Please don't tell me what I believe...

A lovely day reading...

Nothing else.  My Boo and me reading.  Ahhhh... heaven.

I’m well into Stephen Greenblatt’s “The Swerve”: A wonderful trip in to the Renaissance and further back to the Roman poet, Lucretius.  Great stuff.  I’d like to call myself a Renaissance Man; I do know a fair bit about subjects as diverse Red AND White Wine... oh, and also a lot about  Leslie Charteris’  “The Saint”, but I don’t think these interests qualify me as a polymath.  (and I’m not really good with numbers).

So... no Renaissance man for me.

And I do love my Roman poets!  Let me tell you... from Virgil to...

 to Juventus... 

and the ever popular AC Milan 

(first Roman poet to use Initials...  or initial Roman poet to use ‘first’)

Never mind.. I’m getting off track.

I do love the Renaissance.

I maybe know a little more than a little bit about Roman poets and poetry.

So, this book is right up my alley.

Except that Mr. Greenblatt insists on making this an exercise in freedom from religion.  Lucretius’ poem “On the Nature of Things” (the core of this book) is seen a brilliant repudiation of the religious idea that God is the centre of all things, that the Dues ex Machina construct of religion is patently false and that ridding ourselves of God represents man’s greatest leap yet to be taken.

Okay, I get it, you’re an Atheist. Or a Non-Theist... and the institution of the church was no friend to this poem or to those who would dare to imagine reality that did not conform to an ancient catechism or a Byzantine triptych.   But please , must everything be about proving that God does not exist or that believe in God is a sign of mental defect?  I appreciate that this is not the core of the book (incidentally, I’m loving this book), but it does seem to be a recurring theme.

If I may, allow me to explain:

When I went to Junior High I was introduced to the Bohr-Rutherford diagram of the Atom  (or Rutherford-Bohr, apparently... I guess that it will be McCartney and Lennon, next). Now, you may recall that it looked kind of like our solar system with the nucleus in the middle (like the sun) with electrons orbiting around it (like planets).  We counted electrons and we figured out what kind of Atom it was; we looked at comparable diagrams and discerned which Atoms were included in our experiment/observation/super-hero costume.    And this continued through High School.  And it worked.

For me (but then, I’m not really all that bright).

However, a little while later, I discovered (as did others) that atoms didn’t really look a target with a couple of near misses.  An atom was not actually two dimensional or given to easy drawing by a teenager.  In short, I discovered that Messrs. Rutherford and Bohr has mis-represented reality.

I did not, however, reject science. 

Or drop out of school.  

Or decide that all scientists were lying to us pitiful High School students in an effort to keep us ignorant and under control.

I did recognize that the B&R boys had simply found a way to communicate a greater truth... something that defied simple sketching.  They were talking about something that they did not fully comprehend, but needed a way to communicate, differentiate and stimulate.  I know that the diagrams that I drew in High School are not real, but they do indicate something very real to me; they allow me to talk to others about Hydrogen and Oxygen in a meaningful way...  they give me the tools and short hand to share, learn and grow.

Now, I’m not excusing those who would silence, imprison, ignore or put to death those who do not pledge allegiance to the great Diagram... nor do I do that for the institutional church.  But please don’t imagine that what I believe in can be simply contained by Sunday School pictures or narratives of ancient faithful peoples... and please don’t imagine that I’m an  idiot for keeping around the pictures that I drew as a kid...  I rather like the colours and as long as others are a little bit patient with me, they give me the tools and short hand to share, learn and grow.

That's all.

My rant is over.

And a walk is in order.

(and how about a little credit for avoiding the whole Renaissance = Rebirth = Born Again thing)

Confession (for Lent?)

I am a terrible blogger.

There... said it.

It’s not that I don’t have anything to say (reasonable people may disagree) – but I take too damn long to say it.  A good blogger blogs regularly. A good blogger writes short pithy comments on a regular basis, inspiring thought, smiles (and for some) revenue.  A good blogger is concise and original.  A good blogger has a consistent point of view.  A good blogger avoids repetition.

