10 years ago, and 10 years on

by the Night Writer

Ten years ago I wasn’t blogging, but I was writing. On Sunday, September 16 I published the first essay below –  “When the Towers Fall” – in the monthly handout I prepared for our men’s ministry at church. It was based on my observations of the past few days and the role of faith and biblical understanding in those circumstances. A month later I followed up with a second essay, taking off from the words of a certain televangelist to examine the nature and purpose of judgment. I share these two essays below for a picture of that time. Later this week I’ll come back and share how I think things have – or haven’ t – changed for me and my nation in the intervening years.

When the Towers Fall

Ultimately, America’s secular façade crumbled even before its material symbols collapsed. I first turned on my radio – and heard the first words regarding Tuesday’s disaster – moments before the second tower was struck. The voices of the national news team were already urging Americans to pray for the safety of those involved. It sounded almost glib at first, but as the unreal became real and the horror increased by the minute, the references became more heartfelt, even desperate.

As our true helplessness and vulnerability became apparent, the call to pray was in every report and every story. And pray we did: alone, with our families, and in special services and vigils that themselves became news. All of this flying in the face of a culture and media that has said for years that faith and divine intervention are, at best, inappropriate if not impossible. It must have been like discovering that the kooky old aunt you’ve been keeping in the attic is the only one who knows where the family silver is buried.

But which is the true picture of America? Are we a secular society that merely pays lip service to faith when a crisis looms, or are we a nation of quiet faithful who allow ourselves to be cowed by society until circumstances give us a chance to break out? I know how our attackers would describe us.

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All our best

by the Night Writer

As with Job, that which I have feared came upon me.

Today was the day that had long been foretold and expected; my oldest daughter’s last day in our church. I had originally had a vision of this day coming about 11 years ago, and 18 months ago we had had a preview of this as the Mall Diva and Son@Night prepared to begin his pastoral internship (see the link for details) at a church in Savage, MN, but today was the real thing. S@N was officially ordained last weekend in a ceremony in his home church in Alexandria and they are leaving on Tuesday for their new ministry in Iowa. Today was the day our church finally laid our hands on them to impart our blessing in sending them on their way, hopefully lacking in nothing.

Despite the ample warning I was having trouble this week preparing for the inevitable. It began at last week’s ordination service as I met a group from the Iowa congregation that had come to Alex for the ceremony. Given the way I feel about my daughters, I started to say to the leader of the group, “We are giving you our best” but my throat got too tight. Perhaps it’s better for them to come to this revelation for themselves. A couple of times at work this week I was nearly overcome as I thought about today, but fortunately no one came into my office at those times and my phone didn’t ring. My wife and I have always tried to have the perspective that our parenting is a stewardship of what God has given us, knowing that we’d have to pass them on at some point. It’s a worthy objective, but when you start to get close to that time the mix gets lean on theory and long on reality and sometimes your thoughts close in on yourself.

This morning I was thinking about all of this and asking for strength for the service when I felt God say to me, “Your problem is you are looking at this in terms of what you are losing, when you should be looking at it as what you are giving.”

Of course. Ah, of course.

I’ve experienced the spiritual phenomenon — so contrary to the “natural” way of the world — of giving time and money and seeing these multiplied back to me so often in so many ways that there’s almost never a second thought now when an opportunity to do one or the other arises. But Matthew 6:21 also tells us that “where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.” Time and money are one thing, but perhaps now we were getting down to the treasure closest to the heart and hardest to part with. But truly, I could no more withhold this than any of the other, nor expect any less to come back to me in return. In truth, I had given this long ago when we had set our feet on this path, putting in motion the desire of our heart to see God glorified and his plan come to pass; a path that also included my daughter making her own choices and embracing her destiny. And all of this in the realization of how much we had already received even before we had given a thing.

