mlbeck

2008-07-26T10:16:00.003-05:00

I moved: mlbeck.wordpress.com

author-ity

2008-05-15T08:16:00.009-05:00

"The people were amazed at his teaching, because he taught them as one who had authority, not as the teachers of the law" (Mark 1v22).

There was something peculiar about Jesus. Something different, something the people were not used to. Mark said the difference was authority.

Now the people had authorities. There was the oppressive rule of the Roman Empire. Caesar definitely had authority. The Jewish teachers of the Law claimed to have an authority on the Scriptures. They made a long list of rules to obey. But Jesus made his listeners rethink the word authority.

Let's rethink the word authority. Author-ity. The root wood of authority is author.

Who can interpret a book better, someone who has read it or the very person who wrote it?

The author.

Jesus taught not as if he had a grip on reality, as a good teacher might, but as the author of reality. And there is only one Author, one True authority on reality.

Moreover, Jesus is that reality, the very essence of existence. He is the stuff that "holds all things together" (Colossians 1:17). Jesus is the words of God. The spoken creation (Hebrews 2:10). He was there when it started (John 1). He is what was started (John 14:6).

Before Jesus came, all we had were the words of teachers of the law. The insufficient human language. All we could do was grasp for the Truth.

But the Truth took on skin. Reality walked with us. And some recognized His author-ity.

Do we see the difference? The peculiarity of Jesus' teaching?

Some say that this teaching, this Way, is still alive. That when you pick up the Bible and read the words of Jesus, you can actually hear the words of Jesus. The words come alive. Reality talks with us.

Priorities

2008-03-24T16:38:00.004-05:00

I wore the same pair of socks all week in Alaska in order to have room in my backpack for a french press. Me feet smelled, but I had good coffee.

story

2007-10-02T10:20:00.000-05:00

There is a character in every story that is rarely mentioned. I came to this conclusion while reading Tolkien last winter. I had a nagging feeling that there was something or someone moving the Hobbits along. Someone, it seemed to me, was watching out for Frodo and Sam, and this person was more involved than the Fellowship, even more than Gandalf.

The character in the story that I felt but could not identify was Tolkien himself. He was telling the Hobbits where to go. He was the one always rescuing them at the last moment.

This may sound ridiculously obvious to you. A story is a story because it is told. Stories are not random, but ordered. What happens, happens because the author said it was so. But, Anne Lammont has been telling me it is not that easy. Good writing she says, must give freedom to the characters. In her book Bird by Bird she talks about listening to the characters when she writes, as if they were strangers she just met. The goal then is to have coffee with them, to make them your friends by the end of the book.

So in a way, stories tell themselves. Sometimes the author has to pull the pencil away from the paper, though never dropping it, for a character left alone will always write a tragedy.

I agree with Donald Miller when he says, "The closest thing I can liken life to is a book." And also with G.K. Chesterton when he said, "If there is a story, there is a story-teller."

The connection between a story and the story-teller is obvious with M. Night Shyamalan. He makes an appearance in every one of his movies. This always annoyed me until I realized why. When M. Night directs and writes he cannot help but cast himself as a character because he is so emotionally involved in the story. If you love something you cannot leave it alone. I believe M. Night feels deeply connected to the characters, pursues them, and desires to give them glory in the end.

I believe we find ourselves in a story, a story in which the Story-teller has decided to play a part. This Story-teller has entered the story at times to save us, to keep us moving toward a glorious ending. And this brings me to only one conclusion: the Story-teller loves us, and will not leave us alone.

movement

2007-10-01T11:13:00.000-05:00

I heard a preacher say recently that life moves along on two legs: choice and destiny. I found this helpfully in explaining pain and confusion. My mind often feels like two legs tangled, tripping over each other.

gathering and disappearing

2007-09-26T08:08:00.000-05:00

Not to long ago I was in Portland, Oregon drinking coffee, staring over the top of a book held out in front of my face, pretending to be reading J.D. Salinger's 9 Stories, all the while watching people. This is what I saw:

A little girl slipped her tiny hand from her father's grasp and made for the coffee shop door, her blond hair spinning off the shoulders of her pink shirt, nearly brushing the now empty finger of the panicked man at the counter. He turned in mid-sentence, not finishing his order to see where his daughter had stolen away to. She was at the entrance, leaning into the door with all she was, creating an opening just big enough for her to squeeze through. Once outside she turned around and squished her face against the glass, her nose pushed into her cheek, one eye closed against the door. With a smile of mischief she looked, with one squinted eye, for her daddy's response. With a half grin and raised eyebrows, he tilted his face down and motioned with his finger for her to come back. She waited for moment, and I could see her breath on the glass, gathering and disappearing, gathering and disappearing like the tide of an ocean. She stayed there as long as she could, I think, until she could no longer stand it. Squeaking her hands down the glass she rushed back into the coffee shop, back to her father and flung her arms around his leg.

This is how it works, I think. This is how we love, by gathering and disappearing, then by gathering again and disappearing again. Like breathing, there is a rhythm to relationships. I'm finding the need to create space, to run out the door for a moment. But running out the door is hard because it requires being alone, and being alone is hard if you are not used to it. Dietrich Bonhoeffer was right when he said that there is a connection between community and solitude. He said we learn how to live in community by living in solitude, and we learn how to live in solitude by living in community. Inhaling. Exhaling. Stealing away and running back. Love is rhythm.

because they'll grow back

2007-07-30T23:03:00.000-05:00

she said its
not enough to keep
the weeds out
you
have to plant something
in their place

peace

2007-06-13T21:50:00.000-05:00

"They will beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks. Nation will not take up sword against nation, nor will they train for war anymore...the wolf will live with the lamb, the leopard will lie down with the goat, the calf and the lion and the yearling together; and a little child will lead them" (Hebrew prophets).

chuck taylors and miracles

2007-05-02T13:35:00.000-05:00

I love chuck taylors, you know, the classic canvis Converse all-star shoes bearing the name of 1920's basketball player that made them famous. I am collecting them because I am going to be an uncle, and good uncles wear obnoxious high-top sneakers.

Ever since my mom, in nothing short of happy hysteria, told me my sister was going to have a baby, and that she (my mother) was going to turn my dad's computer study into a baby room, I thought I should be prepared as well. So I asked myself, "what do uncles do?"

I thought about how my uncle John used to amaze me as a kid with his stunt paper-airplanes (I still remember how to make them). I thought about how my uncle Rich, who graciously gave me a job at his furniture store after college, let me take time off for road trips in order to postpone the being an adult thing for awhile, even though I occasionally dropped a night stand or put the wrong desk in someone's car. Growing up I was proud when people would talk about how my uncles Rich and Wes were on the volunteer rescue squad. And I thought my uncle Marty was so cool because he used to preach sermons in neon pink chuck taylors and was in a rock band that breathed fire on stage.

I have some pretty good uncles (and aunts for that matter). Aunt Cheryl was my favorite growing up because she worked at a toy store and got me sweet deals on ninja turtles and M.A.S.K. action figures (Anybody watch the Moblie Armored Strike Kommand animated tv show? It was better than G.I. Joe!). And no other kids my age, but me, had an Ewok (the short furry guys from Starwars) telephone.

She stopped selling toys to become a pastor's wife for thirteen years out in the middle of Indiana nowhere. I spent the last two of those years with Marty and Cheryl duct-tapping church kids to walls, raking nieghbors yards, and talking about the way of Jesus. I saw my aunt and uncle being a Eucharist, a "good gift" to the people of Bryant. And I saw the sacrifice it required.

I will not forget that everyone of my aunts and uncles sent me cash when I went to Sri Lanka to aid in the tsunami relief. And I hope I will remember the letters my grandma would share with me that she recieved from my uncle Wes when he went down to help in New Orleans as a medic, immediately after Katrina.

Some of my favorite memories are those of talking about politics and God with my aunt Nancy in Lubbock at the furniture store. And I knew the West was in my heart after I cried on the plane leaving New Mexico, lamenting the fact that I was going back to the MidWest after visiting my uncle John and aunt Tanya the summer after junior high.

This past winter I sat next to my dying grandfather and watched my Aunt Mel massage his swollen, stiff feet, while singing songs to him in his last weeks. Along with my uncle Pete, she is moving my widowed grandmother into thier home, because people are just not meant to live alone.