And is a master of irony.

That ain’t me.

I struggle because I want to say it write..  right.

As a student, almost without exception, I never handed a paper in on time.   It was in my second year as a grad student that someone made it clear to me:  “Better to have it in on time and inadequate, than late and perfect”.  As each day late took away 10% of the grade, the math was obvious... but it was still hard for me to grasp. ( I also don’t seem to grasp the logic or appeal of Ke$ha or Sushi in Toronto... where’s the music; where’s the ocean??)

And so, this is my short, concise promise to blog more often... more pithifully... and be less concerned about being “perfect”... or “right”...  or even “adequate”.

That’s it.

All I’ve got.

Oh, expect to note that I did once hand a paper in on time.

It was also the first thing that I published.

A small article in “Milton Quarterly” examining the image of Alcestis in Milton’s Sonnet 23.

Yes, it was a barn burner.

No, the film rights have yet to be resolved (still holding out for Eddie Izzard in the part of Milton and Whoopi Goldberg as Alcestis)

And yes, it made me a serious babe magnet.... I mean, come on, it’s John Freaking Paradise Lost and Regained Milton!!

Expect to be bothered by me soon...

A Christmas Story...

Felt it was time to post something... tell a story about Christmas as most of us experience it.  If you like the story, consider it my Christmas Gift to you... if not, well, maybe I'll do better next year.

                                                                                                                 Norm

Steve was getting ready for the Family Christmas... like always... all of the cousins would be there.. aunts, uncles... brother and sisters... Mother and Father, Grandmother and Grandfather...  husbands and wives of cousins, brother and sisters... a former sister in law who was divorced from his brother, but was still part of the family on Holiday Occasions... that wasn’t awkward.. except maybe for the new wife, the year that both John’s ex-wife and new wife made rum balls and everybody had to pretend the that new wife’s weren’t better.... 

Oh, and naturally there would be 2 parrots, 4 parakeets, three cats, two dogs, little Tina’s Guinea pig (she takes it everywhere)... and who knows? Maybe three French hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree. 

If he had his choice he would be one of the Lord’s of Leapin’... leapin’ out of there!

It wasn’t that he didn’t love his family or enjoy Christmas... he did love his family: his sisters, his really successful and popular brother – his brother’s ex-wife and wife... his brothers in law – his mother and father... nearly ALL of the cousins (especially little Tina with the Guinea pig)... but it was a long drive to Ottawa, the weather was always a problem this time of year... the highway around Kingston was murder... and.. and..

Well, he wasn’t.. he didn’t...  well, measure up well.

He didn’t have a good a job...

He didn’t have kids... he didn’t even have a partner...

He didn’t know how to act... the gathering used to be at his Grandparents place, they had this big old house in Ottawa.  And everybody would dress up....  but Steve didn’t have suit and only one tie... brown shoes...  Brother John, he wore a tux... and danced with the aunts...  They would gather in the Living Room around the grand piano and sing carols... and if you didn’t want to sing you were expected to go to the kitchen or somewhere else to converse.  Steve knew the first verse to most carols... John was able to sing O Come All Ye Faithful in Latin:  Adeste Fideles (all the verses).  Most years, John was asked to leave because he clearly was more interested in talking than singing.  A song sheet might have helped!!!  And what’s so wrong about wanting to sing Frosty the Snowman?

Eventually the gathering moved to Steve’s parents place.  Brother John, who lived in town and worked for the government, did a lot to help getting everything ready – Steve’s sisters had made special food... Steve was coming from far away, so there wasn’t much he could do. He offered to help pay the caterer but Mom and Dad just laughed... nicely... but it was still laughter.  That year, Steve took his meagre savings and invested it wisely – he rented a tux.  And he got one of the girls at work to teach him to dance (a little).  This year – new locale – and a new Steve – he’d be suave like his brother and he’d make his old Aunts swoon when he invited out onto the dance floor.  He showed up ready for a great evening...   he could smell the mulling spices wafting down to the street as he walked from his car to the house... careful not to slip and spoil his beautiful tuxedo... he imagined the surprised look on everybody’s faces as he entered the house.. “Steve!” as they took in the tux (and the haircut)

“Yes, Steve... Steve Bond”

If only someone had told him that the change in venue also meant that everybody was invited to come in jeans or casual clothes... so that those less resourceful wouldn’t feel peculiar....