The reason for grandchildren

by the Night Writer

Down among the reeds and rushes
A baby boy was found
His eyes as clear as centuries
His silky hair was brown

Never been lonely
Never been lied to
Never had to scuffle in fear
Nothing denied to
Born at the instant
The church bells chime
And the whole world whispering
Born at the right time

Our pastor likes to say, “God gives you children so that you can grow up.” The point is that your thinking changes when you realize the long-term responsibility you have, and your behavior (hopefully) changes when you start to recognize your less admirable traits showing up in your children. Unless, of course, you don’t mind your child turning into a despicable evil genius.

watching the game blog size

A second thought along this line occurred to me the other day: “and God gives you grandchildren so you can mature.” By that I mean the satisfaction that comes from seeing all the things you worked so hard to put into your child manifest itself in and around your grandchild. It’s the pay-off for the blood, sweat, tears and unpopular decisions you made to strengthen your own character as well as your son or daughter’s and it comes when you see how they love and teach their own children in turn, perhaps even with a greater patience and discipline than you yourself possessed at the same stage in your life. It’s at this point that you realize that your hopes for the future are bearing fruit and your work has passed from your hands.

I also realized that the same thing applies not just to the natural children you’ve borne or created, but to the “supernatural” or spiritual children you’ve discipled in the faith. How warm and glorious a feeling it is to see these children living on and sharing the things they’ve learned with others. Whether with natural or supernatural children, this is the point where you are truly overcome with the realization that something of you really is going to live on.

As an aside, this revelation may have germinated with me last week at the Bible study I lead at the Red Wing correctional facility. As it happens, each of the men in the study will be released at some point this year and I was moved to read the short chapter of Isaiah 61:1 to them. The first verse — “the LORD has anointed Me To preach good tidings to the poor; He has sent Me to heal the brokenhearted, To proclaim liberty to the captives, And the opening of the prison to those who are bound…” — was what had first caught my attention, but it was the rest of the chapter that was the most powerful because it deals with what can happen for those that receive that word and that liberty. Among these is in verse 3 — “that they may be called trees of righteousness” — and especially verse 9: “Their descendants shall be known among the Gentiles, And their offspring among the people. All who see them shall acknowledge them, That they are the posterity whom the LORD has blessed.”

The mens’ faces were a bit gob-smacked as I challenged them to be those trees and I saw the realization soaking into them of the effect they could have into the next generation and the next in the families they had yet to create. “You have the chance,” I told them, “to have your grandchildren say of you either that ‘Grandpa did 10 to 20’ or that ‘Grandpa was a mighty man of righteousness who was an example to our family and set my feet on the path.'”

And T. added, “Or they could say both.”

As for my own grandson, now five and a half months old, his face often has gobs of different things on it, but it is almost invariably smiling. And why shouldn’t he? He is literally surrounded by people who love him and are happy to see him and quick to want to hold him. As Paul Simon said at the beginning of this post, he’s never been lonely, never been lied to, never had to scuffle for fear or had anything he needs denied to him.  If called upon I would gladly and readily pour everything I am and everything I have into him, but I can relax because I see that my daughter and her husband already know what it is they have to impart. My heart overflows with joy when I watch my grandson or hold him close and at the same time I feel an ache knowing that every day the news brings stories of babies that are resented, cursed and abused.

I look into his eyes, as clear as centuries, and stroke his silky brown hair and think of those born into suffering now and the deprivation they face that goes beyond mere food, clothing and shelter. I think of their lives and future paths leading into captivity and the need for someone, someday, to bring the words of liberty. And I hold my grandson even closer and whisper into his ear, “Born at the right time.”

The old man gets rubbed out

by the Night Writer

When I was younger my athletic endeavors gravitated toward the whacking and smacking games like football and hockey. Even when I played the more “finesse” games like soccer and basketball, my style tended to be more physical; in all games I was never going to be the one to make the pinpoint pass or long-range shot but I took a savage satisfaction from re-arranging someone’s internal organs or surviving a similar attempt on my own. That was fun for a few seasons but it took a toll on my body — though most of the payments were deferred well into the future. Consequently I have been seeing a chiropractor for the past couple of weeks.

