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I didn’t see it coming. Surrounded by Wyoming mountains and covid-free air, I closed my eyes and gave thanks. Little did I know a storm was on its way, a storm of my own making, I suppose, and I’m happy to write this having weathered it, but only barely.

You see, I have a disease. There are many names for it, but the one that fits best is what someone described as “the disease of more.” Built on the sand of my own insecurity, fueled by a wild and uncontrollable imagination, I’ve always lived a discontented life. Blessed with more than a person deserves, I’ve always looked to what lies beyond. Whether in a career that had wonderful chapters, relationships made up of remarkable people, or possessions stacked high above my rooftop, I’ve always moved from deep appreciation to longing for more with lightning speed. I’m embarrassed to admit it but need to for my own sake and for the sake of those who’ve found themselves locked in the same prison.

It wasn’t enough to bask in the beauty of the west; I wanted to have a beer (or many) to make the experience even more spectacular. It wasn’t enough to meet wonderful people; I had to compare their lives to mine which, of course, did not measure up (I thought). And it wasn’t enough to spend time with family; I had to think about those who were not with us.

Jesus said to consider the lilies of the field. I think he did so to remind us of the insidious disease of more which makes us anxious and feeling like we need to toil when all we have is all we need. He also spoke of our captivity ending. Flying home, I couldn’t help but hope that day would come to me, and everyone like me, one day. May it’ll come today.

Dark Churches

I grew up in a dark church. Although it instilled in me a life-long love of  sacred music and Gothic architecture, it’s theology was as pointed as the frames of the stained glass windows. It was a here/there church, where I was here and God was there, and life was a journey to reach God. Like a mountain, I was told to climb, and God would be waiting at the top. It was never said that way, but because there was clearly “a race set before me”, and because of my fallen nature I was “unworthy so much as to gather up the crumbs under the table,” my spiritual life became one of constant striving.

I’ve come to see what such a theological outlook has done to influence the rest of my life. I can see striving wherever I look – in every job and every relationship I’ve ever had. If I achieve this, people will admire my work. If I do this, he or she will like me. Even my life of recovery, which is supposed to be a life given, sometimes looks more like a duty assumed, another mountain to climb.

I write this in hopes that there are others out there who have grown up in similar churches, or have learned such an approach to life, and want to live life differently. I certainly do, but I have years of practice and will need to venture into this new approach one step at a time. 

God so loved the world, including me, that while we were still a complete mess God came and walked beside me. No longer am I here and God there, but we’re both here, side by side. As I list all the reasons why God should walk with someone more deserving, God turns and laughs. Nope, you can’t get rid of me that easy, God seems to say. You may want to use all your mistakes as a way to push me away, but it won’t work. I saw to it, once and for all.

Left without words, I feel God reach over and take my hand. I have no idea where we’re going, but it no longer really matters. I like where we are.

Pentecost 2021

“All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other tongues as the Spirit enabled them. . . Some, however, made fun of them and said, ‘They have had too much wine.’” Acts 2: 4, 13

“It took me giving up drinking to live an intoxicated life.” Anonymous

When was the last time you led an intoxicated life? I know, that’s an unusual question coming from someone who gave up drinking years ago, but it comes from the story of Pentecost when the Holy Spirit descend upon the early Christians and cause them to behave in ways that led onlookers to wonder if they were drunk. God’s spirit can do that to a person.  

Unfortunately, people strive to live lives that are anything but intoxicated. We strive to live measured, calculated lives and weigh the pros and cons, evaluate the risks, before proceeding. Nowhere is that more evident than in our spiritual lives.  We love God, but don’t get carried away. Serve the poor, but don’t go too far. Give, but not so much that we have to change our way of life. Value our faith, but never speak about it.

There are wonderful exceptions, of course. The couple who makes a gift beyond anything they had before. The person who leaves her lucrative job to follow her life-long passion to help victims of domestic abuse. The minister who implements a progressive ministry despite his congregation’s conservative leanings. The teenager who invites a less-popular girl to her sleep over. The woman who forgives when all her friends encourages her to hate. The school that uses its endowment to cut tuition in half. And then there are the folks who, out of nowhere, take up painting, writing poetry, sign up for dancing lessons, or audition for a musical. Intoxicated souls, one and all, and wonderfully so.

On this Pentecost, I wonder if it isn’t time to let the Holy Spirit descend, to let the God’s fire burn more brightly. Others might look on and wonder what’s gotten into us, question the changes they see and hear, but that only means we’ve joined the disciples from long ago, and that’s something to be celebrated.