But now, this year... this year would be different.

Steve could never measure up gift wise...  His sisters would buy him clothes with labels that Steve couldn’t read (which is how they often ended up in the wash with his jeans... never to be worn again).  Last year, his brother bought him a Flat Screen TV... apologizing that it was only 37 inches (11 inches bigger than his old one)... he got his sisters bath salts and a Simon and Garfunkel DVD for his brother.  The Concert in Central Park may have been 27 years ago, but it was still good.  And affordable.

Everybody loved their gifts... but Steve knew that they didn’t compare... he was tired of being a Shepherd when everybody else was a Magi.

This year... Steve got a bonus at work.

$3,000.

Maybe not a lot to his brother... but a lot to him.

He thought about saving it...

He thought about paying off his student loans a little faster...

He thought about taking a little vacation...

He considered buying 1500 Lotto 649 Tickets...

But then he decided to buy presents for his family.

Presents like they bought him every year...

He went to the Shops at Don Mills and spent $300 on designer Vinegar for his sister, the wanna-be chef...

He bought a coat for his fashonista sister... at some Archaeology place that he’d never heard of... so it must be good.

He bought for his Mom and Dad... not sure what to get them, because up to now the only way he knew how to shop was to look for something in his price range, not something that might knock their socks off...  he wondered “WWJD”:  What would John do?... and as if channelling his brother, he bought his parents, his and her silk Pyjamas and Velvet Robes....

And for Johh... his inspiration and his hero... his downfall and his nemesis.... his brother... an $800 bottle of wine! (you knew that John would be wine connoisseur).

Steve also managed to buy a few things for the cousins – a first for him – and spent a whole evening wrapping everything up perfectly.  Pink bows for the girls, Blue knots for the boys... and bubble wrap for the bottle..

The next morning he packed everything carefully and lovingly into his 96 Corolla and started the drive to Ottawa... the smell of a Tim Horton’s Double Double fillling the car... the sound of Christmas Carols filling his ears...and what surely must be “joy” filling his heart.

He would get to his parents about dinner time on Christmas Eve... time for a meal and then a Christmas Eve service with Mom and Dad... and the party on Christmas Day.

The party when he would finally fit in... he had the right clothes and nobody would look outside to see his car.  He knew the words to all the Christmas Carols – he had been practicing.  He would not be asking his aunts to dance, but he had gifts for them... gifts for the whole family... finally they would know how much he loved them... he would measure up... he would really be part of Christmas...

Driving along the 401, Steve saw a big pet shop in one of the malls... and was inspired.  He’d do something extra special that no one had ever thought to do before... he’d get something for little Tina’s Guinea pig... that’s love!  Remembering somebody’s pet... Brilliant.

He got off the highway, parked the car and all but skipped into PetSmart... checking the aisles until he found a tiny set of reindeer antlers, sized for a Guinea Pig.

Nothing says Christmas like a pet in plush antlers...

$11.95 and he was on his way...

Singing as he went out to his car...

Over by the lamp post..

Other lamp post.. 

Near the front of the store?  That can’t be right...

At the end of the row??

Steve looked for his car...  the one with an empty Tim Horton’s cup in the cup holder... the one with the Christmas Carols playing on the radio...  the one with $3,268 in gifts for everybody... the one with his salvation packed neatly in the trunk and back seat.

It was gone.

The police were too busy to come to the scene.

Mall security drove him to the Police Station.

Paper work was filled out...

Sad pathetic looks were exchanged... Sad tidings were in store...

There was no comfort... No joy... 

