sunday coffee with solomon

The morning of the Sabbath, hot coffee, no agenda, mind and heart set like a sponge. Stamped inside a life-giving book rests a book about life, death, and the tension therein.

The Sabbath is reserved for matters other than business, but Jesus healed then, too, and today he chooses word and Spirit.

At first glance, the word is riddled with contradictions, but the great magician slowly reveals his secrets. The audience of one applauds, stands in awe, then falls prostrate in fear, as properly instructed by the king. And he senses great meaning behind the meaningless.

chase all your romances,
while you can,
soon, we’ll be old,
going alone,
locked in our minds of regret,
how could I ever forget?

listen my friends,
listen my friends,
before you go on chasing,
these futile things,
diamonds and rings,
leave you restless, wishing,

you worked a bit less,
loved a bit more,
spent your time where life is,
the moth and the rust,
are bent to destroy,
all you worked for,

leave you,
empty,
wishing,
waiting,
gone.

booked

24 was the year I went from publicist to book critic and reviewed a book I'd previously promoted. It was the year I read a book about cynicism but remained (optimistically) cynical. It was the year I struggled with prayer and read a book called Prayer but still fell short, then realized I only needed to fall to my knees.

let us play

There is a game you should try:

1. Gather 4+ friends.

2. Slice up a ton of little sheets of paper (recommend size: 3 x 3).

3. Distribute paper: Each player receives the number of sheets equal to the number of players.

4. Every player writes a goofy phrase, such as, "Scientists prove halitosis can melt Nalgene bottles," or "Three-legged dog signs treaty with three blind mice." It can be a noun, a short story, a cliche, a fortune cookie proverb—rules are non-existent.

5. Every player passes his or her sentence to his or her neighbor to the right.

6. The neighbor must now draw a picture of the sentence he or she received.

7. The neighbor places the sentence face down, and the picture on top, and passes the stack to the right.

8. The neighbor then writes a sentence describing the picture they received.

9. The cycle continues all the way through (picture, sentence, etc).

10. After the last round round, players pass his or her stack to the right, back to the original owner.

11. The owner then takes the group through the evolution of the project in order.

12. Laugh heartily at the results. It is breathtaking. Repeat as necessary.

excerpt: my personality test

INTJ (Introvert, Intuitive, Thinking, Judging)

"Your need for the excitement of risk is an inexhaustible source of energy during a greater part of your life. This energy sometimes drives you to endeavors which may endanger your fortune and even your life. You are always obsessed by your idea and persist in advocating and spreading it no matter how it is accepted by society around you. Developing and putting into effect this idea produces in you a pleasurable state of mind and gives you a reason for living."

suffering

It is not news that this world is full of suffering.

Last week it was Josh, though we were reminded at church to focus on the good taking place in the lives of those who have heard his story. While Josh's spirit is amazing; suffering continues.

I just read an email from an acquaintance, who received word that his young wife has one week to live. She''ll spend her final days surrounded by friends and family.

It is not news that people will try and make sense of it all.

In fact, last night, I dabbled with the thought myself. I pulled a book off my shelf, entitled Why a Suffering World Makes Sense, and placed it on my nightstand.

Today I decided that I don't want to read it. Not now; not yet.

The words would ring too hollow, far too shallow to capture the depth of those suffering. I know the "answers" that rest in its' pages. It wouldn't be sugarcoated or pretty, but more importantly, I'm learning that the correct posture of my mind, body and soul, is with knees to the earth.

dig through the roof

A few days later, when Jesus again entered Capernaum, the people heard that he had come home. So many gathered that there was no room left, not even outside the door, and he preached the word to them.

Some men came, bringing to him a paralytic, carried by four of them. Since they could not get him to Jesus because of the crowd, they made an opening in the roof above Jesus and, after digging through it, lowered the mat the paralyzed man was lying on. When Jesus saw their faith, he said to the paralytic, "Son, your sins are forgiven."

Now some teachers of the law were sitting there, thinking to themselves, "Why does this fellow talk like that? He's blaspheming! Who can forgive sins but God alone?"

Immediately Jesus knew in his spirit that this was what they were thinking in their hearts, and he said to them, "Why are you thinking these things? Which is easier: to say to the paralytic, 'Your sins are forgiven,' or to say, 'Get up, take your mat and walk'? But that you may know that the Son of Man has authority on earth to forgive sins . . . ." He said to the paralytic, "I tell you, get up, take your mat and go home."

