. That’s when they knew something was wrong.

Sam ran to the camp building to call 911, then ran back to Fiji Island to await the ambulance’s arrival. When it came, the paramedics determined that Hutchinson’s hospital would probably not be able to keep Tim alive, so they called in a chopper to take him to Wichita. Sam stood and watched it until it had gone, and then, half-dazed, walked alone back to the camp building.

As Sam finishes the story, Mom enters the poolyard. She seems peaceful, but her eyes are red.

Letting Sam go, I turn to her. “Mom, what’s wrong with him? Do they know? Will he be OK?” I can’t ask the questions quickly enough.

“Well,” Mom replies, “the paramedics think it’s his neck. He probably broke it when he dove into the creek. He can’t move anything below his collar bone.” She forced a smile. “I’m sure it’ll be all right; God is in control.”

I want to scream, to curse, to blaspheme. How could God allow this to happen? Where was God when my little brother’s vertebrae snapped, crackled, popped like a clichéd breakfast cereal commercial? What God would allow tiny Latin words to terrorize us in the very potato salad we eat? Is this the same God who allowed my dead Aunt Marjorie to go into that wooden box and never, ever come out again?

What are we to that kind of God but a speck, a tiny bit of grease caked onto the very corner of the grill? What are we to Him but flies gathered around a gob of rotting potato salad in a dumpster behind some deli? Does He care about me, that God who created this horrible, ugly little world?

I don’t explode; I withdraw. I nod my head wisely, I say, “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away,” I act like my faith isn’t disintegrating. I am still a good little Christian. But something sharper, harsher than mustard begins to eat away at me.

Mom and Dad leave immediately for Wichita to sit anxiously in the waiting room while doctors try to cut, poke, and probe the life back into my little brother. 

Everyone else at camp goes to the chapel for a special prayer meeting. I can imagine what will be said: “Gracious Father, we know You have a purpose for this event.” Or maybe, “Lord, we know You’re just using this to show us Your grace in Tim’s life.” Or even, “Lord, we don’t know why you’re doing this, but we know that You are good.”

I know the people here will pray doctrinally correct prayers, I know that they have good, biblical reasons for telling God what they do, and I suppose I even agree with them intellectually, but if I went to the meeting, I’m afraid I’d shout, “Jesus Christ! What the hell were you thinking?!” 

That prayer is probably not so doctrinally correct, so instead of going, I sit on my bunk in the staff quarters and quietly sob like there’s no tomorrow. (I’m not sure there is.)

***

My family drives to Wichita to visit Tim the next day. We have a cooler full of leftovers from camp for lunch. I am not hungry.The hospital’s parking garage is labyrinthine. I’m glad my older brother Andrew is leading the way; I know I’d just get lost. He doesn’t, though. We find the room just fine. 

On the way, we see a bereaved Mennonite couple crying outside their son’s room. We learn later that he was crushed beneath the body of a half-tame horse he was saddle-breaking. Doctors are crowded around, telling the family how sorry they are. I pretend I do not see them.

My imagination could not have prepared me for what I see in Tim’s room. A metal halo is screwed into his head, he is flat on his back, and his face looks like it belongs on a bloated corpse. He looks nothing like the boy I saw at lunch the day before; I wonder if this is the right room.

Andrew leads the way to the bed, with Sam close behind. I stand back behind Mom and the rest of the kids and wait my turn to talk to my brother, to let him know how glad I am that he has cheated death (for now). 

While I wait, I overhear a thin, nervous doctor whispering to Mom that “the prognosis, quite frankly, is not very promising, although, of course, anything can happen.” Something in me hardens even more, and it is all I can do to avoid smashing his smug, benevolent M.D. face in.

Finally, it is my turn to talk to Tim. I notice that he has not been very talkative so far; crushing several vertebrae and undergoing a couple of life-saving operations probably has that effect on a guy.

“Hey, bro.” I’m not sure what to say to someone so close to death.

“Hey. Did I worry you?” His words are slurred. He tries a laugh that comes out more as a gurgle.

“Nah. We’re used to you getting hurt.” I smile and blink several times. Hard.

