The Rusted Musket

I’ve read Donald Miller’s Blue Like Jazz twice, I nod my head and laugh every time, it’s a great book, you should probably read it. I was actually gifted 3 copies by a campus crusade friend, I’ve given all but one away.

There’s one story in the book though that drives me crazy, its like the only one, it stokes flaming flames of indignation every time I read it or even think about it.

It’s when Miller and some young Christians set up a “confession booth” on the Reed College campus and apologize to their classmates about everything Christians have done from the crusades to televangalists. I get so indignant, I say classic one liners to myself like “confessional apologizing is a stupid.”

But is it?

GK Chesterton once said.

“The great strength of Christian sanctity has always been simply this – that the worst enemies of the saints could not say of the saints anything worse than [the saints] said of themselves… Suppose the village Atheist had a sudden and splendid impulse to rush into the village church and denounce everybody there as miserable offenders. He might break in at the exact moment when they were saying the same things themselves. You can say anything against a man who praises himself, but a man who blames himself is invulnerable.” ¹

Taking it one step further, the strength of the saint is not only his ability to blame himself and tribe for stains of sinful transaction but his humble apology, first to God, then to man.

Don’s story isn’t wrong, I’m wrong. If I can’t apologize to man, how can I apologize to God?

Humility is like an invulnerable cup of wine-apology that lovingly, and vulnerably, points to and owns it’s stains…

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From thin air they appeared and danced about the room, I still don’t know from which universe the mighty quantity of little racket balls came from, or to which universe they all went. But I do know this, the bassist of the youth band and I captured one of these blurs, it was blue, a blue blur, and we created a new game of timeless awesome. To play this new game all you need is a friend, a racket ball, and a table; simply bounce the ball off the table and into the waiting hand of the opposing talent, hopefully you only need to just barely move four fingers and one elbow.

Mylo Xyloto is what we called this new game (Every Teardrop the predispositional force). At the height of our first Mylo Xyloto session we had twelve persons bouncing racquet balls to each other! It was so timelessly awesome.

I said Mylo Xyloto a hundred times or more that night but then I remembered I didn’t even know what the phrase meant, vulgar Swedish? I Googled. Chris Martin (lead singer of Coldplay) told the New York Times it had something to do with Xylo-toes, or the randomness of the universe, or perhaps music that “comes from a place we don’t know… (exiting through) the fingers.” I felt slightly more comfortable but strangely confused by the fact I was not committing Swedish indecencies after all.

Martin’s statement about music coming from a place we don’t know got me thinking.

Music is indeed mysterious…

If Chris Martin and I were in the same room we’d agree to disagree over musics womb, but I think we’d both agree on another fascinating musical enigma; our doubly mysterious impulse to croak forth, wave lighters, or (in christian parlance) worship.

Everyone worships something.

Some worship Reason, others Atomic Sub-Particles, still others worship the Light, Mother Gaia, or Milk Chocolate. The question is not “will you worship” but “what will you worship” and is what you worship worthy of your worship?

Perhaps musics mystery and our impulse to worship is intrinsically linked to fingers and toes after all. Fingers and toes attached to the hands and feet of a man called Jesus of Nazareth, the Lords own, who walked with us, laughed with us, lived with us, and died for us…

Is what you worship worthy of your worship?

Liz and I have wildly swung like mental hobgoblins on this existential threat to “the Reason for the Season.” Some years we do the gift, other years we do not do the gift (hard Christmas for me), and then there’s the occasional year we use all our Christmas monies for other peoples gifts (very hard Christmas for me).

Recently we chatted with friends deciding against “Mall Christmas,” and choosing instead a form of “Christ Christmas.” Part of the decision means, among many things, no gifts forever, whatsoever, on Christmas. Oh, and to add to the horror they have three kids, all between the ages of “gifts are awesome” and “gifts make the year go round.”

Now before you get all uppity and declare them “lame’ish something or another’s” let me clarify. They’re not gift averse, the gift is good, especially for birthdays, bar mitzvah’s, and moon walks, but when it comes to December 25th the equation tends to look something like this:

Baby Jesus’s Birthday + Gifts for Ourselves = Something Lost in Translation.