As my sister's belly grows and a life miraculously begins inside of her, I am looking to the lives of my amazing aunts and uncles, to see how I might make the life of that child good.

Those will be some big shoes to fill.

birthday cake

2007-04-25T14:55:00.000-05:00

Rochester's Spring awoke in a hurry, up out of its sleepy bed of winter, as if it had slept through its alarm clock and was late for work. Late it is, but no one is holding a grudge. This town comes alive when the sun comes out, and the snow melts. Everyone takes their table and chairs out onto sidewalks. Doors get propped open. Frisbees get thrown. Women run with two or three dogs on leashes, while pushing their babies. There is movement again, people learn to walk their stiff frozen legs again after a long winter. Everything is new.

I just finished reading Through Painted Deserts by Don Miller. I've read it many times, it just sort of falls off my book shelve when it knows it is time. It is my leaving book, the story that reminds why I move. I have two weeks left in Rochester.

I am not for sure what is next, but I am moving in the direction of Ohio. My sister will be having a baby soon and my best friend is getting married. I want to be around for that.

So here I find myself again saying goodbyes, saying what I need to say to those people I've come to love here in NY, things that I can only say in leaving. Moving reminds that nothing stays the same. It defines what matters and what does not. It shows me what will last.

Yesterday was Larry's birthday. Larry is a regular at Starbucks, I mean he practically lives there. We call him Seville and he takes out the trash for us and we give him free coffee and cream cheese danishes and let him use our phone to his "land lady". He's there everyday, all day. Anyway, all his friends, that are regulars too, bought him a cake and a card and threw him a surprise party at our coffee shop.

He was the happiest guy. And he always is.

While eating a piece of Larry's birthday cake I was reminded that life is about being a "regular" and having some friends that give you a cake and a card for your birthday. That's all, that's all Seville told me he needed on his fifty something birthday. "All I need is friends, Matt. That's it. That's all, you know."

books

2007-04-25T13:29:00.000-05:00

Here are few books I just read (or re-read) that I recommend:

The Catcher in the Rye (J.D. Salinger)
Orthodoxy (G.K. Chesterton)
Jonathan Livingston Seagull (Richard Bach)
Through Painted Deserts (Donald Miller)
Traveling Mercies (Anne Lamont)
Sex. God. (Rob Bell)
The Hobbit (J.R.R. Tolkien)
East of Eden (John Steinbeck)
A Brief History of Nearly Everything (Bill Bryson)
Life is So Good (George Lawson)
Velvet Elvis (Rob Bell)

This is my summer reading list:

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly (Jean-Dominique Bauby)
Every Man's Talmud (Abraham Cohen)
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance (Robert M. Pirsig)
Watership Down (Richard Adams)
Animal Farm (George Orwell)
Harry Potter (J.K. Rowling)
Church History in Plain Language (Bruce L. Shelley)
Bird by Bird (Anne Lamont)
Irresistible Revolution (Shane Claiborne)

Got any recommendations?

dear rob bell holdouts

2007-04-06T08:22:00.000-05:00

People (church people that is) have been talking about this guy named Rob Bell, some short films he has helped make (Nooma), a couple books he's written (Velvit Elvis and Sex. God.), and a church he founded in Grand Rapids (Mars Hill Bible Church).

So many church people have been talking about Rob Bell that some have called it cliche to quote him, show his movies in sunday school, or read his new book.

But I think, that anyone who is serious about doing church (or is just plain sick of church) should turn their attention to Grand Rapids.

Mars Hill Bible Church "exists for the benefit of its non-members." They sit down with thier mayor and ask how they can help make sure every kid in the city has food and shelter and how they can provide the poorest in Grand Rapids with a way to earn a living.

Although the mentioning of Rob Bell may be cliche, the creative, organic, and authentic expression of a Biblical spirituality that has invited many people to reconsider faith in Jesus after the failure of evangelical, coservative, George Bush Christianity, is anything but trite.

I think sometimes when something true is said and a lot of people listen, there is a group of holdouts (I admit, I've been one) who snobbishly discredit the truth by calling it trendy all because they did not say the truth thing themselves.

To me, this is the danger of a closed cannon Bible, that we do not have to take serious real life prophets or prophetic communites (prophet not in the sense of someone who foretells the future or communicates new truths, but prophet in the sense of someone who retells an intrinsic truth forgotten). I think that God still speaks today and that maybe our stories are just as authoritative as Abraham's and Paul's. You may disagree (as will most traditions of Christianity) , but I think people will be suprised by the Bible God reads in Heaven. I think He tells my story and your story up there, right alongside Moses' and King David's. Which, in fact, maybe being going on right now, in this thing we call life. We are a part of a God-inspired book.

I had secretly given up on church and gave my Bible to a local goodwill. Then I started listening to sermons from Mars Hill Bible Church on my ipod. I do not remember the specific teaching I heard one day while walking, but after listening I was nearly taken to my knees by the sound of unadulterated truth. Truth is freeing. Cliches are empty.

No, it was the cliches that failed me. Mars Hill, that brought me back.

the difference between writers and animal doctors

2007-04-05T22:46:00.000-05:00

I think the thing that makes writers differant from people who have normal jobs like aeronautical engineering and professional bass fishing, is that writers write things down. Because if you think about it, all of our lives are filled with moments worth writing about, we just don't put them down on paper. Then we forget, so we have to read books about other people's lives to remember our own.

turtle neighbors

2007-04-05T21:57:00.000-05:00

A couple weeks ago I was in southern Florida where the royal palms sometimes bend over highways to make natural tunnels. I was visiting my great aunt and uncle who live in a pole barn turned house surrounded by orange trees. This is the kind of place where you need not buy artificial scented orange cleaner. Simply crack the windows, allowing the sweet blooming aroma of valencia to float in.

After visiting their neighbor, an old turtle, I got a tour of Uncle Jim and Aunt Suzie's place and watched tv from thier spiral staircase. What I love the most about the home is the paneling on the walls and the paint spattered ladder they used for the loft guard rail. When I asked my relatives about the bohemian arcitecture, they said the walls where made of salvaged cabinet doors from ramshackle houses they tore down in West Virginia, which were replaced by new structures for those who had no place to stay. And it was for these projects that they used the paint splattered ladder if I remember right.

I thought this beautiful because everyone should have place to call thier own. And if possibe, it should be a house built with recycled materials, and a home made of memories.

talking

2007-03-09T14:59:00.000-06:00

There's a pretty girl speaking sign language to a deaf boy and I can't help but eavesdrop. I have no idea what she is saying, but it is beautiful. I think words were meant to be danced, articulated not just with lips and tongues but with arms and faces as well. Like conducting an orchestra. Like directing traffic or beat-boxing.

When I talk it does not feel like dancing. I feel clumsy when I speak. I would rather write. I can take my time. It is easier to erase written words than spoken words.

I think we all have a way of talking. Everyone is trying to translate their thoughts into language. That is what art is. That is what music is. People talking. In fact, everything we do is communication in a way.

But sometimes, it seems, that I just can't find a way to say what is inside. Have you ever tried to speak but could only pronounce silence? Utter nothingness?

My grandfather was ill suddenly and I was far away. I had been far away for sometime, I regret. Being away, however, had made me realize how lucky I was. I just starting to realize that. To comprehend what it meant to be a grandson. To discover that there were generations in my very DNA. That I am, in part, made of other people. I am the blood of my father. I am the blood of my grandfather and so on. Then to realize that there were not only other people in me but good people, that made me proud.

That's sort of what I wanted to say to my grandpa when I sat beside his bed in the hospital, but I didn't know how. I was stuck. I could not yet articulate it.

I was trying and one morning in Rochester I was thinking about writing a letter to my grandpa, walking down Monroe Avenue scribbling out phrases in my mind, wadding up thought after thought. Nothing seemed to say it right. So I called my mom for inspiration…

The timing and irony of my phone call was amazing horrific. I barely got out, "Hey Mother-deary!" when I was bombarded by tears and screams. My mom's words were hysterical and mangled, but the message was clear: "Grandpa is dying." Within minutes I was in my truck headed West on I90. Six hours separated me from the hospital. I was only to Buffalo when his heart stopped beating. When his blood stopped pumping.

