This post is a response to this lovely post by L.L. Barkat.
Somewhere in the recesses of my memory boxes, I hope a rather tattered old cassette tape still waits to be exhumed once again. I am afraid it may have fallen prey to a move or a careless removal of "junk" boxes from the garage we used to have. The tape was recorded circa 1979 in my home studios in Whittier, California, and featured special guests (my infant sister) and my own special brand of musical entertainment. I sang a variety of original tunes, some of which I can still vaguely remember. Among the lyrics:
... I love God and He loves me,
Just singing about the love of God, to me.
That's my song of Jesus.
I found the tape sometime in my twenties, I don't remember how or when, and it became an object of immediate fascination. For one thing, it was tangible evidence of my faith as a little child... and it was fascinating to the artist in me, as it was unfettered by the restraint that most of us learn as adults wherein our free expression is confined by rules, social, musical and otherwise. Even my tunes were my own in their simple, improvised, sing-song way.
There was something almost magical in the tape for me... as if I had been allowed to see past my jaded, intellectually-informed and socially adapted adult self to the heart of faith and pure devotion. I looked back and didn't recognize myself, because I had forgotten what it was like to just sing my love for Jesus in such a spontaneous, joyful way.
There is a humility and a beauty in the worship of a child. A trust so complete. A lack of self-awareness. An earnestness. A spontaneity. A joy. Perhaps that is some of what Christ meant when he said, "Assuredly, I say to you, unless you are converted and become as little children, you will by no means enter the kingdom of heaven." The same beauty is in extemporaneous prayer... the sort that bubbles out of us like lava from a volcano, the sort that lays before our God the contents of our hearts and minds, unvarnished and free.
As an adult, I learned a new kind of music. Music that reduced me to tears. Music that I had to work and work and work to understand. Music that while not my words, my notes and my composition, somehow expressed my heart in a way my mouth had never learned to do alone. It was music that I shared with hundreds of other voices and an orchestra. Music that could only result when the words and the notes of a master are laid out before us, and we conform to the will of another master, and we each observe the silence and the sounds spelled out on the page with strict obedience, and we make our voices blend with others until, though myriad, the sound is as but one voice. One body that breathes together. One voice that with all of the power and soul of dozens of people who have bent their wills and their talents to serve something much greater than themselves. As a singer, there is nothing in the world like subsuming myself, disciplining myself, and allowing myself to disappear into the fabric of something that could go on without me, but that would not be the same if I did not lend my voice, my talents, and my commitment to be a part.
That, to me, is like liturgical prayer.
In liturgical prayer, I must become more than myself. I must conform. I must let go of my desire to be in the spotlight -- to have things my way. I must work, follow, listen, learn. I must submit. I become part of something much bigger than myself, which humbles me as it exalts me. It also teaches me a new song... one that has stood the test of time. One more beautiful and refined than my own songs, and one that makes my songs, when I allow them to stream forth, somehow richer and finer, because the beauty and perfection of the masterpiece has become part of me. It makes my own way more perfect. It turns my eyes from myself and my own heart to the face of Christ.
Musicians use the harmony of Bach as the guide because from it could be distilled rules and guidelines that allow even the least experienced musicians to create from a single melody a harmony that works. So, too, the Church uses liturgies to teach us how to pray, to help us crowd out the disorder and clutter of our minds with order and beauty. It puts scripture on our lips, into our hearts. It teaches us that we are not at the center of worship -- God is.
Liturgy and form-prayers do not take the place of our own hearts' groanings. They do not drown out our own songs. They don't take the place of our everyday conversation with God. They do not confine the Spirit. Instead, they make it possible for us, like Paul and Silas in jail, to sing hymns -- most likely the songs of David -- with the Psalmist himself. They allow us to be more than ourselves, and to be transformed when we pray, into our perfectly functioning part of the body, working in harmony with each other part in service to Christ, our Head.
Liturgy doesn't take away from the beauty of a quiet moment alone in God's presence. It doesn't silence our hearts. It does makes an ordinary moment extraordinary by transcending time, place, language and individuality by bringing the church of eternity into the moment we inhabit now. I can't help but find that beautiful.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
A Bad Apple
June 23, 2008. 3 pm. We cracked the case.