I have also been continuing the Bible studies with the men in the Red Wing correctional facility, some of whom have spent significant time in heavy security prisons such as Oak Park and Stillwater before coming to Red Wing. In our last meeting we were talking about becoming new creations in Christ, and what that looks like in our lives. There was talk about putting off the “old man” and putting on the “new man”. I try to be as down to earth as possible in these discussions and my recent health experiences gave me a useful example.

I told the guys about the three surgeries I’ve had on my left knee since I was in college, and how lately I’ve been experiencing chronic pain above my right hip and periodic numbness and weakness in my legs. When I accompanied my daughter on her visit to a chiropractor to have her baby “spun” before delivery I ended up having an exam of my own. After I described my symptoms the doctor had me stand up straight while she took some notes and measurements, then she had me lie on a massage table for more of the same as she determined that I didn’t have a disc problem. Long story short, however, the combination of pain and numbness I’ve been experiencing wasn’t being caused by the hip, per se, but by all the years that I’ve been favoring my left leg and making the right side do most of the work. Standing “straight” my posture was three inches forward of it’s proper axis and also twisted a bit to one side. The doctor also described how pressure had stressed several of my joints and ligaments to where they were virtually locked at level 5 on a 5-point scale, or, in more descriptive terms, at “red alert” on the fight or flight scale. I was a little dubious about the diagnosis, but after she put me back on the table and pressed steadily on various parts of my body for thirty minutes I got up and couldn’t believe the sudden increase in range of motion, the absence of pain and how I suddenly felt two inches taller and ten years younger. I went home that afternoon like a new man, able to bend and stoop to pick up things without first thinking out a strategy.

That feeling, I told the men, was like first receiving salvation or the revelation of Christ and the Holy Spirit living within me. In getting up from that massage table I suddenly felt free of the things I’d done to myself and the mistakes of my youth, and even from the things I hadn’t realized were hurting me and distorting my life. The rest of that day and the next I felt great, but inevitably my “flesh” overcame me as my body started to revert back to what it had been accustomed to. Old habits – and old muscle memory – are hard to break. Now I go back to the chiropractor to receive further adjustments, and each time there’s less work for her to do and more response from my “new” man. For the guys, I compared these ongoing adjustments to going to church or Bible study regularly. I make progress each time, but the “old” body still wants to come back during the in-between. Conceivably, there could come a time when I’ve been totally “renewed” and don’t need the chiropractor to lay hands on me other than for maintenance. What I especially wanted the men to understand, however, is that if I truly want to make progress I need to do the exercises and stretches the doctor gave me to do in between times; it has to become something that I take on for myself. Otherwise I’ll simply be looking to the doctor to make things better without changing anything myself — just as we can sometimes do with our pastors or with going to church or Bible study. Sure, I might get temporary relief or encouragement, but without a personal change and commitment the results will be both fleeting and diminishing. To do that, I may have to change my stance or mentally catch myself when I start to fall into an old, familiar posture and deliberately shift my weight and re-align myself.

A final thought: I spent all those years consciously and unconsciously favoring my left leg, thinking I was doing something “good” by trying to make its life easier. The end result, however, was that that leg became weaker (approximately 85% the size of my right leg) AND the distortion ended up weakening my “good” side, causing pain and restricting the things I can do. Favoring the left leg did it and me no favors in the long run; we need to accept and understand that doing the things we need to do may be uncomfortable and even painful in the short term but will ultimately pay off. Similarly, we may need to look at others in the body of Christ the same way. Not that we should be deliberately callous or unsympathetic — it is “our” body after all — but expecting others who come to us in crisis to stretch and exercise is ultimately good for them. Certainly there are times when an arm or a leg needs to be in a sling or cast and supported, but those parts also need physical and spiritual therapy lest they become too dependent. When that happens our good intentions and their dependence can end up distorting the joining and knitting of our joints and keeping us from reaching out (in even greater strength because of our rehabilitated members) to others who need help.