Hearing about the death of a loved one is "like walking up the stairs to your bedroom in the dark, and thinking there is one more stair than there is. Your foot falls down, through the air, and there is a sickly moment of dark surprise."*

Nothing hurts like an unwritten letter. Like words unspoken. Regret is the hardest pain because regret is a lesson learned too late.

It has taken time to be ok with this. To be able to journal this. Because I should have at least tried. Words don't have to dance…dance well, that is. Sometimes they do, but more often they are clumsy. I should have flapped my arms in the air, spat out some words with my tongue tied in a knot and said something, anything. Because dying men needed to know that there life was worth something, anything.

I know my grandfather believed this. That his life was worth something. He even said so. And I heard other people tell him. But I wish I could have added my part. I wish I would have written my letter. But I was slow, I was too slow. And I missed my chance.

We are all dying, in a way, moving toward our inevitable death. And what makes us feel alive are other people who are glad that we are around. We need each others words. They make our hearts beat. So speak. Say anything. Make the phone call. Write the letter. Your chance is right now.

*Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events.

cover letter

2007-02-23T09:19:00.000-06:00

I am delightfully haunted by a place called I Woo and often find myself telling stories about this magical land, stories with wonderfully named characters like Riske and Umfundisi. Now there are some that say college is not real, but as I describe it: a short period of make-believe. They insist that those who pretend it to be anything else will be in for an awful awakening in “the real world.”

I have lived in this real world for two years now and have met the people that make these terrible assertions and have come to believe that they are in fact the silly ones, the ones who are pretending. Where on earth did they get the unbelievable idea that church was supposed to be dull and that you are not suppose to know the people in your pew? Or the idea that you are to stop learning when you are older (unless of course some more education would get you a promotion)? I see it as make-believe to think, as they do, that in real life you must own your own of everything. And that at a certain age adventure is only a memory. Or that answers are more important than questions. Doctrines more important than conversations.

The truth is that the most magical place is the most real place. God is not ordinary, but extraordinary. Can the world He created be anything else? Two years later, I still believe in Indiana Wesleyan. It is not a fairytale, but the most real place in which I have lived, a standard in which I seek to emulate in the neighborhood I find myself now. “Take it with you,” Dr. Judy Huffman told me, speaking of the community I told her I would miss.

When I dream about the possibilities of church, I see a place like Hodson Hall with its nakedly honest community. When I am feeling dull, I know that buying stuff will not make me feel new. Learning and wonder make life new. This I learned from a fiery bearded man some call Stonehouse who had a sleeping bag for a bed and a bulky dictionary under his arm. The adventurer JMak taught me the beautiful nature of mystery, which is not simply a temporary feeling (a truth not yet revealed), but a part of reality (a truth unexplainable). He says has a “box” for mystery in his life, a part of his mind to hold those truths too incredible for understanding. Moreover, there are echoes from I Woo that bounce at me unexpectedly from time to time and I often hear God in the voices of those I knew at Indiana Wesleyan University. “God is after you,” I hear. “Follow your heart,” I am told. “Be here now,” nudges me.

magic

2007-01-29T19:17:00.000-06:00

"The grass seemed signalling to me with all its fingers at once; the crowded stars seemed bent upon being understood. The sun would make me see him if he rose a thousand times. The recurrences of the universe rose to the maddening rhythm of an incantation, and I began to see an idea...A child kicks his legs rhythmically through excess, not absence, of life. Because children have abounding vitallity, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, 'Do it again'; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, 'Do it again' to the sun; and every evening, 'Do it again' to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daises alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them...In short, I had always believed that the world involved magic: but now I thought perhaps it involved a magician. And this pointed a profound emotion always present and sub-conscious; that this world of ours has some purpose; and if there is a purpose, there is a person. I had always felt life first as a story; and if there is a story there is a story-teller" (G.K. Chesterton, Orthodoxy).

marshmellows in hot chocolate

2006-12-01T20:48:00.000-06:00

December blew in today to make the last few leaves of autumn spin around in circles. Just in time. For the last few days of November had seemed like August. Its funny how things change so fast here in Rochester, by the big lake with its stange winds.

A few weeks ago it rained for days and driving was like being on a boat. Streets were rivers and intersections were rapids. I grew sea sick of soggy socks and wondered if I had in fact moved to the city of Seatle, not Rochester. Then one afternoon the the clouds disappeared like marshmellows in hot chocolate and the sun shown as if for the first time. It all happened so quickly. For days the city had been like an untouched coloring book and I had walked in its pages of black and white, feeling grey. When suddenly a few strokes of orangish red appeared in the space above me. Then pink. Then blue. A blue I had never seen, or more likely, forgetten. Other hues appeared and as I looked all around me, I blinked my eyes in wonder as the blank spaces where given meaning. Puddles became mirrors reflecting greens, blues, browns, and yellows. Buildings seemed to shine and people, glow, as they flooded the streets to watch the sky being colored, to watch God play with his crayons.

It was a moment of creation, or recreation. Things that had not been, became.

Winter is coming and this year I want to think of it's grey as God outlining a new page of his coloring book, his story that we are in, so as to dazzle us with colors in spring, to recreate earth again so we don't forget that He made this place and us.

"And us." This is easy for me to forget. My life for a moment has appeared to be a blank page. I've been wondering at its meaning, struggling with its greatness (as I mentioned before). This is my winter season and for reasons only the snow maker knows, I need it. And I accept it for that reason. And in the mean time, while I wait for spring, I am warmed with the colors of others.

arguing with greatness

2006-11-16T14:23:00.000-06:00

"From glory to glory." That's somewhere in the Bible or in a hymn or something, right? I'm not sure what it really means, but I know what I want it to mean. I want it to mean that we are made of the same stuff God is. I believe that when God turned the stars on and filled the oceans, he also made us, and in us, he put a little bit of Himself in. His glory that is. So that when we communicate (God and us), we communicate from Glory to glory (or glory to Glory).

I know that His glory is in me. I know it is, because sometimes it shines out. I've seen it in other people too. But recently I have hidden it. I'm still trying to figure out why, but an idea I found in John Steinbeck's "East of Eden" is helping me understand it. In the story a father desribes his son as "arguing with greatness". He sees in his son "a drive and fear, an advance and a retreat."

I am retreating... I avoid conversations. I don't return my friends phone calls. I've traded running, reading, and writing for video games. I've neglected my family and forgotten my goals. Why? I don't want to be great. I don't want the responsiblity, the pressure. I'm afraid. Afraid that maybe there isn't enough glory in me, that its all too big for me.

So I hide, close my eyes, and ignore all that I love. It doesn't make any sense. I'm made of glorious stuff. We are all made of it. So why do I argue with it? Why am I afraid? I don't know.

"There’s a fire burning inside me, makes the lame walk and the blind to see. Here I am wandering on what I should be. The old earth, the moon, the sun; some wings to rise the dawn" (Stephen Delopoulos).

tastes like burnt popcorn

2006-09-09T12:12:00.000-05:00

Starbucks has introduced me to the world of coffee tasting. I'm new to it, but I am learning. They say you don't drink coffee just for the caffeine. A that it's ok just the way it is, that you don't need cream and ten packs of raw sugar. They also say that some coffees actually taste different from others. A diversity of aroma, acidity, body, and flavor.

The first step in coffee tasting is fun, yet silly to observers. Smell your coffee. It's a good idea to swirl your cup a little, to aerate the coffee, releasing the wonderful nose candy. I'm not sure if this really helps, but it makes you feel like your drinking wine. After you sniff your joe, slurp it. They say slurp so you splash your tongue, sprinkling all of your taste buds. I say slurp so you don't burn your tongue. A swollen tongue can dramatically alter your coffee tasting experience. Most of your descriptions will be "smoky and a little spicy". Plus you won't taste anything the rest of the week. The last two steps include locating the concentration of flavor on your tongue and then describing the taste.

They give you some helpful terms to describe the taste. Nice words like, "Intense, elegant, clean, caramelly." I translated a few… "Earthy"…tastes like dirt. "Herbal"…tastes like wet grass. "Smoky"…tastes like burnt popcorn.