I believe the Little Drummer Boy actually sings more than just a little bit of truth concerning the topic at hand. For instance, the Little Drummer Boy doesn’t fret over his Xmas list, or Xmen, or a full kit to go with his lonely snare. His thoughts are focused on what he’s got to give a King, which isn’t much he reckons, so he sings profundity, “I’ll play my drum for you.”

I’ll give the King my passion… my talents… my time…

Perhaps over all the seasonal debris and associated mental constipation we should be asking ourselves a similar question

What will I give a King?

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I skipped out the front door early December for a brisk morning walk with Liz down to the lake. I had my furry hat on head, sweat whicking layers on back, and a Djarum clove cigarette dangling from mouth.

Reader: “Wait, what did you say?!?” “Djarum clove cigarette dangling from mouth?!?”

Ben: “Yes, you heard correct.”

I would like to stop here and inform the reader I am not, nor have I ever been, what one calls “a smoker.” In regards to alcohol and tobacco I believe all habits are bad habits, but I do occasionally smoke a tobacco pipe in the respectable tradition of CS Lewis, GK Chesterton, and your Great Grandfather. The Djarum in question was from a bygone era, cast aside, forgotten, below decks within an aroma filled smoking box. For some reason, this particular morning, I rummaged through the chest of pungent scent, lifted one out, placed it in mouth, and walked out the front door.

During the walk, which was at “Real Fast Getting Sick Pace,” I let this weird smelling cylinder bounce up and down between my lips, not even lit. I thought to myself, “You know, why are you walking around with this thing dangling out your mouth?” “It just looks dirty, and someone might get the wrong idea.”

One mile, a cold big toe, and some odd minutes later, I removed the Djarum.

End of Story… Or so I thought…

Later that evening I walked down to my coffee shop to work on scripture and resume building and book reading. I was really into it when I looked up and saw J Rizzle, a kid from youth group, I waved him over. Stomach churning dialog commenced.

J Rizzle: “I think I saw you this morning.”

Ben: “Really?”

J Rizzle: “Yah, I headed in late to school, you were walking by the railroad tracks, I was pretty sure it was you, I was going to honk.”

(checking memory bank for when exactly I took the cancer stick out of my mouth… Crap, nope, still there)

Ben: “Shucks, you should have.”

(that is to say should have had my pipe dangling out my mouth, atleast then I would have had an air of sophistication)

J Rizzle: “Cool, well I’ll see you at youth group.”

(he totally knows)

Ben: “Cool, yep, see ya.”

I thought to myself maybe J Rizzle didn’t see it, like maybe my fur Peruvian hid it, or he was driving to fast to really look me over, and then I realized how silly everything I was thinking was. The bottom line is that a youth group kid, as far as he was concerned, saw me (a youth group leader), smoking a dirty cigarette.

I felt the net of stupidity closing in, redness coming to cheeks and neck. I lamented, I prayed, I apologized, I started typing this blog, then erased it, and then started it again.

Mostly I know I was taught a lesson today concerning brazen moderation lackadaisical freedom behavior.

And embarrassingly I’ve posted it to serve warning… Both to me, and perhaps you as well…

I was placing together factoids and locations for my Youth Pastor Resume yesterday when I hit the proverbial traffic snarl, the gaugau game with no gaugau ball, the Pez dispenser with, well, you get it.

I had reached the span of my life, when for about eight years, I janitored at a private Christian school. I didn’t know what to tell myself, my resume, or anyone else for that matter about this particular stretch of seemingly wasted time.

But then something occurred to me, a thought, a memory complete, a mental nudge independent of resume buffing or career building. It was the night of the huge parent teacher conference and I remembered frantic light speed cleaning; the hallways swept, the garbage emptied, the locker tops dusted, and then there were the urinals. They had the normal staining associated with urinals, basically stratified pee salt layers (yep, gross), so with moments to spare before parent teacher game time I started scrubbing this nasty fossil record.

It was at this point, when all hope seemed lost, that someone kneeled next to me on that tiled bathroom floor. It was Ernie, the Vice Superintendent of HCS, who, with rolled up sleeves and abrasive pad in hand, started scrubbing urinals with me.

That night I started to understand servant leadership and associated humility in a new way because I saw servant leadership and the associated humility in a new way.