The fight of your life

by the Night Writer

Pastor Earl showed this video last weekend at Inside Outfitters. You coud say it was a powerful message for the group since many who attend are dealing with substance abuse of one kind or another. But Inside Outfitters isn’t about overcoming substance abuse, or just for men bedeviled by drugs or alcohol. As Earl likes to say, “When purpose is not known, abuse (abnormal use) is inevitable.” Our biggest, toughest fight is usually with ourselves as we come to recognize and understand our purpose and contend with our “abusive” ignorance in every area of our lives.

Oh yeah, it’s a fight. And people are watching.

Grilling at the Graybar Hotel

by the Night Writer

A little over a year ago I started going down to the Red Wing Correctional Facility a couple of times a month to host a chapel service for the men. Red Wing is primarily a youth facility, referred to by Bob Dylan in his song “The Walls of Red Wing”, but they do have one “cottage” (more like a dorm) that holds 42 men. As prisons go, I suppose it’s not too bad a place. For some of the inmates it is their first prison, but most of the men have come from heavier security facilities such as Stillwater or Oak Park where they have already done significant time. Red Wing is often a last stop for these men as they near their release date, spending several months here under lighter security and with the possibility of supervised visits outside the facility to go to church or serve on work crews.

Last fall some of the guys asked if I’d consider doing a Thursday night Bible Study instead of the Sunday chapel so they wouldn’t have to choose between the chapel service or going outside when they had the chance. That wasn’t a problem, and after working things out with the prison administration we started Thursday meetings in November. One of my scheduled visits even fell on Christmas Eve and I was pretty excited about the opportunity to do that but unfortunately the snow and ice storm that hit that day kept me from making the trip. I made it down there the Sunday after Christmas, though, and brought a package of microwave popcorn for every man in the cottage. The reaction that day, and the reports I had from the guys on Thursday nights got me thinking about what other out-of-the-ordinary thing we might do for the cottage, especially as the Thursday night bunch were showing a strong interest in serving others. Eventually the idea came to me to have the Bible Study put on a cook-out for the cottage. I jumped through a couple of hoops with the prison administration and was a little surprised to receive permission. I was aided by the woman who coordinates volunteer activities who also suggested inviting all the other volunteers to the cook-out as a thank you.

With that settled, the Thursday group got together and hatched our plan and set a date. My church would provide the angus burgers, chicken breasts, cheese, BBQ sauce and jalapeno peppers and the prison kitchen would provide the buns, beans, potato salad, onions, lettuce, watermelon and root beer floats for dessert. My guys were very enthusiastic about the plan, especially “T.” who entered the prison system in his teens and has very nearly spent half of his life in prison. He was also nervous about grilling. “I’ve never cooked out in my life,” he told me.

Last Thursday, June 10 was the date we settled on and we worked out all the details. We even prayed for good weather! You might, however, remember that it rained just about every day last week, including Thursday. In fact, a doozy of a thunderstorm hit Red Wing earlier that afternoon. I was unconcerned; to my mind, this was something God had inspired and He would make a way (in fact, probably had already made a way) for this to happen. Sure enough, even though it rained throughout my drive to Red Wing, it had become a light drizzle by the time I pulled into the parking lot. By the time I’d passed through security and was inside the walls of Red Wing it had stopped completely. The guys and I got the charcoal fired up for the burgers and we put the chicken breasts (which had been pre-smoked in mesquite) in the kitchen ovens to heat. One of the guys in my group, T., told me how concerned he’d been about the weather, especially during the storm earlier in the day. “T,” I said, “you have to walk by faith, not sight. This was something God planned, so you just have to trust in the end result, even if a few storms show up along the way.” He grasped the idea.

“You’re right,” he said. “I’m going to have to remember that.”