They also offer a few hints in helping you realize the variety flavor. One is food pairing. Often a pastry can brighten a coffee's unique taste. A cinnamon role can bring out the spice in Sumatra. I just think it's a good idea because cinnamon roles taste good, so good that you forget the dirt taste of coffee.

Sometimes, they say, it can be helpful to compare two blends of coffee together in order to taste the differences. Makes sense to me, worse coffee makes bad coffee seem good.

I have to admit, I'm a little cynical, but also equally interesting, in coffee tasting. Sometimes I wonder if I'm really getting it or if my imagination is just getting better. Either way, this experience has caused me to wonder…

If drinking coffee slowly and analytically can make dirt taste good, or at least interesting, than how would sweeter and more fulfilling foods taste if I really tasted them deeply? Anyone up for a chocolate milkshake tasting? A shrimp tasting? A pizza tasting?

Or even more importantly, what if I tasted life like I do coffee? I think coffee tasting is a metaphor for life, and it's not just the cup that you are given that decides the flavor, it's the way you drink it as well.

Slow down. Take pictures. Journal. Tell stories. Find the beauty in your situation. See the good in people. "...live deep and suck out all the marrow of life" (Thoreau, Walden).

goodbyes are not for good

2006-09-07T22:22:00.000-05:00

I wore my favorite hat Monday. My star hat. Its kaki cloth is pealing off the white plastic bill from almost ten years of wear and a few too many washings. I don’t wear it much because it’s endangered. But this was a special day. I was going to Mayberry (where they taped the Andy Griffin show) with the Dumont’s.

I’ve only known Tim and Angela Dumont since January, but it seems like years. They are the kind of friends that feel like family, because they are a family that knows no stranger. As a stranger they invited me into their humble, rented home*, served me homemade Chinese food from heaven, listened to my story (and told their own), and trusted me with their kids.

Tim and Ange have three kids. They are on a family planning system modeled after rabbits so they eventually will own their own school bus (just kidding dude). They home school too and I love them for that. Noah, Amber, and Claire are my three favorite people in North Carolina. While we walked the streets of Mayberry, we called the crosswalk stop signals, “high-five signs” and slapped each others hands until it was time to cross the street. Later that night, after we shared my last meal in NC (we made my mom’s famous “frito pie” and watched Mary Poppins), we played ring around the roses. Then I spun them in circles, one at a time, until I fell over dizzy or until one of them was hit by their spinning sibling’s foot. After one of them would cry or I regained consciousness, we’d do it again. At bedtime I read them The Potty Book, an inspiring and well illustrated book about going “wee-wee” and “poo-poo”. Recommend it.

Then they gave me hugs.
Then Tim and Angela and I took turns telling each other why we would miss each other (a good habit even when one is not saying goodbye).
Then they gave me hugs.
Then the kids gave me more hugs.

It’s good to wear a hat when you say goodbye. Incase you cry, that is.

I pulled my star hat down over my face because my heart was overflowing, leaking love out my eyes.

Amber kept giving me hugs and saying goodbye. I could feel her tiny little beating heart against my chest. She told me, “I’m gonna miss you this much”, extending her arms almost as far as they could reach.

This is the love I drove away waving at, wondering, “Why am I doing this?”

But goodbyes are not for good. And missing something means you have something worth missing. Maybe I’ll move back to NC someday, maybe not. I know I will write, visit, and never forget, the crazy and amazing Dumonts. They were to me grace. They are to me family.

*Tim and Ange have little, but so much...in a place where many have so much more, but far less. They have shown me that it is better to give, than to receive. What they have they’ve shared with me. I’m am greatly indebted.

i heart new york

2006-09-07T21:38:00.000-05:00

I'm moving to Rochester, New York. Heard it snows alot so I'm growing a beard.

making music (national cheesecake day)

2006-09-07T13:55:00.000-05:00

Last Sunday night a band called "The Format" was playing in downtown Greensburo. Some friends and I went to the show, well, at least to the door anyway. But we never saw the stage and never sang along to the one song we knew. The place was sold out, so we walked away from Green Street dejected, upstream against the rush of eager faces and hands full of tickets.

I remember Brittany saying, "Let's not be disappointed." But we all were, and no one had any ideas. There was awkwardness and regret. Momentarily optimistic I blurted, "We should make our own music tonight". But no one had any instruments.

After a few more failed attempts at finding something to do we ended up at Tait Street Coffee were we had peach cheezecake, because after all it was National Cheezecake Day. Seriously. Then we talked...about hurt, change, and the future. We looked at art. Met a few new people. It was turning out to be an ok night. After we got tired of sitting we went for a walk through the campus of a nearby university.

We came across some "itchy" trees that seemed to be shedding all their bark. Their falling skin was like natural paper so we started peeling it off. I like to think we were scratching thier backs. We all kept some bark to later write on.

Though we were wandering with seemingly no purpose, we were beginning to feel strangely comfortable with each other, our silence, and lack of plan. It was good just to be together. I had forget about the concert, so much so I didn't realize I had forgotten it.

I layed down on a bench next to the itchy trees and wondered if any homeless person ever slept there. I wondered what it would be like to sleep there. I closed my eyes to try to imagine. Just then I heard a sound from all directions like the turning on of hundreds of televisions...or the turning on of a sprinkler system on a hot humid night in North Carolina!

Though none of us knew what to do all evening, suddenly we all new what had to be done in that moment. We ran. We danced. We "made music" on the lawn until we were soaked with it.

There are few things worse than the feeling you get standing outside a building, empy-handed, on a street filled with music, staring at a scribbled piece of scrapp paper taped in a window with the words "Sold Out" written on it.

But it is ture also, that there are few things as beautiful as discovering the "music" inside yourself and others.

This is the gift of spontinaity. The opportunity in plans foiled. Creativity is your personality singing, a song too often unsung.

Some of my favorite memories are plan B's. It is in those moments I am forced to find out what is really inside of me. It is then that I have seen how beatiful my friends can be. That's that kinda stuff that can't be sold out. That's the kinda of music that requires only the instruments of our hearts.

2006-05-07T11:48:00.000-05:00

Thankyou for choosing Starbucks. This is Matt, how can I help you?

nothing but skibbies

2006-04-24T19:34:00.000-05:00

I'm sitting here a the parking lot checking my e-mail. It's free here and selling latte's part-time doesn't pay for cable internet. My housemate Andrew and I do this on occasion. Sit in my truck with his labtop enjoying Panera Bread's wifi signal without the disgustingly healthy smell of gourmet bagels and over priced soup. It works...but it only happens once a month. So this is me apologizing for not e-mailing you, posting pictures of me repeling off a forty foot rock face on the top a Applacian mountain, or dersciping to you how exihilirating it is to jump in a creek (specifically one called Wilson's Creek just outside of the sweet college mountain town of Boone, NC) in nothing but your skibbies. Sorry. I'm trying to get a second job so I can do better. Much to say later (I hope)...Matt

...realize life while you live it, every, every minute" (from some play call Our Town).

grass stains

2006-01-19T15:02:00.000-06:00

I'm in Kernersville, North Carolina having a good time.

Though, I gotta be honest, the grass isn’t greener here. I mean it is, but it isn’t. There was no grass in Lubbock, and a lot less that is green in Ohio, but I miss Texas and I miss home. And I think that a good thing, not bad, for missing something means it is worth missing.

But the thing I’m learning is this…it’s not about the grass (or the lack there of). At least not in the way I used to see it. And by grass I mean this perfect place where we think we ought to be and usually don’t feel like we are at.

There is something everywhere. It may be the grass here or sky somewhere else. Literally and figuratively. There is no better stage for lightning shows, nor greater canvas to set the sun than the big blue sky of Texas (at least in my small but growing world). The air tastes better in Colorado. I’m not sure why, but it must have to do with mountains. And I don’t care what people say about Ohio, I can’t imagine a good Christmas without having to shovel the drive. The truth is, there is something “greener” about every place…and also every people. That’s what I mean about grass figuratively.