“Don’t cry, Micah – it’s merely a flesh wound.” He knows I have a soft spot for Monty Python.

I smile despite myself. “Seriously, you doing OK, Timmy?”

“No offense, Micah,” he begins, his voice thick and soft, “but it seems like you’re having more trouble with this whole thing than I am.”

How can he see right through me when his eyes are swollen almost shut? No use lying to him. “I am having a hard time, bro. It seems so…” I struggle for words. “Unfair, maybe?”

“Listen, Micah.” He suddenly seems a little sharper. “I’ve thought about this. I know I might die. I know there’s nothing I can do about it. I’ve had a good life, and I’m thankful for everything I’ve been able to do. If this is the end, I’m fine with that. If I recover completely, I’m fine with that. I accept what God is doing in me, and I keep on going. If I tried to take control myself, I’d just be frustrated, right?” He pauses, breathes hard. “I’m not feeling so good… I’d better take a nap.”

“Yeah, buddy. Do that.”

“Thanks for visiting me.”

“No, thank you, Tim. You’ve helped me a lot. Feel better, OK?”

“I’m trying.” Another gurgle-laugh.

On the way back to camp, Andrew drives while Mom hands out leftovers. She goes through in reverse age order, asking us all what we want. I come almost last, right before Andrew. “Micah, what would you like?” She offers me sandwiches, chips, day-old lasagna.

“Just potato salad, please,” I reply. “I’m not all that hungry.”

I know it hasn’t been stored below 40 degrees, but I eat it anyway, and despite the mustard’s bite and the unpleasant memory of its steamy odor the day before, it is the most wonderful thing I have ever tasted.

***

The really tricky thing about potato salad is that it should not exist in a world filled with death, disease, and pain. 

The sweet, comforting smoothness of mayo has no place in the presence of heartrending anguish. Soft, substantial chunks of boiled potatoes do not belong in a realm where health can turn so suddenly to sickness, where happiness can dissolve in the blink of an eye. The intermingled flavors of spices and pickle juice and half a dozen other things should not have the ability to delight the taste buds of people whose existences could be eradicated with the next gust of wind, shaking of the ground, or sudden flood. A boy who has eaten so marvelous a side dish as potato salad should not have his strength sapped, his body crippled in a heartbeat.

That is why I am suspicious of the food. It is not merely a delicious blend of flavor or something to help fill out the menu at a picnic or church social. Rather, it is a constant reminder of mortality, of suffering, and of the destruction inherent in our lives. Potato salad promises things it cannot give: peace, pleasure, relaxation, an underlying sense of rightness. It belies the fact that the world around it is nowhere near as perfect as the salad itself is. 

And yet, I'm beginning to suspect that the promise isn't a false one after all.

Perhaps potato salad is more: a reminder of God’s perpetual grace. Or, if you prefer, a reminder of the possibility of goodness somewhere, somehow, through some means. That reminder can seem insignificant in a bleak and frequently hopeless world, but sometimes – if we’re lucky or blessed or have good enough karma, maybe – it is enough to help us through the darkness. It can pull us from despair and enable us to stand back up in the aftermath of reality’s brutal knockout punch. 

And, as we taste the sweetness, tanginess, smoothness, and wholesomeness of potato salad, somehow it may help us learn to accept the tragic miracle of our humanity.

Hutchmoot 2012 (Part 1: The Spiritual Stuff)

If you know what a Hutchmoot is, you won't be surprised to hear that Hutchmoot 2012 was an occasion of breaking (the good kind), challenge (also the good kind), and immense blessing (I don't think there's a bad kind) for me.

That's the short version of how this event affected me. To explain why, we're going to have to take a scenic drive through the ugliness of my festering, not-quite-dead-yet flesh. Feel free to exit the vehicle at any time if you find yourself growing ill.

Light at the end of the tunnel: If we make it through my old self's rotting corpse in one piece, I'll tell you why Hutchmoot was one of the most beautiful things to happen to it in a long time.

