For All

Is this the taste of humanity?

"All I can say now is that something small but unforgettable happened inside me as the result of that chance meeting--some small flickering out of the truth that, in the long run, there can be no real joy for anybody until there is joy finally for us all..."

Do we hold this inside? The longing for one another. The longing for myself.

To taste joy. To at last shrug off the weight of carrying a tired body in a tired world.

And to know that you are coming with me, you, and you, and me. A joy for all.

ben

Ashes to Ashes

Remember:

From dust you came,

Have you ever watched someone make pottery? Maybe create pottery is a better term. Then again, potters call it "throwing". And it is throwing, because it's very physical. It takes all of you to make a good pot.

A couple weeks ago I had the opportunity to watch someone throw pottery. Kyle took me to his studio at the University of Washington where he is a ceramics major. He got all dressed up in his coveralls and hauled a bucket full of used clay over to a table where he smacked it into a thin layer to let it dry.

Then Kyle took some other clay and did this thing called "wedging". Basically, you find some open space - for him, it was the ground - and you sort of knead the clay for a while. Vigorously. It's supposed to get any air bubbles out and ease the creating process later. So you get down on the ground, on your knees, and you work the clay. You throw it against the ground and you beat the air bubbles out of it.

After that, Kyle carefully made a ball and put it on the wheel. The wheel is difficult. You have to learn it, know it. It takes a combination of skill, gentleness, and strength. In his words, "You could take the biggest, baddest football player, and he'd be huffing and puffing by the end of it and not have anything to show for it." It takes your whole body - your back and your hips and your arms, legs, head, shoulders. You really have to get into the process.

Then he kicked on the wheel, and the ball started spinning. He added water to his hands and to the ball of clay, and he started into it. Just like that, there was a divot in the middle of the ball. Then, just like that, it had a shape. The clay looked like it was rising out of itself, or rising out of Kyle's hands. It's a delicate process as much as it is a brute process.

As Kyle explained to me what he was doing on the wheel, he spoke as if the clay were a living creature. He would say things like "It doesn't want to cooperate" or "You have to know what the clay wants" and later, "It's getting tired. Might be time to stop."

And I watched him nod his head, because throwing clay is rhythmic. You nod your head as the clay spins and you get a feel for where the lumps and imperfections are and you apply pressure the next time it comes around. You learn the clay, and you join it and guide it.

The story of God creating humans out of the clay of the earth hit me with more clarity than I've ever had before. God got involved. Because making humans is a very physical thing. He knelt down on the ground and plunged both of his arms deep into the earth. He dug out a heap of sledge, put it on the floor, and he began to create. He smacked out the air bubbles and kneaded us. He carefully rolled us up into a ball. He put us on the wheel. He used his skill and his strength and he joined us in rhythm. He joined us. He used his arms and his back and his legs and hips. It's a delicate process as much as it is a brute process. And he listened to us, to each unique piece of pottery. He spoke of us as if we were a living creature.

And then, in a way that not even the most expert potter could do, God breathed into us. After watching the effort that goes into throwing pottery, I wonder if the breath God breathed into us was a breath of exhaustion. I think it might have been. Like a breath of release after you've concentrated and worked really hard at something, after you've really put yourself into something. Like you've given that thing part of yourself.

When he was finished, Kyle took off his coveralls. His clothes were damp with the effort of creation. And God rested.

And to dust

You shall return

Kyle threw any extra scraps back into his bucket to dry. He scraped the muck off of the wheel, and he picked up little slivers of clay off of the floor. Every bit.

The bits and pieces of sludge aren't thrown away, though. They wait in that bucket until it's time to make something again. Then you take those pieces and you mash them together. You put them back on the table. You wedge them on the floor. You form them into a ball, and you put them on the wheel. And then, one day, you begin again to create another unique piece of art out of the scraps of life.

We're Back...For Now

Ryan is a good friend of ours. He recently spent a few months in Ecuador, and now he's vagabonding around Kansas and the rest of the country. He also goes by Ry-man.