There is something magic about the staff I worked with my senior year at IWU and my times with Levi. I’ve never been a part of community that sweet. And may never be again be. But that’s ok, because “that it will never come again is what makes it so sweet” (Emily Dickinson). There isn’t a better friend than Nick. If the Lord of the Rings were my adventure and I were Frodo, he would be my Sam. And Cooper. I laugh so hard with that dude...till my head hurts. I miss going to the drive-in almost every weekend with my fam in Texas. I could go for speed Scrabble with anyone right now, but with Mom and Dad if I could choose. Especially when my mother makes the case that words like “baggirl” are really in the dictionary.

Really, I could go on for days. I feel very rich with people right now. My grass is green. And I pray that someday God lets me write books, not because I necessarily think I have a lot to say that already hasn’t been said, but because I love it and most of all want to write words in my books, just a few pages in like: “To my sister Minde, who’s courage and joy inspired this story”. Part of me longs to have a stage, longs to be famous, not for the sake of being famous, but so I may give a speech to thank all the people who have made my life worth living.

And to thank the one behind it all. To God, the Maker of grass and mountains, and the One behind every thing and person “greener”. His glory is everywhere. That is, I mean, his beauty, laughter, goodness, love—all the things that make life sweet.

Think about your yard. Is it green?

I hope you see that it is, just a shade of it at least. And if you do see that it is, I hope that your cloths are stained with its cooler.

Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy...

2005-12-21T17:55:00.000-06:00

I made everyone an ornament. Just print, cut, and hang. Merry Christmas!

a little church with big love

2005-12-13T23:34:00.000-06:00

I used to be "youth pastor" at a little church in Bryant, Indiana. A small church with big love out in the middle of the middle of nowhere on some road marked 650. My favorite road in the fall. There is a quarter mile section where the trees hold hands across the street, stretching their limbs to create a tunnel of browns, yellows, and oranges.

Go down the road a few miles over a stomach dropping hill and around a few Amish buggies and you’ll see it, a little white church, slightly smaller than the size of an old farm house, with a gravel parking lot, an old bell, and small yard with two wooden crosses (the third fell down a couple years ago).

It’s the kind of church that fights to keep its doors open and heater running (in fact this past Sunday while I was there they had a vote to keep it open or shut it down), but always seems to make it, whether the toilet flushes every Sunday or not. And it survives because of its people. They are stubborn, a little for tradition and familiarity, but mostly for what they believe that building can give, for what that building has given them.

The people that love best are the ones that have to fight for it.

And their biggest fight may be the one to give in and shut the doors. They are preparing for that, while hoping they don’t have to, but realizing that no matter what happens, Sardinia Missionary Church is bigger than a building.

It was good to be back for church this past Sunday, good see the old youth room in the basement still with aluminum foil walls (it fit the budget and was kind of a joke with the church name, designed to look like a sardine can), good to make music with the Frey's, and good to talk to the Horns.

But it was very good to throw snowballs at Tom and Colton. Cameron, Zach, and I tried to take their fort in a game of capture the flag in the snow after church. We played for hours. My New Balances were soaked along with my four pairs of socks long before Sidney joined us and we decided to go sledding. Because of that, my nose is sniffling as I write the post. But I don’t care, because only people who live life get sick. I lived a lot this last week and for that I welcome a little cold.

After the snow games me and my friends (I almost wrote "kids that used to be in my youth group", but that seemed so impersonal and insufficient. They are more than that. Why does the church put such dumb labels on people? I refuse to be a "youth pastor" and don’t want a "youth group". I want to be a friend. I want bothers and sisters. The church is family not some business or organization that categorizes people...) we went to the Ritz, an old two screen movie theater where you can get a ticket, coke, bag of popcorn, and a candy bar for well under ten bucks. There we saw The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, which I’d pay the fortune it costs at a cinema to it see again.

The next day I went to Jay County High School and had lunch with Cameron, Tom, Zack, Colton, Matt, and Carrie. I miss pizza boats and chocolate milk in a tiny carton. Between the office sign-in sheet and the cafeteria I managed to get yelled at by two teachers (some things never change). Once for not wearing the big red visitor’s name tag they gave me (the lady in the office never said I had to wear the thing) and once for wearing a hat.

I am rich.

2005-12-12T21:39:00.001-06:00

I am rich.

This is my realization after spending a week at Indiana Wesleyan and a couple days in Bryant, Indiana, after six months in Texas, a few days in Colorado and Michigan, and after being home for the holidays. I am rich with life and love, with family and friendship.

I've never felt so content with what I have. I have so much. I don't know how to describe that feeling. I don't know how to tell you why. I just know. I just know that I am rich, rich with the important stuff.

I'm going to try to put this into words, to tell you what I have, maybe reminding you of the same. It'll take a few posts...but I promise I'll get back to where I was at in that Colorado story...

A Little Bit Later Than A Little Over Almost a Month A Go: Part 1

2005-12-06T13:25:00.000-06:00

My feet are cold, and have been cold since I left Texas and crossed the New Mexican border to Colorado.

Everyone in New Mexico warned me that Colorado was cold. New Mexicans shiver at the mention of the state. New Mexicans shiver when its sixty degrees. I shivered in Colorado, but the people there didn’t. They didn’t even seem to notice that it was cold. They still wore their big coats and scarvess, but seemed to enjoy them.

On my first morning (well I guess, only morning) at Colorado Springs I sat in the corner of Starbucks huddled over my peppermint mocha, holding my hands over the trickle of steam coming from its lid, pretending it was a small fire. I was trying to warm up after a night of sleeping in my truck in a Wal-Mart parking lot. I know there are many people who don’t like this store, for the effects it has had on small businesses and for its treatment of employees, but if there is one good thing about Wall-Mart, it is that they welcome campers, even protect the drivers of Semi’s, motor homes, and vehicles that park and sleep in there parking spaces. This particular one had 24 hour security—an old man in truck who drove up and down the rows—assuring safety for those spending the night. The cold kept me awake most of the night and when it didn’t, the flashing yellow light of the nice security grandpa did. So as soon as the sun rose I wiggled out of my sleeping bag and headed to Starbucks.

The Starbucks in Colorado Springs has an amazing view out of its storefront windows. Through the foggy condensation you can see Pikes Peak. I had to duck my head down just a little to see the top, which had snow on it at this time of the year (maybe it always does, I'm not sure). It was beautiful, but made my feet cold.

I watched, from my pretend fire, the mountain, every few moments glancing at the customers. There was one lady in particular that caught my attention. There was something very attractive about her, not necessarily physically, but just one of those people you see and for some strange intuitive reason, really like. It’s almost as if you think they have some secret about life and so you watch and hope to notice it. She was reading a newspaper, which she offered to me after she was finished, and commented on how nice the day was. I agreed, but said nothing else because I’m not very good at small talk, and she left. Once outside the door she stopped, threw her scarf around her neck, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.

People breathe differently in Colorado. They seem to be more aware of air and thankful for it. Probably because of the altitude. Or maybe it’s just the cold, sneaking up the backs of their shirts like stethoscopes, that causes them to take deep breaths as they walk out doors.

I dunno, but I wonder if that lady did know a secret. I wonder how my day would be different if when I walked out the door, I chose to stop and fill my lungs with a big taste of oxygen.

The End is Near

2005-12-01T22:13:00.000-06:00

Almost a month ago I left Lubbock. A little over almost a month ago I returned to West Texas, saw Chicken Little at the drive-in, spent the night at my grandma’s, and then left again. It was a good time, but kinda weird saying goodbye twice. I guess that encores are for rock shows not real life.

Since the first time and second time I left Texas, a lot has happened. Including being told by a cop to put my hands were he can see them and being informed by some guy named Mike that it was the end of the world and that pretty soon all the Christians would be moving to the mountains of Colorado, specifically the Colorado Springs area, because it says so somewhere in the Bible.

I’ve got a lot of stories and pictures to share, but I’ve not slowed down long enough to write or empty my memory card. But I need to, otherwise I’ll forget stuff and will have to start deleting pictures off my camera to make room for new ones. Just give me a couple days...

"L" is for Lubbock

2005-10-30T15:55:00.000-06:00

I went to the Lubbock Cotton Kings hockey game wearing blue paint with a guy in a Jason mask (see picture below) and some white dude who doesn't dance his color (see picture below). We made the news, on two channels. I'll tell you about it later. I'm going outside to play football.