So here are three things you need to know about me:

1. I'm insecure. Debilitatingly so. I crave validation and acceptance and live in constant fear of not being good enough to receive them. I thrive on praise and cringe at the slightest hint of criticism. I use other people as benchmarks, caring more that I can compare myself to them than that they are made in the very image of God.
2. I'm selfish. I seek my own pleasure, my own goals, my own way, with every wretched breath. I march, jackbooted, over the needs and desires of others. (The exception is when their needs or desires coincide with mine, in which case I tolerate them for a while, as Hitler tolerated Stalin before Operation Barbarossa.)
3. The first two things about me are lies. Well, they're starting to become lies. Chapters 4 - 6 of Paul's Letter to the Romans tell me this is true. Like Abraham, I have believed the impossible, and my faith in Christ has been credited to me as righteousness (4:19-25). God has restored my relationship with Himself and given me a glorious hope (5:1-5). In large part, this hope springs from the fact that my old self is dead. When I came to Christ, I died, just as surely as if a divine executioner had stood me up against a brick wall and used an expertly aimed hollow-point round to turn my brains into soup (6:1-7). In my old man's place lives the new man, the image of Christ in me.

Still with me? Good. So how did Hutchmoot 2012 change me? How did it make Thing #3 truer while making Things #1 and #2 falser? (And is "falser" even a word?)

God used my sweet communion with Hutchfriends, my tummy full of Hutchfood, and the megadoses of truth in the Hutchsessions to clear up my cloudy vision a little bit. And, quite frankly, I didn't really like what I saw. I realized that my flesh was still much too alive. Rather than giving wholeheartedly and unstintingly to others, my old self wanted to measure my skills, talent, experiences, and accomplishments against theirs. It wanted to use these precious friends to my advantage. Perhaps talking with certain people would give me the appearance of being important, of being worthy of spending time with. Vicarious power and prestige? Yes, please.

I saw these natural tendencies and found them utterly disgusting.

Here's the really beautiful part: This clarity of vision was accompanied by encouraging words of truth from Scripture. Russ Ramsey gave a devotion on I Corinthians 4:3-4, reminding me that I am not my own judge, and that no other human is, either. My worth and value are judged by the One who thought I was important enough to sacrifice His Son for. Sally Lloyd-Jones followed this up with a two-word sermon that I needed badly: "Never compare."

So what do I take away from Hutchmoot? Three things, conveniently enough.

1. The remembrance that God loves me and that He alone judges me. This means I don't need to try so hard to be lovable or admirable. He sees me with all my faults and still gave His Son's life for mine. This frees me up to love others in the same way rather than seeing them as competitors.
2. God made me in His image, and He made me to share my creativity with others. I suffer from a sort of creative attention deficit disorder -- it is very difficult for me to finish things I have started. I realized this week that if God is going to use my work to encourage others, I need to complete what I start. I will do this not out of obligation or guilt, but because I believe God has given me resources so I will use them. This means I am going to make a concerted effort to first finish all the half-done things sitting around my mind, and then diligently let new things flow out as often -- and as completely -- as I can.
3. I need to keep dying. I've been dying for two and a half decades so far, and sometimes it seems like the flesh is stronger than ever. The good news is that one day, I will finally attain death, and then I will be more alive than I ever dreamed was possible. In the meantime, I will keep seeking out other believers to encourage me along to greater depths of love and sacrifice, as I do the same for them.

I am planning to post at least one more time on my favorite Hutchmoot 2012 moments, so you can look forward to that later this week (if the Lord wills). For now, I'll end by saying I'm extremely humbled by and grateful for this experience. You can check out other responses to it at the Rabbit Room.

And, oh, yes: "falser" is apparently a real word. In Scrabble, anyway.

When Dementia Strikes...

If I am blessed with a long enough life, it is not unreasonable to expect that my mind will start to go at some point. I must say I fear this possibility -- more tonight than ever.

I've seen enough Alzheimer's patients to know that it is not immediate. Nor is it linear. Nor is it predictable.

I imagine that when it comes, it will be like driving through a foggy West Virginia night, with the peaks all around shrouded in misty white cloaks. Sometimes the fog thickens; sometimes it clears. Sometimes you can see for miles; sometimes you can't even see the semi in the oncoming lane until it is almost too late (and then you realize you were staring down death's maw and your breath comes in cold, ragged gasps until you can force yourself to calm down).