I had been told by the Volunteer Coordinator that we wouldn’t be able to say grace in front of the entire group before eating. (For that matter, brats weren’t allowed on the menu because we couldn’t have any pork products; in fact, if we put any pork on the grill the prison would have to throw the grill away). That didn’t mean, however, that the cooks couldn’t say grace before we carried the food to the cottage. Part of the prayer was that the men would feel God’s love through the evening. We had people already set up to serve the guys as they came through the buffet line, but I positioned myself behind the servers so I could see the faces of the men as they came through, much as I do on the Saturday morning Inside Outfitters breakfasts. I wasn’t disappointed … and neither were the men! If anything, I was amazed at how they conscientiously loaded their 10-inch foam plates with a chicken sandwich, a burger, beans, potato salad on top of the beans, watermelon on top of the potato salad and all the cheese, onions and jalapenos they could fit under a bun. They all carried their plates into the dining area and filled the tables there and began eating, talking, laughing and generally having a good time, which I assumed was pretty much typical for the dinner hour. One of the men who I hadn’t met before told me, however, that one of the best parts of the night was that guys were socializing with each other. Normally, he said, everyone stays pretty much to himself or with one or two friends.

Before dessert the coordinator thanked the various volunteers who had come for the evening (there was an older lady there who told me she teaches a crocheting class – “We call ourselves ‘the Chain Gang!'”) for the time they put in, and then introduced me as the head of the Thursday Bible Study and sponsor of the feast. There was some very satisfying applause, whistles and “whoop-whoops”. I had been told, of course, that I couldn’t preach or mention God if I spoke to the group, so I merely said that one of the men I was eating with that evening had already thanked me and said that something like this really helped the men feel as if they weren’t forgotten while they were inside. I then indicated the volunteers who were present and told the men that they were an indication that people outside were constantly thinking of them and planning things to do them good. “As proof of that,” I said, “a good friend of yours even asked me to do this cook-out so that you’d know he hasn’t forgotten you, even though you might not have talked for awhile, and I just want to say, ‘you’re welcome.'” And with that — along with more applause, a lot of smiles and nods…and a very relieved look on the face of one of the coordinators — I was done!

I spent some time mingling with the guys, congratulating T. and the Thursday night bunch, and getting a few stories from some new guys. It may have been overcast outside, but it was glowing in that dining hall and it was still going strong when I finally gathered up my things and got ready to leave. Something that T. had said to me a couple of weeks ago came back to me. “Listening to you,” he had said, “I’m beginning to believe that there are no such things as accidents. That everything happens for a reason, especially the people that you meet.”

In a reflective mood, I thought of Dylan’s song again as I checked out through Security, ready to pass once again through the “walls of Red Wing”. Some have assumed that young Bob had spent some time in that facility, but that’s not been proven. In fact, his lyrics don’t describe the facility that I’ve seen, but there is a verse that does seem to fit as I consider the choices I’d made in order to be there and the things that I’ve learned from the men I’ve met over the past 16 months

Oh, some of us’ll end up
In St. Cloud Prison,
And some of us’ll wind up
To be lawyers and things,
And some of us’ll stand up
To meet you on your crossroads,
From inside the walls,
The walls of Red Wing.

I stowed my gear in the car and headed back for the Cities. A couple of mile north of Red Wing it started to rain again.

Another “hands-on” experience

by the Night Writer

Earlier in the week I posted a link to a talk I presented last month to the Inside Outfitters group about the need and benefits of living with an open hand (my part starts about five minutes into the podcast). In the talk I shared several of my experiences over the years where I was prompted to give something (usually money) to someone and the things that had happened for myself or my family as a result. The main point was to show how important it is to have an open hand (as opposed to a grasping or fisted hand) in order to both receive from God and to hand on the blessing to others. It was a fun message to prepare since it caused me to go back over so many wonderful memories. The trap, of course, is to spend too much time looking back and not enough looking ahead.

At about the same time I did that little presentation I also also received an unexpected gift from my new company, honoring my 15 years of experience. Actually, the experience was with my previous company, which had just been acquired by the new company. The new company, though, carried everyone’s seniority forward into its own benefit structure and I suddenly found myself with an American Express Gift Certificate for $75. “Hoo-lah!” I thought, “What toy can I spend this on?”