He got up, took his mat and walked out in full view of them all. This amazed everyone and they praised God, saying, "We have never seen anything like this!" (Mark 2:1-12)

The friends of the paralyzed man fought off crowds and dug through a roof in order to present their friend to Jesus. Their faith healed him. Doubters were "amazed." May we continue to "dig through the roof" on behalf of our brother Josh and present him to our Creator.

God is moving, please pray for full healing.

www.greenhouseministries.org

please pray

please pray for pastor josh buck of greenhouse ministries in eastown. he was in a serious diving accident yesterday in mexico and shattered a C5 vertebrae. he was airlifted to miami this morning and is conscious but not breathing on his own. pray he will regain ALL function in his body.

updates at www.greenhouseministries.org

broken

I eat ibuprofen like a halitosis patient consumes tic tacs. I put frozen mixed vegetables on my wrists multiple times daily and sleep with bulky guards strapped to my forearms and hands. I loathe my laptop and curse its funky mouse of tendonitis.

My wrists are wounded soldiers, the victims of sloppy computer posture and guitar playing.

I’m the first to admit that this is lame, self-centered and whiny. It happened last winter, too, when I couldn’t play guitar for six weeks. I’ve played since high school, but last Wednesday night after the injury, it was like being 16 all over again. Wrong chords. Off rhythm. Scattered brain. Nervousness. Paranoia. I was a musical disaster.

I don’t know who to blame for the wrists, but I want to hold someone accountable—and it’s either me or God. Is the injury purely physical? A result of poor posture? Or is it spiritual? A result of pride? Lack of perspective?

Last year’s bout forced me to reevaluate why I love music.

Time for a semi-connected flashback:

I thought about how I only played guitar twice this summer in Europe—the first was in a train filled with the young, smooth classical guitar player from Argentina and the two beautiful girls from Italy, while the two Russian guys were preoccupied with slamming beers. To play that night on the ride to Barcelona was a miracle, even if I was shown-up by the Argentinean’s tunes.

The four of us were up until 4:30 a.m., shifting around the boxcar, flirting by propping our stinky feet on each other. The girls would say something in Italian I couldn’t understand. “It’s okay,” Julia said to me, smiling. “You can put your feet up.”

How romantic. Stinky feet.

Argentina and I got booted out of our car by the railroad ticket master and found a new car in first class. Argentina went back and got his lady friend and they went somewhere. I didn't ask questions and tried to sleep for a couple hours. Julia waited outside the train when we arrived in Barcelona. She showed me where to go and said she’d email but never did—I must’ve hit some bunk chords. Then again, if she wrote I may have never met Ms. Slovenia.

When I returned from Europe, I had to form new calluses on my fingertips, but something about being away from music made her sweeter than before. Music was no longer a given. It was a gift.

Now, months later, I venture into this band—a first since clumsily wailing on the cornet while marching in small town football games and parades—is an unexpected, welcome twist, more than I dreamed.

Yesterday I listened to Rob Bell speak to his church before the David Crowder Band came out to lead worship. I don’t attend church at Mars, but there was a reason I was there: Intentionally, to see Crowder; in reality, it was an affirmation of the real roots of music and why we sing.

Rob talked about “sanctuaries of word and sound,” how poetry and music can fill intangible places other mediums leave vacant. In many cases, only these "sanctuaries" effectively connect words to our guts.

Something significant happened during the worship, an exhortation from God down to me. Words and music both fail in description, but it was a reminder that He is good, He has created beauty, and wants us to partner with Him as we identify beauty in each other and in our world.

In the end, I know the wrists will heal, and again, I’m reminded that nothing in life is a given.

one thousand words

in-decision

I heard a motivational speech once.

The speaker explained how moments of decision, when our hearts beat like we've had too much coffee, largely define us. In these moments, faith and logic collide.

I experienced one last night. I knew what I should do, rooted in what I believe, but I didn’t want to. It was too risky, too illogical. But I did it anyways.

This morning, God responded.

new year

they say
“you’ll find Him here”
and i did

Father, in strong cliffs
Spirit, in blowing wind
Son, leaving footprints

whispers
of His greatness
is all around us

a winter walk
in the woods
reminds me

we were created
to walk on water