Steve caught a bus into Ottawa.

Got in around 2 in the morning.

Slipped into his parents house... into the guest room...

In the morning, he couldn’t bear to face his parents... or watch the hordes descend upon the house for Christmas breakfast... Christmas lunch.... finally, Christmas Party and dinner...  so he slipped out and went to church (it was affordable).

God hated him.

He’s blown it.

He would never understand Christmas

He would never be able to express his love in a way that his family would understand.

He would never fit in...  he shouldn’t have taken the bus back to Toronto instead of Ottawa.

Then heard the Christmas Story...  the one that we hear every year about a pregnant unmarried teenage girl, some confused shepherds, unbelievable angels and foreign visitors called Magi...  he heard about people who didn’t fit in... he heard about a journey that was dark and bumpy.... he heard about things going wrong... he heard about gifts...  he heard about God revealed in a small, vulnerable child....

He spent most of the day at church... not because he didn’t want to go home, but because he wanted to hear the story again (he seemed unaware that there is a take home version of the story as well)...  but he did make it to the party.

And at the party, Steve didn’t take his cue from the Magi... and he didn’t take his cure from the Shepherds.... he knew that he didn’t have the wardrobe to be an angel...  he, instead took his cue from the child, the baby... Jesus.   

Steve dared to be naked and vulnerable....   He told everybody his story...  he laughed and cried as he told it... so did they....   and then, he went around and embraced his family... each one, even Tina once she put down her Guinea Pig with the Reindeer Antlers (the one gift that was not lost) ... one at a time and he would whisper to each member of his family what made each of them so special to him... and then he told them, “I love you”

He would probably have years when he was a Shepherd at Christmas again... he might even get to be a Magi one of these years – but nothing would ever compare to the Christmas that Steve dared to take the story seriously and become Christ-like himself... naked and vulnerable.  For the first time – Steve finally “got” Christmas

What I did on my summer vacation.... and why you should, too!

In recent years, I got good at NOT taking vacations.

For a variety of reason.

A desire to support and grow the life of my congregation – the one that called me and trusted me to lead, support and minister.  I didn’t want to go away in or around the time of Christmas or Easter... Pentecost is great (hate to miss it)... September/October, is when things get going and I really want to be around for that... Summer is when people church shop and we really don’t want to shutter the doors and windows, or present a service and community that is at odds with the November community... Speaking of November, Remembrance Day is important (especially for a Trumpet player, like me)... pretty soon, it was easy to find a reason to stick around for pretty much every month, week – even day of the year.   So, I got pretty good at taking long lunches or  a few days here and there, even a week... but never taking 2 weeks or a month.  My contract calls for 7 weeks (including Sundays) off a year...3 for Study Leave; 4 for Vacation and yet I don’t think that I’ve ever taken all of them.

  - I know, great benefits!!  I also get a discount on Clergy Shirts and Jesus Fish; dental coverage for nearly all of my teeth, one orthotic a year (that keeps me hoping); quantity discounts of all Christopher Hitchens’ books (if I want to have a bon fire) and Eternal Life (hey, it’s in the brochure!) –

The other reasons that I haven’t taken advantage of my vacation time is my wife’s work schedule (she loves the car business too much to go away for more than a week... and she works on pure commission)

AND also,  I’m broke. (but I love my kids)

It has been 5 years since I last visited Italy; 5 years since I last visited London; 6 years since France; 7 years since Ireland... and a decade since I last visited Arizona or South America (don’t cry for me, Argentina)

This year, I went to France.

I broke out my rusty language skills..  “Hello, c’est Pitou?”, boarded a plane with wife and headed off for a couple of weeks in Burgundy and Champagne. 

I was out of touch with the church.

I was out of touch with my kids.

I was out of touch with the world...  well, except for Facebook... but you get the idea.

And some things happened:

Romance was in the air.

Wine was imbibed.

Food was consumed.

Vineyard were visited

Cellars were frequented.

Gallic sensibility and language were assaulted.

And I was recreated.