More Than Words

Have you sat in front of people that just did not talk? Like you’re two feet away from there and they’re just staring off into the distance. They’re not in a hurry. They’re not going oddly slow. They’re just sitting there. Little whispers here and there. A grimace; a smile; a playful kick to the ankle.

Is it weird? It is meant to be? What if they’re just enjoying their time together? Maybe their connection is deeper than words. Maybe they’re just enjoying each other’s presence. Maybe that’s how relationship with God needs to be.

There is something to be said about an intimate experience with the Lord where nothing is said. Mother Theresa was asked what she says when she prays. She said, ‘nothing, I just listen to God.’ ‘What does God say,’ was the following question. ‘Nothing, He just listens to me.” Perhaps that is the way to relate to the creator of the universe. The One who is not in the earthquake, fire or wind, but rather in the still quiet whisper. To mature beyond the need for words and just to sit in each other’s presence. To allow the Presence and love of the Lord to wash over you like a babbling brook over a stone.

You know happens to that stone? Eventually it becomes smoother and smoother, and smaller and smaller, and then finally, after mountains of time the stone dissolves into nothing.

And the two become one.

Why I Love Kansas City: Arrowhead Stadium

I absolutely love the feeling of driving west on I-70 when it suddenly turns into the "George Brett Super Highway". That's when you can see one of the crown jewels of Kansas City: Arrowhead Stadium.

I feel like this post is long overdue, because Arrowhead is one of the first things that comes to my mind when I think about my hometown. It's a symbol of pride and passion for the residents of this great city. Where else in the world can you join with 70,000-plus fans to sing the last line of the national anthem: "and the hoooome of theee...CHIEFS!!!" Talk to a Kansas Citian long enough about KC, and he'll be sure to point out that on game day, you can party in the world's largest BBQ pit before entering into 116+ decibels of chaos.

I had the privilege of attending games at Arrowhead the past two weekends: one, the Border Showdown between Mizzou and KU (the single funniest sporting event I have ever been to). The other: the Chiefs vs. the Broncos. I know the Chiefs are absolutely terrible right now, but its still a one-of-a-kind experience. Here are some highlights from my visits:

• A Darth Vader clad Chiefs fan (Think red sweat suit, red Darth Vader mask, a light saber, and a Chiefs bed sheet for a cape)
• Free food and drink. Chiefs fans are the best. You can walk around the parking lot, strike up a conversation, and before you know it, you're gnawing on Big Dan's homemade short-ribs. Amazing.
• A grown man showing his 10-year-old son how to kick the backs off of two stadium seats and bang them together - "D-FENSE! D-FENSE!"
• A mini school bus painted Chiefs-style with a platform on top for people to hang out during the tailgate. The bus also included a 5-foot wooden cut-out hand with a Chiefs bracelet on giving the "#1" sign.
• The "domino fall": After a Mizzou touchdown, girl #1 topples over the seat behind me and crashes into girl #2 next to me, sending girl #2 over the seat in front of her, and then girl #1 lands on top of girl #2. Very funny.

These are just a few of the more blog-appropriate things I experienced at Arrowhead. Other tidbits include fans throwing items, screaming curse words, middle fingers, Zubaz pants, Indian headdresses, irreverent t-shirts, and plenty more falls.

And there's always the game.

dave

Fullness

We give thanks. We give thanks for our friends, for our families, for our homes, health, jobs, for the food on the table. We stop, and give pause to think about all that we have.

All that I have. Is it enough? A lot? A little? Do I have enough friends? Wish I was closer to some, distanced from others? Am I grateful, truly thankful for the guitar that sits against the wall gathering dust? Or for the college education I finished a few years ago (If my parents ever read this I am thankful to be debt free!)?

Maybe I have too much to even be thankful for it all. It gets lost in the mix, pushed to the wayside when I start dreaming about what is next. And there is always a next.