The thing was, I have just about all the toys I could possibly want — at least among those in the $75 price range — and I couldn’t think of anything even after giving it some thought over a weekend. Then, duh, I remembered what I’d preached and realized that I was overlooking a basic calculation. The Word says God “supplies seed to the sower, and bread for food,” (2 Corinthians 9:10); therefore I should look at everything that comes to me as either being bread (something I need to live) or seed (something to sow “to increase the fruits of my righteousness”) and this unexpected windfall clearly looked like seed to me. Then, instead of shopping, the fun part became looking around trying to find out who I was supposed to give the card to. Over the next week or so I saw a couple of possible opportunities, even good ones, but I didn’t have an inner release that any of these were what the card was for (we gave other things instead).

Then, quite unexpectedly, I re-connected with an old friend I hadn’t seen or heard from for nearly 25 years (and the way I got reconnected is pretty incredible and too complicated to go into here). We exchanged some emails and agreed to get together for lunch this week. In the course of our emails I learned that this woman was going through a tough time and trying to get a small business started. As I thought about it over the weekend, prior to meeting for lunch, I decided that the gift card was meant for her even though it wasn’t much compared to the size of the challenge she was facing. When we met I found the opportunity to give her the card and share a little about how it had come to me in the first place and how I’d been looking for the right person to give it to and that I was pretty sure it was for her. As I was saying these things, and handing her the card, she was smiling pleasantly and perhaps a little uncomfortably as most people are when receiving something. Since the value of the card wasn’t marked on it, however, I then told her that it was worth $75, thinking she might buy groceries or something with it. Her eyes blinked several times and she suddenly looked half-stunned.

It turns out she had been pricing some supplies she needed in order to get her business started, and the amount she figured she was going to need was…$75.

I have no way of knowing how she’s going to do in her new endeavor, or if it will be 25 days or 25 years before I ever see her again, but it was a tremendous rush to be used to encourage someone in such an unexpected way. Its always been fun to give, but when something comes together the way this did it’s even more satisfying — and feels even better than getting a new iPod. I also hope that, as welcome as the money might be to her, the sense of knowing that God is aware of you and is thinking of ways to let you know that is priceless.

The Sunday shuffle

by the Night Writer

I can’t say how it is that my mental juke box goes about selecting a song to be in my head when I wake up in the morning, but invariably I have one. Sometimes it’s a song I heard the day before, so that’s easy to explain, but most of the time it seems pretty random. This morning, for example, I had a darkly humorous Warren Zevon song (yes, that’s redundant) running through my mind: “Mr. Bad Example”. In it the singer unrepentedly boasts of his many nefarious deeds. It’s a catchy enough tune and I couldn’t shake it as I went about my morning routine. It’s not, however, the kind of song I want running through my mind when I’m getting ready for church.

Since the words were approaching ear-worm status I docked my iTouch into it’s speaker pedestal in the bedroom and hit song shuffle. My Touch has nearly as many songs in it as I have in my head, as well as many snippets of movie dialogue that I once down-loaded for a blog post and were captured along with my iTunes library when I first synced the unit. As I pushed play I kind of wondered what random tune I’d be greeted with and if it would be more “redeeming” than “Mr. Bad Example.”

I had to smile as the opening bars of “Sleek White Schooner” by the Waterboys blasted through the speakers. It’s one of Mike Scott’s “mystical” (as the music critics refer to spiritual themes) songs:

I dreamed I saw you sailing in
upon a sleek white schooner
You were skimming over the shallow seas,
coming into harbour,
healing on your brow…

The cargo you were carrying
was richer than riches,
golder than gold and yet more real than real
and the light that came a-flashing
from the new born babe in your arms
was a pealing of thunder, a cannonball flying
a sun exploding, Dawn in the heart of me…

It really became amusing — or interesting — then, when the next thing in the shuffle was this little snip from the Clint Eastwood movie, “Unforgiven”:

Kid: “Yeah, well, I guess they had it coming.”
Munny (Eastwood): “We all got it coming, kid.”

Which was immediately followed by an instrumental from Flamenco guitarist Armik, “Pure Paradiso”.

Ah, yes. There are things in my past that I would not want to serve as an example to others and certainly weren’t that beneficial to me. But then the revelation and persona of grace came like a sleek white schooner, letting me know that what I had received was different from what I should have had coming to me. Yet sometimes, in the midst of life, I need that reminder and that reassurance.