I think that that is the point of recreation, isn’t it? To be re created?

To be fair, I’m not sure that I was recreated as much as I was restored.

In France, in the company of my wife... often with my brothers-in-law (they, too, were on the voyage), and often sitting by myself sipping, tasting or flat out munching... I began to remember who I am.  Without the daily routine and pressures (both of which I regularly invite into my life), I became reacquainted with who I am... not who I’ve become or who others would have me be; or who I would become for others.

Allow me to introduce myself to you (as I did to myself a couple of weeks ago).

I’m Norm.

I know stuff.

I collect wine

I’m not a worrier.

I’m not a warrior, either.  Oh, I’m passionate and committed, but with time and restoration, I can find better ways to achieve my goals than war.

I am gentle.

I am kind.

Stunningly, I am not angry, short tempered or cynical.  Oh, I can take on those roles to be witty; to relieve stress or to keep people at an appropriate distance... but they are tools and not actual facets of my personality.  Tools that are probably better left in the box. In the basement.  At your house and not mine.

I am explosive... but the explosions are of energy and creativity... often sandwiched between great displays of laziness.

I smile a lot.

I love watching people.

I talk to myself unashamedly... and even engage with the Divine without regard for who’s watching... it might be conversation, prayer, bursting into song or even a dance...  but I delight in ways that many find eccentric.

Once I met myself, I bought myself a glass of wine... not wanting to see me drink alone, I ordered a second glass.  And Norm and I talked.   As we talked, I remembered what I like about him and how much I’ve missed me.  I was quite taken with how damn good looking he is... and how witty.  (although I was concerned that he was drinking two glasses of wine simultaneously... one, white; the other, Rosé).

And as I became comfortable in his company once again...I found that all of the things that seemed so important before my vacation... weren’t really all that important. (I can file my taxes anytime!), the imperfect parts of my vacation didn't seem to bother me (I did my mention my brothers-in-law with us, right?)... and, best of all, all sorts of new ideas started popping into my head... my imagination seemed to be reignited and stories started to take shape and flight...

I pass all of this on, because.... well, because I don’t want to forget it.  I don’t want to let my vacation time slip away, ever again.  And I wish for you the same... that you find the time for re-creation, or restoration.  Take some time and get to know yourself... you really are worth knowing.

Oh, and if you can’t seem to find yourself... I can recommend a little place in Beaune, you just might be there... I know that’s where I found me.

Hate Mail

The story is that Cary Grant once received a telegram from a reporter writing a bio piece on the actor; in all of the notes the reporter had taken, he had neglected to record Mr. Grant’s age.  And so, he sent the following telegram:

How old Cary Grant? <stop>

The ever witty and suave silver screen idol replied with his own telegram:
Old Cary Grant fine, how you? <stop>

The story may not be true, but I love it.

I once wrote a letter to an old girl friend. A young woman with whom I had ended a long relationship... I did not end it well, as I was enthralled with someone new.  In short, I was a cad.  (yes, we all spoke like that in the 80’s...  “You cad... how deleterious of you to treat me in such a manner”... at least that’s how I remember it.  We also wore spats, I think)

Three years later, I wrote to the woman wronged to apologize.  I confessed my cad-like nature, apologized for the hurt and hoped that we might one day be friends.  A week later, my letter was returned with bold letters across the front declaring “TOO LITTLE, TOO LATE”

The words practically knocked me out of my spats!

Last week, I posted on the Jubilee United Church sign these words:

Blessings and Peace

To our Muslim Friends

In the Holy Month

Of Ramadan.