My stuff, and the quantity of that stuff is constantly in tension. I drive down roads with multi-million dollar homes, and I have walked the streets of developing countries where a roof is all you get.

And these groups they are thankful. Right? If I have everything I want, I will be thankful. And if I live in a world where I have to walk 2 miles to get fresh water, I can be thankful.

It begs the question in my heart. How? How can these 2 worlds coexist. Do worlds of have and those of have not both produce thankfulness? How can I constantly want more, believe that with more I will be more thankful, more blessed, more happy.

When the thankful spirit exists in a world of have not.

I've come to believe that when you live in a world of have not, what you do have, what you get to be thankful for, is the only thing you are granted, and even this can still be taken away.

Life.

Life touches all of us. No matter where you live, or what you have, or how much, we all depend on life...to live, to experience, to grow, and taste the very things that exist around us.

I want to be thankful for this life. For the life of my beautiful wife. My courageous mother. My caring father. For my friends, and for the Life that started it all.

Life is full, and I'm thankful.

benjamin

Before the Devil Knows You're Dead

Allow us to introduce you to our first guest blogger. Collins is a good friend of ours who lives in Columbia, South Carolina. He's in law school, and, like a true South Carolinian, doesn't own one single pair of jeans. Here's what's on Collins's mind:

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My mom has a prim and proper evangelical friend who went to see some suspenseful movie in the theater. It was a popular movie, and the theater was packed. At the climax of the movie, the main character is betrayed and killed by his best friend. Without realizing what she was doing, my mom’s friend jumped out of her seat and shouted at the screen, “YOU SON OF A BITCH!”

I am just like my mom’s friend. When I watch a good movie, I become the protagonist. In my mind, I am dodging bullets or plotting revenge or coping with a broken heart. One of the best things about story is that we learn truth and wisdom about life without having to actually go through the circumstances that lead to such a revelation. But it’s also one of the hardest things for me about watching some movies. You know the ones I’m talking about: the ones where the protagonist is in trouble and keeps making things worse and worse until he is stripped of any redeemable quality. It normally starts out small. He owes his bookie some money, or he gets a drink with his cute co-worker while his wife is at home with two screaming kids. Then he decides to join a buddy in a “can’t-miss” robbery to score the cash, or he lets the girl talk him into a couple more drinks upstairs at her place. All of a sudden, things are out of control, and life as he knew it is over. And he doesn’t live in a vacuum; he’s like a tornado ripping up the lives of those people unfortunate enough to care for him. Because he couldn’t control himself in minor things, his vices take over his whole being.

Here’s why those movies are hard to watch: I am so, so capable of that. I am so capable of it. I am so capable of letting little vices start to take who I am. And I could do it without anyone knowing. I’m pretty good at hiding that stuff—most of us are. We’re slippery, furtive creatures that can quickly become more animal than man. Think of Gollum in Lord of the Rings or Joseph Conrad’s The Heart of Darkness. That is who we are. That lives inside of us.

Sufjan Stevens has a song called “John Wayne Gacy, Jr.” about a real-life serial killer who dressed as a clown and raped and murdered over thirty men and boys. That’s about as messed up as it comes. The song eerily describes Gacy’s method, but the end of the song gives me the chills:

And in my best behavior

I am really just like him

Look beneath the floorboards

For the secrets I have hid

Am I any different than John Wayne Gacy, Jr.? Sure, I haven’t actually killed anyone, but didn’t Jesus say that if I look at a person with anger, it is the same as murdering him? Don’t our hearts make us as guilty as Gacy? Aren’t we on an even playing field?

But at the same time, we are capable of great things. Beauty and grace and compassion live in our hearts alongside all that ugly stuff. We can seamlessly slip back and forth between these two states like an experienced skier effortlessly navigates moguls. These moments—these “slippery slope” points in time—are the ones that matter. And like in Woody Allen’s movie, Match Point, these moments can come down the flip of a coin, like when a tennis ball hits the top of the net and could come down on either side. These moments define us.