And the next song was “The Middle” by Jimmy Eat World, which includes:

Hey, don’t write yourself off yet.
It’s only in your head you feel left out or
looked down on.
Just do your best, do everything you can.
And don’t you worry what the bitter hearts are gonna say.

[Chorus x2]
It just takes some time, little girl you’re in the middle of the ride.
Everything (everything) will be just fine, everything (everything) will be alright (alright).

And with that I checked myself in the mirror, slid the Touch out of the dock, and I was off to church.

My favorite Waterboys song, and one that I see as being a spiritual allegory in my life, is “This is the Sea”. Here’s a cool video that uses this song as a soundtrack:

Which connection I should cut

by the Night Writer

Earlier I posted about the time the godly hole got punched in the wall of my world-view. It was a dramatic example, but not necessarily the first time God tried to get my attention. Looking back now I can see numerous nudges, nods, winks and taps on the shoulder when I was a boy and later a young adult. Not that I’m anything special, mind you, or that God isn’t trying in multiple ways to reach all of us. In my life, however, certain things have resonated, even when I didn’t understand or want to admit what invisible mallet struck the chime to make it vibrate.

For example, back when I was in college I was browsing in a used record store as the local alt-rock campus radio station played in the background. A song came on that immediately pricked my ears. I’d never heard it before and though I could make out the words, I couldn’t really understand them. I just knew that the melody got a hook into me. About all I could remember was part of the chorus: “My heart going boom, boom, boom….”

The station didn’t say the name of the song or the artist, and though I’d hear the song occasionally at random times in the next few years I still didn’t know anything about it other than it strangely moved me every time I heard it. After I moved to the Twin Cities in the early 80s I finally got the name of the song and artist: “Solsbury Hill” by Peter Gabriel, and then spent several months trying to find a copy of it in those pre-Google, pre-Amazon, prehistoric days. It finally found it on a live album and could listen to it to my heart’s (boom-boom-boom) content. Even with that I still couldn’t grasp what it was about. Some friends told me it was a song Gabriel wrote when he was trying to decide whether or not to leave Genesis, and that seemed to make as much sense as anything even though the lyrics were mostly obscure (it was a great time for obscure lyrics).

Climbing up on Solsbury Hill
I could see the city light
Wind was blowing, time stood still
Eagle flew out of the night
He was something to observe
Came in close, I heard a voice
Standing stretching every nerve
Had to listen had no choice
I did not believe the information
I just had to trust imagination
My heart going boom boom boom
“Son,” he said “Grab your things,
I’ve come to take you home.”

Then, along about the time I was discovering I was to be a father, and was rediscovering my faith, I heard the song again and it suddenly became clear to me. Had Gabriel written the song to describe his break-up with the band or, as I was doing, to come to terms with a spiritual reawakening (I knew he had become a Christian about the time he left Genesis)? I had heard a profound voice with information that by “reasonable” standards I could scarcely believe…what could I, or should I, do about it? Which of two seemingly incompatible worlds would I choose, and at what cost?

Could I trust my eyes and…imagination?

To keep in silence I resigned
My friends would think I was a nut
Turning water into wine
Open doors would soon be shut
So I went from day to day
Tho’ my life was in a rut
‘Til I thought of what I’d say
Which connection I should cut
I was feeling part of the scenery
I walked right out of the machinery
My heart going boom boom boom
“Hey” he said “Grab your things
I’ve come to take you home.”

The earlier, mysterious appeal of the song became a confirmation to me that there had been a plan for my life all along, even if I was slow in picking up on it. Still, it was hard to think of giving up one life for another, but I knew the direction I had to go. In doing so, however, I came to realize that there is just one life; the difference is in how you will approach it.

Peter Gabriel didn’t stop recording music, he just went about it in a different way, with a different sense of mission. It wasn’t a matter of me withdrawing from the old world, but embracing it with fresh eyes and new arms. Nor was it about what I could get or become, it was about what I could give and be to others (my daughters, for example).