It all started with the spring, when the buds on the backyard apple tree gave way to tiny green-fleshed wonders. The apples, still too young to whet a human appetite, started to disappear with alarming rapidity. One day there were 20, within a week there were but five. Finally, there was only one left. But where were they going? Nobody at the precinct seemed to know, and they were too busy with their own rash of somewhat less petty crimes to take the case.
That's where I come in. No case is too small. No crime insignificant, and with my band of operatives, it was only a matter of time before I nabbed the thief.
The plan was simple: gather evidence, set up surveillance and wait for the apple bandit to strike. Good fieldwork was essential. I went to the tree and examined all of the branches carefully, undercover, of course, in my guise of gardener. I carefully watered the ground beneath the tree and canvased for footprints or anything that may have been left behind. I found one small apple on the ground - firm, half-missing - and realized that it must have been left by the thief when he was surprised in the act by a lawnmower man or other threat. The tiny apple had been half-eaten by then but the thief had been careful not to leave identifying bite patterns.
Next, I talked to one of my informants, a pretty little birdie dressed head to tail in black, with flashy good looks and a sharp beak. Still, I know she's the sort of chick who gets around in the backyard underworld on her mocking wit and quickness as much as her looks. I asked her to put her ear to the ground for me. She chattered and strutted, saying she had seen some squirrely looking guy in a fur coat hanging around the tree, but she didn't know him. She could only say that she suspected that he was part of a large "family" who run and sometimes overrun the yard like so many rodents. She didn't want to say more and she grew increasingly nervous, so she shifted her attention to flitting from branch to branch, displaying her plumage to the best advantage for a passing male of interest.
She'd already given me a lead, but I knew I couldn't trust her implicitly to tell me everything she knew. She'd not be above pointing the finger at someone to throw me off the scent of her wing-man. No, she was slippery, but she could be influenced, in spite of her mocking glances and shrill protestations. So, I laid it on the line: she helped, or I'd find some way to persuade her.
Finally told me she may know someone who can help: Red Hawkins. He was young, intimidating, and eagle-eyed and fairly new to the neighborhood himself. He was also an avid flyer. Most startlingly, though, he was on the up and up. The underworld couldn't touch him, but he knew every burrow and furrow of the area, and he kept it free of snakes and rats when they crossed him. He was a bit of a Lone Ranger, but if anyone knew who the culprit would be, it would be Red, because it was rumored that he kept one eye open, even when he slept, watching both sky and land, waiting for the right moment to pick off some member of the criminal element just often enough that they feared his talons. She said she'd put the word out, and if he wanted to get tangled up in my business, Red would come to me.
I sat in my office, pouring over my notes, a few days later, nursing a tall glass of iced tea and redistributing the North Carolina heat with a fan. The morning had been a bust. I had fielded several calls, but they were mostly false leads. That's when I saw him outside my window - nattily dressed and unruffled by the excitement. Red called to me from the fence with a voice both strong and piercing. My blue eyes met his gray ones, and we came to an immediate understanding. He would lead me to him. All I had to do was wait for his call and stay out of his way. But would we be in time, or would the final apple fall victim before we had a chance to nab the thief?
Apprehension mounted as I waited for the moment of truth to arrive. Minutes stretched into hours, and hours felt like they were days. In reality, it was only about 3 hours before I heard it -- Red's call. I grabbed my camera and ran for the window. There, bounding across the grass was a small creature dressed in the elaborate gray fur coat of the "family", and in his jaws was a tart green fruit. The culprit was soon joined by other members of the family - each wanting a piece of the spoils. But there they were, and I had proof of the theft. I would never catch him alone. I knew that. I might not even be able to thwart the plans of the family next year... but I had cracked the case wide open, and it was only a matter of time before Red would take care of the rest.
I found myself growing a bit sad. The thief had avoided detection for months, during which time he had made now fewer than 20 hits on the tree. Genius like that demands respect as much as it demands revenge. But I know that revenge isn't mine to exact. He's still on the prowl. For now. I snapped a photo for my notes and then saluted Red as he circled high above me. He called out again, his voice pierced the chatter and buzz of the afternoon. He said, "Don't you worry. I have family, too. No crime will go unpunished where we rule from the skies." It won't be long before this bad apple falls from his tree.