But here’s the thing: these moments occur every day. C.S. Lewis writes in his essay, “The Weight of Glory,” that we “live in a society of possible gods and goddesses” and that “the dullest and most uninteresting person you talk to may one day be a creature which, if you saw it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship, or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare.” And all the time we are either becoming one thing or the other. We’re either moving toward goodness, truth, humility, beauty and mercy, or we’re giving way to selfishness, greed, lust and depravity. Both live in us. Both are fighting a war for our souls.

Here is where we normally insert that Jesus has come to redeem us from this brokenness. And I believe he has. But it’s a work in progress. Moreover, I think Jesus has equipped us with a tool to combat the chaos within us: friends. Real friends are willing to take a flashlight and nose around beneath the musty, cobwebbed floorboards of our attic-like hearts. They pry around; they want to know what’s under the canvas tarp even when we’re trying to divert their attention to the vintage stereo that might look good in the living room. And in spite of all our shortcomings, they continue to love us, not because their attics are tidy but because they are loved themselves. It starts by letting someone in, by giving someone the key to the attic. Friendship, obviously, requires effort on the part of more than one person, but I know that too often I wait for someone to come knocking instead of inviting someone over to have a look around. I am finding that when I let people into the dark, dark places of my heart, those places suddenly aren’t so scary. I don’t feel as threatened by them. And I know that if I act on those feelings, someone will know about it. It’s amazing how merely voicing the rumblings of the heart is like diffusing a bomb. All of the punch dissipates, and I realize that maybe I’m not such a weirdo after all.

I’ll close with a poem from one of my favorite writers that, I believe, applies to friendship as well as our spiritual life (maybe substitute the word “Lord” for “friend”):

Come to me, Lord, I will speculate not how,

Nor think at which door I would have thee appear,

Nor put off calling to my floors be swept,

But cry, “Come, Lord, come any way, come now.”

Doors, windows I throw wide, my head I bow,

And sit like one who so long has slept

That he knows nothing ‘til his life draws near

Places: Part II

Places grab onto our minds and don't let go. They stamp themselves into our memories, along with everything that happened there and everyone we were with. Yesterday morning I was enjoying a cup of coffee in the living room, and for some reason this very vivid memory popped into my head. It was from a trip that I took with my dad and brother a few years ago. We did and saw a lot of amazing things on that trip, but this memory was not one of those things. It was just a random moment - something forgettable. But there it was, for one reason or another.

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I remember waking up in the middle of the night. I had to go to the bathroom. We were in the middle of the French Alps. I unzipped the small door of the tent and stretched myself out of a cocoon of body heat and into the darkness. I was there. It was freezing cold. And windy. And I was there in the take-your-breath-away cold with these take-your-breath-away stars above me. We were all there, my brother, my dad, and I. My brother was awake, because it's hard to sleep when someone's rustling around next to you in a tent. Dad was asleep, probably snoring in the other tent not too far away. And we were there, the tall, sharp mountains lifting us into the night sky. Chris, giggling, snapped a picture of me standing there in my thermal shirt and underwear, freezing cold, teeth chattering. I quickly nestled back into my sleeping bag, zipped up the tent door, and fell asleep.

We were there.

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Our brains can remember a billion different things, but for some reason these "waking up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom" moments are often the things that we remember more clearly than any of the others. Maybe they are less ordinary than we think. Maybe there is something more to them. Maybe they are reminders that we are alive, all the time, and that our lives are happening. I'm reminded again of Frederick Beuchner's thought on moments like these in his memoir "The Sacred Journey":

At the very least, they mean this: mean listen. Listen. Your life is happening. You are happening... The music of your life is subtle and elusive and like no other--not a song with words, but a song without words, a singing, clattering music to gladden the heart or turn the heart to stone, to haunt you perhaps with echoes of a vaster, farther music of which it is part.

--dave