The stretch of time spent as “Janitor Ben” may not necessarily build my youth outline but I think it built something more important than resume; my character…

Clothe yourselves with humility toward one another, because, God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble. Humble yourselves, therefore, under God’s mighty hand, that he may lift you up in due time. 1 Pet 5.5-6

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A few months back I posted a complicated something or another somewhere else (a quote I can’t seem to find at the moment), basically paraphrased it said something like this. “If your Christ life is built upon your skills, your image, your talents, your persona, your degree, anything other than Christ himself; if this is the case, then even though you may have the outward appearance of Christianity you actually have nothing in common with Christianity.” Or something to that effect.

As some of you may know, two weeks ago my left index finger slipped into a machine at work. This ridiculous machine basically bit my poor finger the only way ridiculous machines know how, with nasty rip and tear lacerations.

Later that night, as I stared at my broken finger (I could very easily have lost it), I realized how much identity I had stored in that wee index finger of mine. Mostly because I felt very much worthless with a worthless broken finger; yep, that is the honest truth. I felt worthless because I couldn’t play guitar, thus I couldn’t worship (which is a lie), I couldn’t do the dishes, and I couldn’t even do my envelope stacking job (though I still had to fulfill my work week) so I was stuck doing sub-envelope stacking duties for the rest of the week. Ah yes, very troubling stuff to identities built on personal strength, intelligence, and talent.

And then in the back of my head, the very annoying paraphrased thought from above kept rumbling like so many slow moving freight trains.

There’s something very destructive about having your identity based on things you do simply because you just don’t know when those things will be lost to you.

But my thoughts come in pairs, so along with the freight train there was a mumbling lyric, a worship song actually, just the other week I kicked it off my iPods Ultimate Worship Playlist because even though the lyric was powerful I was bored with the arrangement (that admission itself could be six hours worth of blog):

In Christ alone my hope is found

He is my light, my strength, my song

This cornerstone, this solid ground

Firm through the fiercest drought and storm

What heights of love, what depths of peace

When fears are stilled, when strivings cease

My comforter, my all in all

Here in the love of Christ I stand

In Christ alone, the lyric sings, is a good place for identity, (certainly better than index fingers). And I think it’s true, for God “loves each of us as if there was only one of us,” and has a plan for each of us even if we don’t have functioning index fingers, and sometimes in spite of functioning index fingers…

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Occasionally I look around, I don’t stare or anything, just gaze. Once there was this highschool girl sitting next to me talking to a friend and writing in her journal. The journal was tilted in such a way that I could see what was going on so I looked, but not in a “I’m a creeper” sort of way, it was more like an innocent “my eyeballs were already looking around and happened to land on your page” sort of way. Anyways, one word was legible, it was written larger than the rest, traced up and down, over and again

- Alone -

Granted, no word has probably been written more times in more teenage journals, mine included; but it does beg the question. In a world full of interests, activities, hobbies, friends, family, pets, video games, and carpet ball, what the hell is it (to borrow from a commonly used phrase), that makes all of us, not just the teenager, feel so alone? Ironically, the terminology of the phrase itself points toward the answer, it’s the hell in us.

We exist in a fallen state, no amount of philanthropy or facebook friends will improve the situation. We are separated from God. This is why Christians claim Jesus is a big deal, he bridged the gap between our foolishness and God’s holiness, between our house and His. He purchased our lives with His own, purifying us so that we may have audience with a completely pure God. This is what we Christians claim is in the name of Jesus.

To the girl surrounded but alone in the coffee shop; Jesus himself experienced the same crushing vacuum of loneliness. From perfection he was tainted not just with a piece of hell but all of it, so much so his own Father in Heaven had to look away.

“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

There is a God who has walked more than a mile in your shoes, who conquered loneliness, hell, and death. In His company we  no longer trace the word – alone -

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I was two days into my entry level, envelope handling position. The 12 hr shift was spent shuffling envelopes into trays and listening to whatever my operator (basically a mid-level boss) said.

On this particular day my operator was a bearded grumpy man I’ll call Mr. Grimm.

I’m an oldest child so I’m terrified of making mistakes, I ask tons and tons of questions till I fully understand something. Mr Grimm was the kind of guy who was like “yes new guy, ask me questions,” as I scream and yell and swear at you the answers.

It was a long, demanding, exhausting day. At one point I upset Mr. Grimm so much he started throwing envelopes at me while heaping abuse; just my luck, a multi-tasker.