2005-10-30T15:48:00.000-06:00

Cotton Fro's

we can do no great things, just small things with great love

2005-10-10T20:00:00.000-05:00

I'm rewriting this last post because my abiguity has lead my father to believe I'm joining a free love, pot smoking, hippie commune and has caused my mother to do research on current cults in North America (ok I'm exaggerating, but the first thing my concerned mom said when I called her last night was, "Let me pass the phone to Dad, he wants to talk to you about your blog...").

Previously on Matt's blog...I wrote about The Simple Way, "a radical faith community that lives among and serves the homeless of Kensington, North Philadelpia". Something I ran across a couple days ago in an article by Christianity Today Magazine while at Mardel's, a mega-Christian bookstore in Lubbock that I normally avoid (I find a bigger, more beautiful and loving God in Barnes and Noble...and they have Starbucks).

I offered it as an alternative to the gospel "taught" by a lady in the Bible Translations section that day...While pretenting to read C.S. Lewis' The Magician's Nephew I overheard her explaining to a group of people why the KJV is the only inspired Word of God..."The King James is the only translation that captures the true name of God...Yahvey (emphesizing the "v"). All the other translations use Yahweh, which is inaccurate... Revelations (something or other...can't remember the chapter and verse she took out of context) states that the Word of God is the name of God and if you don't have the name of God right, you don't have the Word of God right" and "Actually, (she started to wisper, I leaned closer discreetly turning pages in my book) Satan is in the other translations...this is His doing".

Everything in me wanted to throw my book at her, point my finger in her face, and scream at the top my lungs for every one in the store to hear, "No, you are frickin' Satan! And there is a special seat in Hell where you can read your poop of a translation King James Bible for all eternity." But I calmly walked away...my outburst would have only provided her more opportunity to lie. While fleeing from this King James fanatic, I found myself on the other side of the store, reading about a differant kind of radical, one closer to the likes of the name they both bear...Christ-ian.

Shane Claiborne (one of the six original people who started The Simple Way community) found himself as an "ordinary radical alienated from secular activism and disenchanted with Christian inactivism." He began a search to find a Christian...someone who was asking the same question he was..."What if Jesus meant the stuff he said?"...someone who was taking Him at His word. His "Christian-hunt" took him to Mother Teresa and the Missions of Charity in Calcutta and to Gandhiji Prem Nivas, a community of lepers in India. Reflecting on his journey, Shane says:

"I had gone to search for Christianity, hoping to find an old nun who believed Jesus meant what he said. And I found Christianity, but it didn't just belong to Mother Teresa...I did indeed see Christ in Mother Teresa, but I also found Christ in the lepers, the children, the destitute, the workers...and even began to recognize that Christ lives in me."

Dad, Mom...Despite a slight curiosity,I'm not looking to smoke weed...or to live on the streets and leave you with all my college debt. I just want to believe that Jesus meant what he said. I just want to find Him. And begin to recognize that He lives in me.

If anyone else is feeling this way too and has a day or two or seven free in December, let me know. I want to visit The Simple Way. You can read about it here...http://www.thesimpleway.org/. Let me know ASAP if you want to go. They like a week notice for visitors.

And if you want the article I found at Mardel's. Click on this: www.christianitytoday.com/ct/2005/009/16.38.html

"We can do no great things, just small things with great love. It is not how much you do, but how much love you put into doing it" (Mother Teresa).

Two Weeks Notice

2005-10-07T23:36:00.000-05:00

I rolled out of bed about 3:54AM this morning to the alarm of a mariachi band. I’ve found that 106.5 “something in Spanish” is the only radio station that will wake me up at such a God-awful, painfully unnatural time, where there is “weeping and gnashing of teeth.” Twice I’ve turned the music off, rolled over, and continued my dream about conveyer belts, cardboard boxes, and labels. Once my grandmother woke me up and handed me the phone. It was Paula, my supervisor from UPS “reminding” me that I was supposed to be at work. That’s one of the perks of the job…if you “accidentally” sleep in, they’ll give you a wakeup call.

Today I broke routine. After my strawberry pop tarts and milk, I put on four shirts instead of one, two pairs of pants instead of one, and grabbed my gloves. It was about forty degrees this morning…that’s winter cold here and in this weather Texans chatter their teeth and wear big coats and stocking hats. I had forgotten what cold was and as I turned right off of Kirby Avenue toward the East side of town I made a circle with my lips like I was puffing a cigar, trying to see my breath. The street lamps illuminated patches of the cotton fields, now in full bloom and bright white. My eyes were not awake yet, trying to blink away the sleep, casting a mirage of fluffy snow off the side of the road. I pulled my hooded sweatshirt over my head. I was cold, but it felt good. And I enjoyed pretending the cotton was snow and believing it was as cold as the West Texans looked.

I’m looking forward to Christmas in Ohio…and sleeping like normal people.

I put my two weeks notice in at UPS Tuesday and at the Furniture Connection Wednesday. I’m leaving Lubbock. I have to.

Two very alive people, Anthony Riske and Kristen Miller, came through Lubbock last weekend on a road trip. We went to Graham Central Station where I embarrassed myself trying to learn to “country western dance”. Some guy named Tommy taught us the basics, but I just shuffled my feet around, smiled like I was drunk, and tried not to bump into anyone. Tommy was the man by the way, swinging girls around effortlessly like he was spinning pizza dough (sorry I couldn’t think of any other comparison…in other words, he had skills). If I were a girl and owned a pair of cowboy boots (or cowgirl boots…if those even exist) I probably would have fallen in love with him.

After we danced to “Hick Town”, Riske and I sang karaoke…“You’ve Got to Fight for Your Right to Party”. Sunday we went to Church, had tea, baked cookies, tossed the “b”, went to BBQ buffet, and sat in the back of my pickup on a mattress at the drive-in moving theatre. The grass was greener when they were here and the day after they left I was depressed…bad. I drove around on side streets around J&B coffee until I stopped crying. Once I got my green tea, I wrote this in my journal…

“Anthony and Kristen reminded me of the life I am not living. Reminded me of how lonely I am here…I don’t want to loose myself here, don’t want to grow content with anything less than what You have for me. I’m tired of this feeling. I’m tired of the darkness. Why am I here? God I need something loud. I need something clear, something tangible. Otherwise I’m gone, I’m putting my two weeks in and I’m gone. I need something bigger than my doubt , bigger than my fear…”

The only thing that has been loud is my desire to leave. I had been praying to God, “why am I here?” for so long, wondering with every new person I met or new church I walked into, if it would be the connection. Somehow I felt like if I didn’t find some roots here, the adventure would be a failure. I was afraid to leave, afraid to miss God by a day or two, afraid that I wasn’t listening hard enough. I became almost superstitious, over analyzing every conversation and circumstance, hoping to hear a whisper of God’s voice, trying to piece together some impossible puzzle of God’s will for my life, all the while he was the beat in my heart, the pounding that is drumming me to leave. I’m tired of believing God is allusive and confusing. He wants us to know Him more than we want to know Him. He wants us to love others more than we want to love others. He speaks louder than I can listen, more clear than I can think. His Spirit is in me and my heart beats to follow Him.

I think sometimes when I say I can’t hear God, I already have, but I just don’t believe that I have, don’t believe that I can actually hear Him. Doubt, not in God’s voice, but in my ears, leaves me deaf, dark, and alone. Maybe I have enough faith in God, but not in myself.

I know it is about time to leave, and that makes me smile…one of those smiles that sticks for awhile, one that won’t go away even if I wanted it to. Don’t get me wrong, the big blue sky has been good. I needed the sunshine. And the time with my family has been sweet…so sweet. I will cry and miss my aunts and uncles, cousins, and grandma. It won’t be easy to say goodbye to my UPS team, my friends from the Wesley, and First Community UMC in Canyon. For it was my heart that lead me out here. But somewhere between May and October I stopped following it…stopped believing that I could hear God’s voice. Not anymore. Thanks Riske and Kristen for driving in on your Honda Prelude ambulance with a siren of a muffler, to breath life into a dying man. Thanks for the reminder to follow my heart…and for going country western dancing me with, I would have never done it alone.

p.s. I’ve kinda of got some plans…I’ll be in Texas a couple more weeks, taking in every moment I have left with my family. Then I hope to visit some friends on the way out of Lubbock in Canyon, Colorado, Michigan, Indiana, etc. on my way home for Christmas in Ohio. In January I’m probably “moving” to North Carolina to make up the worship practicum I "failed" so I can finish my youth ministry degree. My supervisor will be the youth pastor at Kernersville Wesleyan Church. You may have heard of him…his name is Jared Bell. Summer? I dunno, but Asbury sounds good in the fall and Cooper’s looking for a roommate.

