The Summer of my Discontent

The ghost of Summer's Past has been creeping about the Price house these days. It was only a matter of time since killing off my former self (See my Eulogy from a couple weeks ago) before that restless spirit began to haunt me again. It is an awful feeling, restlessness. I don't feel comfortable in my own skin. I am anxious and irritable and distracted. I am daydreaming in that escapist kind of way that spends significant time thinking about things that just will not happen.

The thing that makes it difficult is that my dreams are "good." That is, I envision me doing great things--traveling to the two-thirds world, starting new ministries, pursuing new financial endeavors. But I know what is going on. I am self-medicating. I feasting on these good feelings about things I say I want to do, knowing full well that those things are not what God has called me to for this time and place. It is entertainment, and it is distracting me from the work at hand: actually becoming the person capable of doing good (forget great) things. Ah, the road to hell is truly paved with good intentions.

So how do we exorcise this spirit? Well, naming it is a start . . . but I think that I need to replace this escapism with something realistic, something useful and presently available to fill up my head space and give me a nearer vision of what I want to become.

Last week I started reading Peter Scazzero's new book, Emotionally Healthy Spirituality and got a couple chapters in before I realized I couldn't go any further. There was something in the first chapter that demanded my complete attention. Scazzero was talking about the fruit of the Spirit, and he used the list as it was found in Eugene Peterson's The Message. Scazzero asked a simple question: "Is this the way we are doing life?"

The conviction that has followed my answer has stopped me in my spiritual tracks. No. No, I am not doing life this way. But I want to. So this list has become my new dream, one that I hope becomes burned into my consciousness and infiltrates everything I do.

Can my new life look like this? . . .

affection for others

exuberance about life

serenity

a willingness to stick with things

a sense of compassion in the heart

a conviction that a basic holiness permeates things and people

involved in local commitments

not needing to force our way through life

able to marshal and direct our energies wisely


This is the kind of list that demands a lot more attention. Perhaps that is the direction my next few writings should take . . .

baby food

Liam is a just about 7 months old, so we are elbow deep in baby food these days. For those of you without kids, here is how things roll. Basically there are two things you are looking to accomplish by force feeding your infant colored goo. First, you space out new foods a couple days at a time, so you can look for food allergies. That way, if there is a reaction, you know which food caused it. Kind of Russian roulette for babies. The other thing you are doing is trying to convince your child that these foods, like pureed peas and carrots for instance, are tasty.

This, of course, is a lie. If you don't believe me, sit down and eat a jar of it yourself. Baby "experts" say a child may need to be exposed to a new food up to 13 times before they develop a taste for it. This is an exercise in frustration, 'cause ya can't really make someone eat baby food. You can stick it in there, but there is no way to keep it in there if they don't want it in there. So parents take solace in knowing that whether or not their child is getting any nourishment, at least they can check one box on the allergy/exposure requirements.

But I digress. What feeding my son got me thinking about was our senses. Here is a little person who, four months ago, only knew one taste--just one. Then that went to two tastes, breast milk & formula. Then a couple months ago we added cereal, first rice, then oatmeal. Then one more taste at a time ad infinitum. Forget the whole texture component for a second; what an amazing paradigm shift! To go from believing there was only one taste, to two, to four, to an infinite number of tastes. And to have such a limited sample to compare it to at first. I can imagine Liam in his high chair thinking, "well, this is different . . . it tastes like . . . nothing I have ever had before." When is the last time that you could say that? That you tasted something there was no reference point for (not even chicken!)

I wonder how much of my spiritual diet is baby food? What haven't I been exposed to that would add depth and texture and color and flavor to my life. Does my exposure to the feast that is the Kingdom of God begin with oatmeal and end with strained peas? I think of all of the expressions of the Kingdom from Creation itself, other cultures, other traditions, and individual people I encounter that I may have tried once and spit back out. I wonder if the only reason I didn't develop a taste for some of those things is that I lacked the discipline to try them 13 times? It took a while for me to swallow my own tradition, and I am just now starting to develop a craving for it.

It puts a whole new perspective on Jesus' command to "Eat my flesh and drink my blood." It's like his blood must be a fine Bordeaux and I am content drinking apple juice. The Kingdom of Jesus is so much more rich and complex and full of flavor than the watered down life I am settling for.

Liam was SO excited when he tried his banana's and mixed berries today. He was grabbing for the spoon and kicking his feet. So much joy over this new discovery! And all I could think was, "just wait till you try your first filet mignon, bud." I bet Jesus thinks the same thing about me.

Worship

I had chance to visit my friends at Greenhouse this Sunday and Josh Buck talked about worship. I have spent a lot of time thinking through my theology of worship and what place a corporate gathering has in the big picture. Josh grooved with a lot of what I have been working through, though he took it in a different direction I have been thinking.

Anyway, I have long said that the discussion on worship should start on what happens on Monday through Saturday. Sunday, I think I am coming to believe, has little to do with worship and everything to do with Sabbath. If worship is our act of love to God through our words, deeds, and lives every moment, then what happens on Sunday is about God's act of love to us through His Word, His Body, and His Spirit. Practicing Sabbath is how we are able to receive this love. Slow down, quiet our hearts and minds, listen, and re-orient ourselves to the Kingdom Way. At best, I think, our "worship" on Sunday is symbolic--a drama or artist's interpretation of what we prove we believe during the week. In that sense it is more for us than for God. It encourages the Body, it codifies our beliefs, it strengthens and convicts, it bears witness to the onlooker . . . Whatever it does, it should be obvious that it is more for our benefit than God's.

So I am taking all of this into Josh's sermon and one of his illustrations about our need for real worship was made with greeting cards. He read several cheese romantic cards and then one homemade card with a message from the heart and asked the women which one they would want to get from their men. Of course everyone wanted the homemade one. He said we should try to worship with that same creative, from the heart, "I made this myself" kind of love. I agreed, but when I thought about what would make my wife feel loved, I thought she would say, "the card is great but what I really want is help with the dishes, laundry, bathing the kids, a footrub, time spent paying attention to me . . ." And with Matt 25 and many of Jesus & Paul's words echoing in my head, I kept thinking Jesus would say the same thing when he listens to our songs: "thanks for the card, but what I really want is a footrub and help cleaning this place up" How do you give God a footrub? "Whatever you do to the least of these . . . "

Josh asked us to write God a card (I was supposed to put in a box, but I kept it so I could copy it down--sorry Josh), so this is what I wrote:

God,

I would hope that these words are simply symbols of my true worship to you--my actions, my time, my work, and my life. You don't need my words--I know that. But maybe I do. Maybe I need to hear myself say what I hope I believe--that I love you more than anything. Maybe these words I speak are one of your many gifts to me. Maybe it is you that is speaking through me and to me in the same moment.

Thank you for these moments of Sabbath, when I hear myself, when I hear from you, when I re-up my pledge . . . because that is really all this is. This moment alone means nothing if don't change what I do with my next hundred moments. So I pray that I have the courage to do it and the will to do it again and again. My hope remains that I will show you the love I have pledged for the rest of this day . . . and the next and the next and the next . . .