It seemed a nice gesture.  Acknowledging that many of our neighbours are Muslim.  The same people who wish me “Merry Christmas” and “Happy Easter” when I see them on the street or in their places of business  (at the appropriate time of year, of course.. we don’t just go around issuing holiday greetings out of context in Don Mills).  Within two hours of posting the sign, I received an email – some of which I will quote:

     I drove by your building today, (looks like a community centre), and I noticed your marquee, and was appalled by the message.  Why this message? Do you think Muslims have    had a rough go of things recently? Are you trying to 'reach' out to those who have, and continue to    persecute Christians. Who burn churches, kill Christians in muslim countries. I'll tell you something  right now, North Americans are very ignorant of muslims and islam. They are far removed from   reality. Tell me something, why are churches not allowed in muslim countries. Until churches and    Christians can live and practice their faith in peace in muslim countries, muslims and islam have no  place in our society.

    Islam is not a religion, it's an ideology. Just like nazism and fascism. Mohammed was illiterate,  was into the occult ... promoted  'kill anyone who does not follow me', his mother bewitched him, and he    admitted to not performing any miracles. He was not raised from the dead. He never ascended into  heaven. He was a liar and so is the religion. Muslims in Canada are here to convert this Christian country into an islam state. Go back to school and read the history of Christianity, and the 7th century of islam  as warriors, aggressors and killers.

   That's what they are taught. The Quran is full of lies. Ex-muslims speak of the evils of islam.   And you have the self-righteousness to put that sign on your community centre marquee. Your organization  is an embarrssment to Christianity. As a matter of fact, your organization is a heresy. Why don't you drive  around and see how many mosques have marquees praising Christians and blessing them, etc. Never in a  millions years. I'm not suggesting to behave like them, but don't even bother giving them attention. That's what they want. They want North Americans to be afraid of them, so they will give into them, and the next minute, presto, Christianity is gone, and islam is in.

There was more (much more)... but I think that you get the picture.

He signed it with his initials  (although his name was quite evident in his email address)

What does one do with such an email?

I thought about the witty Cary Grant reply.... but didn’t know how to spell “bbbllllpphhhhhhh”

I thought about the declarative ex-girlfriend “SHUT UP!” response.

I considered ignoring it altogether.   I mean, he’s not listening to me... he’s not really looking for dialogue or the exchange of ideas..

But then, I thought about the criticism that that is often levelled at “moderate” Muslims who don’t speak up when the radicals and haters make outrageous statements.  We criticize them for not speaking out.. so, I thought that I needed to say something.  So I did.  Here is some of what I said: .

I am very sorry that you feel the way that you do and that our message on a "community" board to our neighbours hurt your feelings. I have a great many Muslim friends and acquaintances who regularly wish me Merry Christmas or Blessed Easter; and I feel that offering a similar greeting in return is the least that I can do as a courteous human being.   I am reminded of the many "regular" Muslims who gathered to protect church in Indonesia last Christmas when radicals were targeting them for vandalism... as well as countless more that I work with regularly,  feeding the hungry and clothing the naked.
It has never been my experience that peace has been found through ignorance or isolation and so I will always strive to move in the other direction - experience and inclusion - much like Jesus sitting, talking and eating with the Samaritan Woman at the well.  Samaritans and Jews were not much different in that time than Muslims and Christians today..  But you are in good company, as the disciples couldn't understand either why Jesus was taking time to talk to this woman, a sworn enemy of all that they stood for!
I will accept your views as informed, but please do not assume that I am ignorant or inexperienced....   (I bragged about my education here... it's an ego thing)
..... my biggest concern is that your faith in God is such that you think that God can be defeated by any kind of human action; that somehow, if we don't push Islam back, then the life and death of Jesus Christ will all be for not.  Surely that can't have been God's plan?  God is a little more dynamic than that and a much better planner... not one to fall victim to my whims or politics.

But, clearly we are far apart on my many things and not likely to agree  - so I wish you peace and the love of God.

Norm Seli

I could have been a little more harsh... but I wanted to at least leave the door open for discussion.  I didn’t go for the angry ex-girlfriend response... but I will confess to a little “Cary Grant” cheek.  I concluded my response with:

p.s. You should probably also know that we include Sikh's in our congregation; we perform same sex marriages and believe that the love of God is available to and evident in all people. 

And I meant it... 

Rambling about Riots and an Extreme Jesus

Just thinking out loud...