The C.S. Lewis of Our Generation

2005-09-11T00:58:00.000-05:00

Just started reading Don's newly released old book, Through Painted Deserts. I recommend it.

And I think if I were God, I would have waited a couple thousand years on the whole Jesus thing until Donald Miller was born and could have followed Him around and been one of the gospel writers.

I like to write and I spend a lot of time playing with words, chosing them carefully, hoping to make people laugh, feel inspired, understand how much they mean to me, know God, or think I'm an ok guy. I enjoy it, but it is work. I have to buy my every vowel with time, and I am a slave to consonants. It seems the opposite for Don. He's the the master of words. Letters work for him.

And I think he's the C.S. Lewis of our generation.

Fifty years from now Don Miller will be a household name. People will read him and get the same feeling I get now reading him, the same feeling I get reading Lewis...the feeling that my heart is beating like it never has before, and the feeling that I know why it is beating, like I never have known before. I feel like the entire universe makes sense and I feel like I make sense when I read Lewis, when I read Miller.

So go to "F and S's" (for those of you who aren't Pete and Jared or Trixie that's Barnes and Noble) and buy Blue Like Jazz or Searching For God Knows What or his newly released old book, Through Painted Deserts. I promise, you will hear your heart beat like it never has before...

P.S. Everything he says about Texas is true.

I Will Not Be Silent

2005-09-06T01:01:00.000-05:00

I miss trees.

Don’t get me wrong, having sunshine over 300 days a year is heavenly. And I’m still “held captive by the big blue sky above” (Shawn Mullins). But the reason the sky is so big and blue is because I’m taller than every tree in my neighborhood.

There is no trunk to sit against. No shadow of an oak to hide under. If you want shade in West Texas, you go inside. They tell me that every tree in Lubbock, but mesquite (which I would consider a large bush not a tree), was planted. So people that move here from the Midwest use their hammocks as rugs. And their kids grow up climbing on oil pumps not in trees (no wonder they don’t recycle here).

I miss grass too. Our yard doesn’t really have any. We’ve got “bermuda grass”, which is actually a weed that sort of looks like grass, but grows more sideways than nature’s traditional carpet. If I forget to mow a week or two it grows these annoying “stickers”, nasty little burs that stick to my shoelaces and socks. To keep this grassy weed green you have to have a sprinkler system (or about ten dogs with overactive bladders). Most people just give up and put rocks in their yards and clutter them with rusty cowboy decorations and Texas flags. A few weeks ago we delivered a piece of furniture to an old lady whose yard was completely paved. It was depressing, and I came to the conclusion that every square foot of Hell is cement.

I am not surprised that I miss the foliage. I kind of anticipated it. And on one of the last days at home in Ohio I laid in the grass under my favorite maple tree, the one I used to climb when I was kid. It sits on the east side of my yard looking like an enormous hand coming out of the ground. The trunk is its wrist, thick like a farmer’s. Its palm is bent back as if the tree were holding something up, something important, because its hold is steadfast, firmly gripped with its many fingers. Maybe that’s why I always felt so safe in it.

The leaves were new that day, bursting with green. The sun was chasing me through the branches, shinning down like a hundred tiny spotlights. And there was a quiet breeze whispering to the tree. And whatever it was saying demanded applause, for the wind was causing the leaves to clap softly together.

“…the mountains and hills will burst into song before you, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands” (Isaiah 55:12).

There is a song of creation that never ceases. There is choir of creatures making music to the Maker.

Why are we so silent? Why are all of our songs about ourselves?

I wish I could have been there when nature’s song began…when creation taught man to sing. I wonder how long it took Adam to discover music. I wonder what his first song was. It must have beautifully honest, a true response, an overflow of the heart. And it must have been a terrible noise. Like He does with everything important, I bet God let Adam learn to make music.

I can imagine Adam squeezing his lips together, blowing air and spitting, trying to whistle like the birds, managing only to get himself wet and out of breath. Wolves howled has he experimented with the range of his voice. Monkeys scratched their heads at Adam’s off beat chest pounding. And the hyenas laughed when man knocked himself over trying to dancing. It was ugly…but it had to be done.

How do I know Adam sang? How do I know he danced? Because like me, his soul demanded it.

There is something deep within my created being that longs to communicate with the Creator, that longs to join the song of creation. Words are not enough! And I cannot sit still! If I try to hold my song inside, I will explode.

To be silent and motionless is to be dead.

You know those people who are always humming, mumbling songs to themselves, songs you often mistaken for conversation? Especially the ones who don’t even realize that they are singing, who always look at you confused when you asked them their song? These people are alive. Alive in the truest sense. Alive like the maple tree on the east side of my yard. Alive like the feeling I felt that day when I mistook its song for conversation, the day I decided to sing along.

“make a joyful noise to the Lord all the earth
make a joyful noise to the Lord all the earth

the flowers of the field are cry’n to be heard
the trees of the forest are singing
and all of the mountains with one voice
are joining the chorus of this world

and I will not be silent
I will not be quiet anymore

running through the forest, dive into the lake
bare feet on beaches white
standing in the canyon
painted hills around, the wind against my skin
every ocean every sea, ever river, every stream
every mountain, every tree, every blade of grass will sing” [david crowder]

[photo by Tim Founds]

Drilling Holes [Updated]

2005-08-25T22:06:00.000-05:00

Stopped at an Arby’s in Tulsa, OK where everyone is getting serious about the energy crisis…well at least the gas price crisis. The workers were passing out more copies of an e-mail than roast beef sandwiches. The e-mail, smudged with fastfood grease, proposed a plan to pressure the gas companies into lowering the gas prices by urging drivers to avoid the pumps for three days, three times longer than a Canadian boycott that supposedly dropped prices fifteen cents.

“Hmmm…” I wondered, taking a sip of my Dr. Pepper, “wouldn’t the gas companies make up for the lack of sales on those three days with the mad profits on the day prior and the day following the “gas out”. I thought about sharing my insights, but thought that maybe my lack of sleep from driving all night caused me to miss the great idea.

Now that I’ve slept on it, I still think it’s a dumb idea…and the approach is misguided. There are a lot of solutions being offered for the rising pump prices, including boycotts, more U.S. drilling, an end to a war, petitions, an impeachment, pump-n-runs, bike riding, hybrids, corn, and more.

But we must address the real issue here. It’s not about high gas prices. Sure you’re pissed off about paying forty bucks to fill up your car. So am I. But by giving into the government’s quick fix ideas (reopening offshore and Alaskan oil drilling) we are only perpetuating the real problem…the effect our abuse of natural resources is having on the environment. And if the rumors are true…that we have the technology to make more efficient and safer (for the trees and us) vehicles, but the oil dudes have such a monopoly over our economy, government, and dare I say, President, that the solutions to our energy and environmental crisis are kept from becoming a reality, than we have a sick problem on our hands that requires more than just drilling holes...well unless the "holes" are in reference to the oil dudes and they are the object of the drilling.

It’s about more than saving money…being a good steward goes beyond cash. It includes our environment (see my blog…“The Wisdom is in the Trees not the Glass Windows”). So don’t perpetuate the problem, seek solutions for the earth not just for your wallet. Write a letter, sign petition, and even boycott if it floats your boat, but don’t support more drilling. Start saving up for a hybrid, ride your bike, carpool, support gas/oil companies that are serious about the real issue (BP) and talk trash about the gas/oil companies that refuse to care about anyone (or Anyone’s creation) but themselves (Exxon).

To be honest with ya’ll, I know little about this issue. I’m learning. I feel like it’s my responsibility as a created being and especially as a Christian. So do your research. Don’t take my word for it…and certainly not Fox News'. I like sierraclub.com and if I knew how to leave a link on this blog I would leave this one:

http://www.sierraclubplus.org/video/flash_offshoredrilling

Update: Here's a great quote...