It all started with the spring, when the buds on the backyard apple tree gave way to tiny green-fleshed wonders. The apples, still too young to whet a human appetite, started to disappear with alarming rapidity. One day there were 20, within a week there were but five. Finally, there was only one left. But where were they going? Nobody at the precinct seemed to know, and they were too busy with their own rash of somewhat less petty crimes to take the case.
That's where I come in. No case is too small. No crime insignificant, and with my band of operatives, it was only a matter of time before I nabbed the thief.
The plan was simple: gather evidence, set up surveillance and wait for the apple bandit to strike. Good fieldwork was essential. I went to the tree and examined all of the branches carefully, undercover, of course, in my guise of gardener. I carefully watered the ground beneath the tree and canvased for footprints or anything that may have been left behind. I found one small apple on the ground - firm, half-missing - and realized that it must have been left by the thief when he was surprised in the act by a lawnmower man or other threat. The tiny apple had been half-eaten by then but the thief had been careful not to leave identifying bite patterns.
Next, I talked to one of my informants, a pretty little birdie dressed head to tail in black, with flashy good looks and a sharp beak. Still, I know she's the sort of chick who gets around in the backyard underworld on her mocking wit and quickness as much as her looks. I asked her to put her ear to the ground for me. She chattered and strutted, saying she had seen some squirrely looking guy in a fur coat hanging around the tree, but she didn't know him. She could only say that she suspected that he was part of a large "family" who run and sometimes overrun the yard like so many rodents. She didn't want to say more and she grew increasingly nervous, so she shifted her attention to flitting from branch to branch, displaying her plumage to the best advantage for a passing male of interest.She'd already given me a lead, but I knew I couldn't trust her implicitly to tell me everything she knew. She'd not be above pointing the finger at someone to throw me off the scent of her wing-man. No, she was slippery, but she could be influenced, in spite of her mocking glances and shrill protestations. So, I laid it on the line: she helped, or I'd find some way to persuade her.
Finally told me she may know someone who can help: Red Hawkins. He was young, intimidating, and eagle-eyed and fairly new to the neighborhood himself. He was also an avid flyer. Most startlingly, though, he was on the up and up. The underworld couldn't touch him, but he knew every burrow and furrow of the area, and he kept it free of snakes and rats when they crossed him. He was a bit of a Lone Ranger, but if anyone knew who the culprit would be, it would be Red, because it was rumored that he kept one eye open, even when he slept, watching both sky and land, waiting for the right moment to pick off some member of the criminal element just often enough that they feared his talons. She said she'd put the word out, and if he wanted to get tangled up in my business, Red would come to me.
I sat in my office, pouring over my notes, a few days later, nursing a tall glass of iced tea and redistributing the North Carolina heat with a fan. The morning had been a bust. I had fielded several calls, but they were mostly false leads. That's when I saw him outside my window - nattily dressed and unruffled by the excitement. Red called to me from the fence with a voice both strong and piercing. My blue eyes met his gray ones, and we came to an immediate understanding. He would lead me to him. All I had to do was wait for his call and stay out of his way. But would we be in time, or would the final apple fall victim before we had a chance to nab the thief?
Apprehension mounted as I waited for the moment of truth to arrive. Minutes stretched into hours, and hours felt like they were days. In reality, it was only about 3 hours before I heard it -- Red's call. I grabbed my camera and ran for the window. There, bounding across the grass was a small creature dressed in the elaborate gray fur coat of the "family", and in his jaws was a tart green fruit. The culprit was soon joined by other members of the family - each wanting a piece of the spoils. But there they were, and I had proof of the theft. I would never catch him alone. I knew that. I might not even be able to thwart the plans of the family next year... but I had cracked the case wide open, and it was only a matter of time before Red would take care of the rest.I found myself growing a bit sad. The thief had avoided detection for months, during which time he had made now fewer than 20 hits on the tree. Genius like that demands respect as much as it demands revenge. But I know that revenge isn't mine to exact. He's still on the prowl. For now. I snapped a photo for my notes and then saluted Red as he circled high above me. He called out again, his voice pierced the chatter and buzz of the afternoon. He said, "Don't you worry. I have family, too. No crime will go unpunished where we rule from the skies." It won't be long before this bad apple falls from his tree.