I do that

Often

Too often.

Like wondering what it would take to get some men to get pedicures before they wear sandals out in public... then, realizing that I’m thinking out loud and the man across from me (in sandals) is not amused.    Wondering if it’s possible for you to be more stupid... and then realizing that up until that point (when I started thinking out loud) I was offering you pastoral care

So, now I’m typing it.

Hoping that it will be quieter

  And that I’ll the chance to edit; re-edit; redact or simply erase  (none of which I’ll actually do...)

The rioting in England.

The rioting that many think could happen here.

The seemingly senseless destruction of property, or theft of things not truly needed.

If the looters were stealing food, I might have some sympathy... but not when they are stealing Hotspurs’ jerseys (although if you are going to steal... Tottenham is a fine team).

As a young man, I can remember being involved in vandalism.  Nothing very dramatic, some rocks through windows or a name spray painted in the part (NS <3 a variety of changing letters)., toilet-paper a car... or tree... or house...  But nothing more. 

So what’s different between most of my friends and me in our teens and the young people in London and environs?

I think that we were afraid to get caught.  Not afraid that we would be punished or go to jail.. but afraid that if we were caught, we risked out futures.  I can remember being invited to do something a little bigger; a little more risky than I’d ever done before and thinking , “But if I get caught... I won’t be able to be a lawyer..” (that was before I discovered that being a lawyer meant a bunch of years in school, lots of Latin and a thankless back-breaking internship... unlike Ministery...  wait a minute!).

I do clearly recall thinking that if I did this stupid thing, I would be risking my future... and my future was not something that I wanted to lose.

I suspect that many of these young rioters and looters, don’t have that feeling... in fact, they probably feel as is they have nothing to lose.

There is no place for them in the system.

They don’t matter.

They will never affect change.

They have little or nothing to which to look forward  (notice the snazzy grammar).

So, why not break a window and grab some runners and a Man U scarf?

There was a time that the church had something for these folks.

A time before we promised punishment for such sins.

A time before we promised “Pie in the sky when you  die” for those who had nothing in this life.

I’m thinking back to before Jesus became our Highschool Principal who would guide you and protect you from the bullies as long as you followed the rules.

I’m talking about the Jesus who put no investment in the system.

The Jesus who was counter-culture.

The one who said, “You’re right, you can’t trust the system; you can’t let the government decide for you... don’t let them tell you who’s good and who’s bad; and how you should treat the enemy..  resist them: Love your Enemy!  The “man” will tell you that if you work hard you will be blessed with money and success... God will tell you that the poor are blessed!”

These young people breaking windows and setting fires, have lost faith in the system and realize that if there is only the system, then they have no hope.  But Jesus lived a life of hope that was not in the system, but beyond it.  Jesus offered a faith, not in government or established authority, but in the power of people to affect and change each other (he called it “love”).

I wonder if we might be ready to risk - to starting preaching and sharing a counter-culture Jesus... not a Jesus who breaks windows and sets fires; but a Jesus who also rejects the status quo and the traditional authorities; who recognizes them as being bankrupt – but who does not give up hope, because hope is in God; hope is in this world as we dare to transform it with love.

I think that might be able to get Jesus out of that suit and suspenders and let him be Extreme, the way that he is in the Gospel.  I know we like our Jesus meek and mild, but he was more often extreme: Challenging people to throw the first stone (if they really believed that they had it all figured out and were above reproach); inviting people to live on the edge, willing to die so that they might truly live... and showing them, the all of this is meant to change the world...and in doing that, they would themselves be changed.  (kind of backward, I know... but that’s Jesus).

I know that I’m rambling... but I am longing for a faith that invites, empowers and assures me that I can change the world; that gives me hope for the future as it divests itself from the false promises of our televisions, retailers and governments.  I’m not saying I don’t like those things (hello, True Blood; good wine and a few politicians) – but I’m not investing my future and my hope in them.   I, like those looters and vandals, am ready for something more...  I just wish that we could find a way to share.