When illusion spin her net
I’m never where I want to be
And liberty she pirouette
When I think that I am free
Watched by empty silhouettes
Who close their eyes but still can see
No one taught them etiquette
I will show another me

Physical separation is an illusion. I once told a men’s group that we were not monks who should seek to withdraw from the world to pursue and preserve our piety, but men who will pursue the world with our piety so that none may perish, “giving up” our lives in order to save and disciple the lives of others. If we withdraw then certainly people won’t see our failures or weaknesses and we can hope to keep them from pointing and laughing. But they also won’t see our tests and testimonies, and we keep them from a chance to see something in our lives that makes them consider their own lives and say, “Wait a minute….”

Today I don’t need a replacement
I’ll tell them what the smile on my face meant
My heart going boom boom boom
“Hey” I said “You can keep my things,
They’ve come to take me home.”

The circle, and bread, of life

by the Night Writer

Like a big fist pounding on my door,
I never felt such a love before…

— Bruce Cockburn

Sunday thoughts.

In church this morning we were exhorted, during the singing portion, to remember that with a shout the walls will come down. “The wall” in this case being whatever is standing between us and God’s will in our life. As I thought about it I remembered the wall, largely of my own making, that had stood between me and God. I had been pretty impressed with its craftsmanship, as I recall. And one day that wall didn’t fall, but suddenly had a large hole punched through it from the other side.

Twenty-two years and two months ago, my wife and I were in a small ultra-sound room while her ob-gyn — the same man who had performed her tubal ligation following a bout with endometriosis five or six years earlier — ran the hand-held device over and around her abdomen. Her home-pregnancy test had been positive that morning, and her report had caused some surprise and concern on her doctor’s part. Surprise because he had never had a ligation “fail”, and concern because the test raised a possibility that she was having an ectopic — or “tubal” — pregnancy, which is a serious problem. As he moved the scanner back and forth, up and down, we all watched the grainy, black and white images on the screen as the patterns shifted. I remember the doctor saying, “Hmmmm” and “Hmmmmm” and “Hmmmm” every so often — but nothing else! Finally I asked, “Is it a baby?”


“Is it where it’s supposed to be?”

“Yes, it is!”

I don’t know what the learned professional, who had carried out the procedure, was thinking then. I do know that I, the expert who had carried on a campaign of intellectual seeking, asking (and even demanding) evidence from people of what God had actually done in their lives, now had to wrap my mind around a startling new reality. Certainly the first impulse was to try to pick up the imploded bricks from that wall and try to fit them right back where they came from. I would, however, come to see these as just so much rubble to be cleared away.

It didn’t happen overnight, but the clearing definitely began. I was very new to the “things of God” at that time. Willing to “try” something new but probably not that firmly anchored. I had heard some wonderful and exciting teaching but it was still largely theoretical at the time. A new and dawning awareness of the reality and power of the Word of God was coming into my life as a preview of the teaching and discipleship I would be receiving in the years to come, and that first punch from the other side of the wall would be followed by a series of shakings and renovations (via revelations) that probably aren’t finished even now.

My daughter arrived a little more than eight months later and I was able to learn and grow in these things as she, herself, grew. The lessons and experiences my wife and received shaped our lives and our decisions and were reflected in the way we lived and raised our first daughter and the one who came after. Even though there were often voices who said, “That’s not how you should do it” or “you’re only making it tougher on her in the long-run”, we resisted much worldly wisdom and held fast to what we were seeing and experiencing and stayed committed to putting in the values and expectations we thought our girls would need to succeed. We raised them not as though we were their friends, but to help them become the kind of adults we’d be pleased to have as friends. I’d have to say we (and especially God) have been very successful in this mission.

Two days ago, we were once again in a small ultra-sound room. My wife, myself, my two daughters, as well as the husband of the eldest. Two generations gathered around the machine, hoping to catch a glimpse of a third as the technician ran the scanner back and forth, up and down, on my married daughter’s stomach. At last, there was the proof. He has given us a son…and so very much more.