Friday, June 20, 2008
The Great Outdoors
I spent a good hour this morning thrilling at the sight and sound of a red-shouldered hawk that chose our backyard as its hangout this morning. Unfortunately I wasn't able to get very good pictures, because when I went outside (I was sneaky and went out the front door and around), it moved on. I can still hear its call, but it is no longer right outside my window. Here are the photos I did manage through the windows and the foliage.
Here is a link to the call that I listened to (click on the link to play the sound from this species), and which helped me settle on its identity as a Red-shouldered hawk over the other options. I have spent some time playing the recorded call and listening to the hawk outside reply. They've been talking for a while now. Simple things really entertain me.
Since we moved here, I have had quite a lot of fun trying to identify the birds, arachnids, insects and animals I encounter. For one thing, there are more of them. For another, I enjoy a challenge, and when discovering which beetle I have spotted out on a trail takes me through about 200 pages of photos, each with about 5 types of beetles, I gain a new appreciation for the richness and diversity of living things... though I sometimes think I could do without the thought that there are thousands of types of beetles.
I'm much more aware here of the passage of time and the seasonal changes. Just a few weeks ago the leafy vines that hide the house behind ours from view were light green and immature and only created a sort of screen. Now they are full and form a lush green curtain. Everything is green (with the exception of what passes for our lawn), despite the moderate drought. Ferns have swarmed the creek bed, stretching feathery tendrils down to toy with the minnows and tadpoles.
Yes... I must say that summer has its charms. We went walking through town two nights ago when the temperatures had cooled and our feet ached to explore. Getting out of the house seems like an imperative now that we both spend so much time here. We walked past the library and into a new neighborhood, and we each picked a wild blackberry from vines just off the road.
Last night I awoke to the rumble of distant thunder, and dozed off and on as the rains bathed our house. Our apple tree has one fruit left trying to make it to maturity. Our tomato vines are starting to bear a few small, green fruit. Daniel has taken to tinkering in the "back 40". Vibrant red cardinals flit from branch to branch. The hibiscus are in bloom. We could ask for somewhat more (a job for Dan, for instance), but there is quite a lot to quietly (or not so quietly -- hawk calls can be rather noisy) enjoy in the meantime.
Here is a link to the call that I listened to (click on the link to play the sound from this species), and which helped me settle on its identity as a Red-shouldered hawk over the other options. I have spent some time playing the recorded call and listening to the hawk outside reply. They've been talking for a while now. Simple things really entertain me.Since we moved here, I have had quite a lot of fun trying to identify the birds, arachnids, insects and animals I encounter. For one thing, there are more of them. For another, I enjoy a challenge, and when discovering which beetle I have spotted out on a trail takes me through about 200 pages of photos, each with about 5 types of beetles, I gain a new appreciation for the richness and diversity of living things... though I sometimes think I could do without the thought that there are thousands of types of beetles.
I'm much more aware here of the passage of time and the seasonal changes. Just a few weeks ago the leafy vines that hide the house behind ours from view were light green and immature and only created a sort of screen. Now they are full and form a lush green curtain. Everything is green (with the exception of what passes for our lawn), despite the moderate drought. Ferns have swarmed the creek bed, stretching feathery tendrils down to toy with the minnows and tadpoles.
Yes... I must say that summer has its charms. We went walking through town two nights ago when the temperatures had cooled and our feet ached to explore. Getting out of the house seems like an imperative now that we both spend so much time here. We walked past the library and into a new neighborhood, and we each picked a wild blackberry from vines just off the road.
Last night I awoke to the rumble of distant thunder, and dozed off and on as the rains bathed our house. Our apple tree has one fruit left trying to make it to maturity. Our tomato vines are starting to bear a few small, green fruit. Daniel has taken to tinkering in the "back 40". Vibrant red cardinals flit from branch to branch. The hibiscus are in bloom. We could ask for somewhat more (a job for Dan, for instance), but there is quite a lot to quietly (or not so quietly -- hawk calls can be rather noisy) enjoy in the meantime.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Country Fried Fotos
A.K.A. What passes for fun around these parts these days
One of the stranger things we have taken to doing since we moved here is watching CMT, which stands for "Country Music Television". That's misleading though, since CMT has about as much music as does MTV these days, which I understand to be the home of more "reality TV" than there are big-screen TVs in a Howard's showroom on Labor Day Weekend. One of the other eye-opening programs is "Trick my Truck," in which about a half-dozen guys you wouldn't want to meet in a well-lit alley with armed bodyguards turn somebody's work truck (usually a big rig) into something else -- generally involving lots of airbrushing, chrome and blinking lights. We have also watched Country Fried Videos, which is a cross between some of the extreme video stunts you can find on YouTube performed by people who might do quite well competing for a spot on the Darwin Awards and, well, the South.