Two hours into this I wondered if Mr. Grimm was my enemy, I concluded he was; which sucked because scripture asks me to love my enemies. So I gave Mr Grimm 110% all day long; he told me run and get something and I ran (not walked) to get it. He told me to do something his particular way and I did it his way. I smiled, didn’t talk crap behind his back, and counted down the hours.

And then a funny thing happened

It seemed Mr Grimm was impressed with my attitude. He started telling people how I’d gone above and beyond, that the only thing I did wrong was not complain and quit. We started giving each other friendly nods when passing on the factory floor. He was still a jerk, but he was becoming less of a jerk.

Sometimes I think scripture asks us to love our enemies because it makes it all the more easier when, on occasion, our enemies become our friends…

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I was walking around the Milwaukee Zoo the other day chatting with a good friend of mine (who I’ll refer to as Steinbeck) when the conversation entered the sphere of goodness. Steinbeck has a Lebanese friend who grew up within the radius of Christianity, he was actually in Steinbeck’s youth group, but the young man doesn’t think much of Christianity anymore. He now works on capitol hill and tells my friend, “many people are good, some just happen to be Christian.” The point being your faith doesn’t make you good or worse, some are good regardless.

This is interesting because the focus of the comment is accurate, and off. Certainly there are people who don’t subscribe to creeds and still emanate good, but goodness to the Christian is a slice of product, not the whole goal, the goal is to “be holy as I am holy,” whatever the heck that means right! But hear scripture, it’s not just a positive reaction but a complete permeation of “love, joy, peace, forbearance,, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self control” that only the Spirit of God can accomplish in decayed hearts.

Yes my faith makes me a better man and I guess I could pursue ethics of good apart from faith but Jesus reminds me what little is gained when the focus of life is one step ahead of your fellow man and a thousand steps behind the place God wants you to be…

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I have  a deep suspicion that the Desert Fathers of the 4th and 5th century would have been hairy. They would have amazing beards, no razor blades, and a holiness of astounding degree. I would seek these wilderness men out and ask them to share wisdom as I slept in my REI two plus tent outside their hovel. I have a sinking feeling someday they’d ask me to share my two plus tent and I’d say no because I’m selfish. They would pause, allowing me time to reflect on my words and then I’d recognize my selfish two man tent pathologies. That would be the lesson for the day, we’d go to sleep and tomorrow they’d ask me to give the tent away…

Henri Nouwen writes in his The Way of the Heart: “The words flee, be silent, and pray summarize the spirituality of the desert.” The idea of fleeing, of seeking solitude, makes both no sense and complete sense. Here we go.

According to Catholic author and monk Thomas Merton, “Society… was regarded [by the Desert Fathers] as a shipwreck from which each single individual man had to swim for his life… These were men who believed that to let oneself drift along, passively accepting the tenets and values of what they knew as society, was purely and simply a disaster.” ¹ These were men and women who swam away from the worlds sinking ship of seductive compulsions as if their lives depended on it. Out of breath and near death they reached a shore called solitude, a desert for sure, but this desert would give, not take life.

Solitude, especially to us, often means privacy; but solitude to the Desert Fathers was the “furnace of transformation,” a conversation with the source of true self, God alone. It’s where you got rid of life’s  scaffolding: “no friends to talk with, no telephone calls to make, no meetings to attend, no music to entertain, no books to distract, just me-naked, vulnerable, weak, sinful, deprived, broken-nothing.” ² In the desert we clearly see our false self (ie. fabricated self), with all it’s posturings, the BIG ME and my little god. It’s in solitude that we realize how wrapped up in persona building we are, it’s in solitude that we realize being wrapped up in ones self makes for a small package…

There’s this wilderness cabin I know of that sits on a hill way far away from everything else, it screams solitude and reminds me of something else the Desert Fathers learned, what starts out as a physical position becomes an inner disposition, “solitude molds self-righteous people into gentle, caring, forgiving persons who are deeply convinced of their own great sinfulness and so fully aware of God’s even greater mercy that their life itself becomes ministry.” ³

You see solitude destroys then rebuilds you, it breaks self and builds Christ, solitude isn’t moving away from people but moving towards them through a compassion mindful of where you yourself came from. It’s throwing a rescue rope not from the wreckage, but from the solid shore…

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