The most frightening thing about it is that I will lose control of everything -- and particularly the strength of those sweet memories that have so much power over the mundane, soulkilling concerns of my life. For instance, my little boy, one year old and happy, curled up on my lap, cooing and playing with the tiny plastic spoon from which he tasted his first ice cream tonight. Or, again, the deep blue eyes of my beautiful lover, offering me solace after a long, frustrating day of having my will forcibly bent to conform to that of the machine in which I am a mere cog.

Those moments of warmth, comfort, and peace will be first dimmed, then lost, by the enveloping mist, when dementia strikes. And that is a loss I fear more than any earthly pain -- because without those memories, life will be much harder to make sense of.

Yet, even in the face of this possibility, I must, like Job, confess my Creator's supremacy: "Though He slay me, I will hope in Him..."

But also like Job, unless I become much more mature in the few years I have remaining on this terrestrial ball, I will also plead on my own behalf: "Nevertheless, I will argue my ways before Him."

Perhaps I will undergo the loss anyway. But I have faith that regardless of what may happen to me on this plane, if I hold fast to my true and lasting hope, the misty shroud will one day be swept away by a clean and everlasting Light. And to even glimpse such a Light, I would give my warmest, most comforting memories in a heartbeat.

Sunrise

And you, child, will be called the prophet of the Most High;
For you will go on before the Lord to prepare His ways;

To give to His people the knowledge of salvation
By the forgiveness of their sins,

Because of the tender mercy of our God,
With which the Sunrise from on high will visit us,

To shine upon those who sit in darkness and the shadow of death,
To guide our feet into the way of peace.¹

I'm sure I had read the benediction of Zacharias to his son John before. In fact, I'm reasonably sure I have read it at least three or four times. But for some reason, it has never leapt out at me. (Maybe because it is overpowered by Mary's Magnificat just a few lines up the page.)

This morning, though, it hit me like a boatload of rabid weasels:² God's tender mercy, personified in Christ, is a sunrise.

It's a simple picture, but also a powerful one -- especially if you have ever had the joy of seeing the sun creep over the horizon after a long, dark, painful night. The renewed burst of warmth and light from that celestial body remind you that the world is actually a pretty wonderful place after all, despite its spots of scattered darkness. No matter how foul your mood, there is always some solace to be found in the cheery rays of sunlight dancing through the morning sky. If nothing else, there is always the hope that today will be better than the one that preceded it.

Sunrise always reminds me of the 900-mile trek from my former home in Northeast Arizona back home to Kansas. The drive is a long, exhausting one, over mountain passes and through seemingly endless stretches of desert.

We normally tried to have at least three drivers in the car, of whom two would be asleep at any given time. This allowed us to leave at 3 p.m. on a Friday and pull into our destination at about the time the sun was peeking up over the Kansas plains.

Without fail, the hardest stretch of the drive was between midnight and 5 a.m. Struggling to stay alert when it's way past bedtime, navigating confusing networks of backroads to shave a few minutes off the drive, and listening to whatever radio station was least staticky out in the middle of nowhere³ can certainly drain a person.

The worst part of driving in the dark is that it's hard to see your progress. You have no real evidence, other than your odometer, to indicate that you're actually going anywhere -- particularly when you're driving through Western Kansas, where there are very few landmarks and a lot of flat, open spaces.

So when you see that blessed glow on the horizon, you suddenly realize: "Hey! I'm almost home!" There's a feeling of relief that accompanies the sunrise. When you look back on the long night behind you, there's also a feeling of accomplishment. You realize that you have already done the most daunting part of the journey, and ahead of you is only brightness and joy.

For those of us sitting in darkness and the shadow of death, the Sunrise is a welcome sight indeed.

Notes:

¹ Luke 1:76-79 (New American Standard Bible)

² I was going to say "like a ton of bricks," but that was just a little too cliché. I have high hopes of making "boatload of rabid weasels" the new "ton of bricks."

³ Normally the musical choices were reminiscent of the following exchange from Blues Brothers:

Elwood: What kind of music do you usually have here?
Claire: Oh, we got both kinds. We got country *and* western.