One of our favorite shows would have to be "Mobile Home Disaster," in which a lovably annoying CMT personality and his team rehab a trailer home in something like 24 hours while the family that usually lives there is on a show-sponsored vacation or other activity--such as a blind date, in the case of a single dad. Let us not neglect to mention "Farmer Wants a Wife," in which a dozen or so vapid young women vie for the affections of a hunky young farmer by riding tractors in heels and going on coveted lake-swimming dates (one-on-one or in groups) with Mr. Right. I can only claim to have watched that show once. Between the free-flowing estrogen and the lunacy of the concept, that was all I could stomach. (Okay, so that was actually local TV, but I still contend that watching CMT is a bit like watching a multi-vehicle wreck in the middle of down-home America over a steaming bowl of opossum stew.)
Still, we find it strangely compelling. In fact, we have changed our lifestyles a bit to reflect the new possibilities we have discovered. For instance, we now scavenge for dinner in the street. This little guy wasn't very filling, I am afraid.
We also have exchanged our mattresses for natural, renewable bedding. Here is Monte in his new countrified bed of carrot greens. MooMoo is there to provide protection.
Finally, we have decided to adopt new looks. Please note the stains on the shirt.
Okay, so I am just kidding... about some of it.
Monte really does love to nap in carrot greens, and Dan really did get a new look... but that's not it.
Neither is this.
I'll post the real look after some pause for speculation and gossip.
Discuss.
One of the stranger things we have taken to doing since we moved here is watching CMT, which stands for "Country Music Television". That's misleading though, since CMT has about as much music as does MTV these days, which I understand to be the home of more "reality TV" than there are big-screen TVs in a Howard's showroom on Labor Day Weekend. One of the other eye-opening programs is "Trick my Truck," in which about a half-dozen guys you wouldn't want to meet in a well-lit alley with armed bodyguards turn somebody's work truck (usually a big rig) into something else -- generally involving lots of airbrushing, chrome and blinking lights. We have also watched Country Fried Videos, which is a cross between some of the extreme video stunts you can find on YouTube performed by people who might do quite well competing for a spot on the Darwin Awards and, well, the South.
One of our favorite shows would have to be "Mobile Home Disaster," in which a lovably annoying CMT personality and his team rehab a trailer home in something like 24 hours while the family that usually lives there is on a show-sponsored vacation or other activity--such as a blind date, in the case of a single dad. Let us not neglect to mention "Farmer Wants a Wife," in which a dozen or so vapid young women vie for the affections of a hunky young farmer by riding tractors in heels and going on coveted lake-swimming dates (one-on-one or in groups) with Mr. Right. I can only claim to have watched that show once. Between the free-flowing estrogen and the lunacy of the concept, that was all I could stomach. (Okay, so that was actually local TV, but I still contend that watching CMT is a bit like watching a multi-vehicle wreck in the middle of down-home America over a steaming bowl of opossum stew.)
Still, we find it strangely compelling. In fact, we have changed our lifestyles a bit to reflect the new possibilities we have discovered. For instance, we now scavenge for dinner in the street. This little guy wasn't very filling, I am afraid.
We also have exchanged our mattresses for natural, renewable bedding. Here is Monte in his new countrified bed of carrot greens. MooMoo is there to provide protection.
Finally, we have decided to adopt new looks. Please note the stains on the shirt.
Okay, so I am just kidding... about some of it.
Monte really does love to nap in carrot greens, and Dan really did get a new look... but that's not it.
Neither is this.
I'll post the real look after some pause for speculation and gossip.
Discuss.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
What if?
She flopped diagonally onto the bed, belly first, in her bathrobe.