Just Horsing Around... (a touchy feely blog)

Pardon me while I wax horsey and poetic.

I first met Gary Convery  sometime in the mid 90s.   I was visiting Pleasure Valley, where Gary lived with about 60 horses, miles and miles of trails and an outdoor education and activity centre.  I was watching him with three horses in a round ring.  He just stood there in the middle as the horses ran around him, suddenly changing direction: clockwise; counter-clockwise; clockwise again..  I asked him, “Why do they keep changing direction like that?”

“I want them to...” was his enigmatic answer, shared with a smile that I would later come to recognize was the essence of this man. 

Gary truly was what you would call a “Horse Whisperer”.

Make no mistake, there was nothing “magic” about how he communicated with horses, but surely it was amazing.  That first day, when the horses seemed to almost dance around him, he appeared to be doing nothing – there was no gesticulating, whistling, calling, stomping... to my naive eye, it seemed that he must have been physically ordering them about...  

“Why do they keep changing direction like that?”

“I want them to...”

The want was significant.  I would learn that it was Gary’s very subtle body language that the horses were reading, a shift of weight, the flexing of some muscles...and the horses trusted Gary and wanted to do what he wanted to do, so they responded.

I would learn over the next 3 or 4 years that the gentlest and most subtle of gestures did more to communicate with a horse than any wild noisy powerful carrying on, ever would.

I would learn that horses can be coerced, but are better when invited.

I would learn how to let go of my aggression and predator nature in preparation for time with horses... a time of real companionship, working, exploring and delighting together with the horse.

I remember one night sitting in field with Gary among about 30 horses... most of them were lying down under the stairs... a few standing around the perimeter... and we sat together two men and many horses for probably an hour (although it felt like something between forever and a moment) and I experienced a peace that was so profound that it takes my breath away even now 15 years later.

I invited Gary to preach at my church on Sunday: To talk about his love and respect for horses, the way that he communicated with them, listened to them; spoke to them and how we could learn to do the same with human beings, too.  The people, especially the kids, were enthralled.  Gary would opine with me while out riding in the forest that horses were so Christ like... they were not like us and yet wanted to be with us; their nature as prey animals was completely at odds with our predator nature and yet they could teach us so much.  They live with us and then in the end, give up their lives for us and become food.    I thought that it was incomplete Christology.... but he was right about something: there is something deeply spiritual about horses.

I think, however, that the analogy is not with Christ as much as it is with the Holy Spirit.   The analogy is informative when I think of myself as the horse and the Spirit as the companion, rider or Gary.   Approaching me, the Spirit lets go of so much of the aggression that can associated with the Divine (Old Testament stories are to be left at the door upon entering....)  The Spirit is not like me, and yet bonds with me... leads me, not by coercion, but by subtle gesture (whisper, even) and invitation.

For my part, when I am aware of the Spirit and open to those subtle communications, I follow them and discover that I can do things beyond my perceived abilities and limitation; I adventure to places that I’d never have thought to go; see things that I’ve never seen before and experience a peace that I can only barely describe....

I discover in this Spirit, a respect and love for me and I often fail to have for myself...

I have found that every now and then, when I'm really attuned... I can change direction because the Spirit simply wants me to... and it's fun to dance with the Holy Spirit.

I appreciate that this is foolish rambling... and may not say anything to anybody... but when I think about my relationship to and with horses, I do recognize something about my relationship to the Holy Spirit and to God...  and I just felt like writing it down.

As should note that over time Gary and I drifted apart.  I got busy... a think we argued about something once and never got around to resolving it... and I wandered  away from him.  Gary had taught me that horses always travel in circles... you may have to stay put for a year, but eventually that horse will come back (unless he gets a better offer).  Well, I never got a better offer, but I wandered so far away that by the time I started to circle back, Gary was gone.  I ran into his daughter one day and discovered that Gary had died almost two years before...  So, I guess that I’ll have to make the best of all that he taught me; cherish that night in the pasture and the insights that he inspired.