He reclined against a disorderly heap of pillows, back down, face up -- a much more ordinary position.
"Hi," she said, bringing her left hand to rest on his t-shirted chest.
"Hi," he replied.
He pointed with his left hand to the ring on hers.
"That rock means I love you," he said.
"It does?" she asked.
"Yes."
"But what does this band mean?" she asked, pointing to a thicker ring of gold.
"It means that I married you," he replied.
She was silent for a moment, and then spoke again.
"But what if the rock gets lost?"
"I will still love you. Just because it is lost doesn't mean it ceases to exist. It still means that I love you."
"But what if it gets crushed?"
"It won't. It's a diamond."
"But what if it gets blown up by an atomic bomb and shatters into a thousand pieces?"
"Then every one of those thousand pieces will say that I still love you."
"Yes, I suppose the conservation of mass helps your case."
"That's true ... but even if you somehow manage to turn those bits of mass into energy, the energy will still say that I love you."
She laughed.
He laughed.
"I love you, too," She replied.
He reclined against a disorderly heap of pillows, back down, face up -- a much more ordinary position.
"Hi," she said, bringing her left hand to rest on his t-shirted chest.
"Hi," he replied.
He pointed with his left hand to the ring on hers.
"That rock means I love you," he said.
"It does?" she asked.
"Yes."
"But what does this band mean?" she asked, pointing to a thicker ring of gold.
"It means that I married you," he replied.
She was silent for a moment, and then spoke again.
"But what if the rock gets lost?"
"I will still love you. Just because it is lost doesn't mean it ceases to exist. It still means that I love you."
"But what if it gets crushed?"
"It won't. It's a diamond."
"But what if it gets blown up by an atomic bomb and shatters into a thousand pieces?"
"Then every one of those thousand pieces will say that I still love you."
"Yes, I suppose the conservation of mass helps your case."
"That's true ... but even if you somehow manage to turn those bits of mass into energy, the energy will still say that I love you."
She laughed.
He laughed.
"I love you, too," She replied.
Friday, June 6, 2008
Jobs and houses and choices, oh my!
Well, after about 4 weeks of a whole lot of nothing, Dan's job hunt became much more promising all of the sudden. Dan has a couple (as many as 4, actually) strong possibilities in the works. Please pray that the right opportunity will present itself quickly, and that we'll have a real conviction that the right thing is in fact right.
Up for prayer is whether we move closer to the new job, whatever it turns out to be. We're out in the middle of nowhere now, which was fine when his job was in an outlying town about 20 minutes from here and gas prices were a bit more manageable. Our lease is up in about 3 weeks, and we may have to decide very quickly whether to move to Raleigh proper or thereabouts, whether to extend our lease on this place, or whether to go month-to-month for a few months and have Dan brave the commute. A lot depends on whether Dan has an offer to accept sooner than later, and where that turns out to be. The job possibilities he's talking to recruiters about are all over the Triangle, and none of them are anywhere near here, so a move seems likely, there's just a lot we don't know yet. A move would have several other blessings associated with it. Anywhere we end up is likely to be closer to church, the airport and Duke, so a move may mean a lot of things are easier for us. The main drawback is that we really love this little house, the price is right, and we just planted a garden! It's just further than we would like to be from a lot of things that matter to us.
That's it for now!
Up for prayer is whether we move closer to the new job, whatever it turns out to be. We're out in the middle of nowhere now, which was fine when his job was in an outlying town about 20 minutes from here and gas prices were a bit more manageable. Our lease is up in about 3 weeks, and we may have to decide very quickly whether to move to Raleigh proper or thereabouts, whether to extend our lease on this place, or whether to go month-to-month for a few months and have Dan brave the commute. A lot depends on whether Dan has an offer to accept sooner than later, and where that turns out to be. The job possibilities he's talking to recruiters about are all over the Triangle, and none of them are anywhere near here, so a move seems likely, there's just a lot we don't know yet. A move would have several other blessings associated with it. Anywhere we end up is likely to be closer to church, the airport and Duke, so a move may mean a lot of things are easier for us. The main drawback is that we really love this little house, the price is right, and we just planted a garden! It's just further than we would like to be from a lot of things that matter to us.
That's it for now!
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