"Drilling the Arctic Refuge would be as shortsighted as damming the Grand Canyon for hydroelectric power or tapping Old Faithful for geothermal energy. It would be as foolhardy as burning the Mona Lisa to keep you warm" (Frank Crowder).

To read the whole article click below (I think):

http://www.greenvilleonline.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20050901/OPINION/509010309/1008

I Didn't Know What I Had Until I Realized It Wasn't Mine

2005-08-25T01:06:00.000-05:00

I took a rock from the Grand Canyon. It’s a nice rock. It’s a jagged chunk of brown, red, and white sandstone a little bigger than my fist. I would have taken a bigger piece if I could have fit it in my backpack. I would have taken the entire thing if no one was looking. Seriously, it’d make a great backyard.

But that’s not possible, and not just because it’s really big, but because it’s a National Park guarded by people in green uniforms that love it more than me, so much so that they will protect it so others can love it too.

No one really owns the Grand Canyon. It belongs to no one, but everyone at the same time. It wasn’t meant to be owned. It was created to be shared. I can’t have it.

Canyons can’t be moved, sunsets are moments that cannot be caught…they come ago without my permission, and flowers die when I pick them.

They are bigger than me. The Grand Canyon is much too large for my shelf or my backyard. Others need to see what I would hide for myself. Canyons, sunsets, and flowers have something to teach us about God and ourselves. They have a beauty to share with us. I can’t keep them. To do so would be to deny others this.

The very thing that keeps me alive—air—is shared and not owned. I can try to keep it, to hold it in, but I would die. Oxygen is to be breathed in, and out, not held or trapped. The truth about air, is true about those given it.

I have begun to realize that people are more like canyons, sunsets, and flowers than they are cars, houses, or cloths.

People are shared with me, they are not objects to be owned.

Being in a relationship is more like hiking a trail than it is taking up residence. And people are not decorations, but views to be taken in. They are a part of God’s creation not my wardrobe.

It’s not really about me choosing them either. Some are like cornfields, rain clouds, and shruberries. All beautiful in their own light, important, and deserving of my time and love, even if they aren’t picked out, don’t fit me well, or feel like family.

Not too long ago I came across the most beautiful flower I’d ever seen... But she was not mine to own...to pick, to put in vase, and place on a shelf...for she would have died there. Her beauty and light were too big for me, too important. The world needs this flower.

This past weekend I was reunited with some friends…the “for life” kind. A few are in Michigan now, some still in Ohio, some in Indiana, a couple in North Carolina, and one in Utah. I wish we could all be neighbors again. I wish I could have them here in Texas. But the truth is, I can’t. I don’t own them. I don’t decide where they are to be placed. For them to be anywhere but there (where He puts them) would be for them like dying. They are too big me, too important. They must share their beauty and love with others…those who do not know it yet. I can’t stop that because that’s what it’s all about.

The strange thing is; the things that I own do not last. Like cars, cloths, and guitars (sorry to get away from my original illustration but I don't have a house) . Eternal things can only be shared. And the more I realize this, the more life is sweet.

I never knew what I had, until I realized it wasn’t mine.

Along this journey of life there have been some amazing views and some most beautiful flowers. “And every time I’m place within a perfect row…people come and go” (Stephen Delopoulos). And at times I have fought this, longing to stay, to stay forever. And at times I’ve wanted to take beauty with me to keep my soul lit. But a Voice keeps calling me forward and a Wisdom keeps telling me that others need to see and hear these things too. To share them is far better than to keep them. It makes me feel like I’m a part of something big…something bigger than myself.

The Cake Wasn't Bad

2005-08-24T23:57:00.000-05:00

Just got back from home…ur, Ohio that is (not sure where “home” is right now), and started my new job at UPS. As the packages come out of the truck onto a conveyer belt I scan them and slap on stickers. It’s kinda like those arcade shooting games, except I have unlimited quarters.

My trip began Thursday night and ended Monday evening. I put almost 3,000 miles on my truck. That’s about fifty hours in my little S10. That’s a lot of driving. That’s a lot of time to think…so I apologize if I go a little crazy in the next few days on my blog.

The trip was quick and I saw a lot of friends and family in short period of time…but every conversation was full of life.

Jared and Becky’s wedding was not like any other I’ve been a part of. It seemed…strange to say, but…holy. I was taken a back not simply by the bride’s beauty, by the groom’s reaction, or by the songs, but by the Holy Spirit as the story of Adam and Eve was read, as the parents prayed together, as the vows were exchanged, and Dr. Smith’s homily was given. It felt more like a sacrament, “a means of grace”, than a simple traditional ceremony.

There was another “strange” element to the wedding. On a day that was supposed to be all about them, the bride and groom went out of their way for their guests. Little details…like the not so typical wedding slide show/video played during the picture time so there was not waiting on the wedding party. Like the little books with pictures and stories about each person in wedding, so everyone could get to know them…which was later given to the groomsmen, bridesmaids, and ushers. Like the “head table”, just big enough for Jared and Becky…allowing those in the wedding party to be seated with their family or friends. Like how each quest was greeted by the newly weds. And the list could go on. I felt not like an observer, or a witness, but like a participant. And I had this odd feeling that my feet were being washed. I think for the first time I felt like the disciples did when Jesus took his water basin and towel and knelt before them. A pleasant disturbance…the feeling that what is happening, shouldn’t, and usually doesn’t, but at the same time, seems like a better way.

I felt like Jared and Becky washed my feet on their wedding day.

I was humbled. And in reflection have this thought: Does God bring two people to become one so that each one has his and her “needs met” (as I hear all the time) or does He create two people that are designed to be as one person, together greater than they are apart (like two lights that glow brighter together), for the work of making His Kingdom a reality here on earth.

Not two pieces of a puzzle connecting simply for the sake of the pieces themselves, but two pieces joined together for the sake of the picture…God’s plan for all of creation.

It’s not about an exchanging of loves, but a sharing of Love…a love that that is far greater than two people and what they can or can’t do for each other. Marriage, and the “bedroom”, is about more than the celebration of each other and private intimacy. Matrimony is about holy inspiration and a unity that perpetuates action. Like a sacrament, a means of grace...that when experienced brings two as one closer to the Creator in a union that involves them in not just their own love story but in His love story…joining them not only in the pursuit of each other but in His pursuit of all people.

So in a sense Jared and Becky’s day was not just their own, but His, and ours. A day in which the Church was strengthened and the potential for God’s love to be made Know in the world was increased.

Thanks Mr. and Mrs. Jared Bell. You are a powerful example of God’s true design for marriage…and my feet feel clean. Oh yah, the cake wasn’t bad either.

"Ya'll Ain't From Around Here, Are Ya?"

2005-08-16T22:01:00.000-05:00

It doesn't rain much in West Texas so when it does water just sits everywhere. The city officials here don't believe in sewers and water doesn't absorb well into clay and rock. So it doesn't take much to flood the corner of Erkskin and Franford just down the road from my house. Just an inch or two of rain or about block of sprinkler systems is enough. Everytime the "public pool" is open I am tempted to give it the gas as I take the corner in my little S10. And everytime I am tempted I usually give in...although I've learned to roll up my window. Its the same thrill I used to get when I'd stomp in a mud puddle while walking next to my mom or sister...except the people sitting at the corner in thier cars are strangers and they don't punch me or ground me, although I've gotten a few honks. I love it when they have to use their windshield wipers.

I think people here are afraid of rain. They all sit around the weather channel and don't leave their houses. They are too used to the sun. So we got a lot of questions from the nieghbors the other night when we laid sod in my unlce's backyard during a rain shower ("Ya'lll ain't from around here, are ya?"). You get used to rain in Ohio and once in awhile out here you miss it. So we took advantage of it, planted some grass, and made mud angels (brought back memories of "Indiana surfing" [riding a piece of wood in the mud] after the H20 Hodson water fight last August...). We added to our reputation as the "crazy folks from Ohio" when we hosed off in the driveway and when I stripped down to my boxers and ran in the house.

Its been awhile since my last blog so here's a little update: Still out here in Lubbock, "held captive by the big blue sky above" (as Shawn Mullins says...speaking of sky, did anyone catch the meteor showers the other night? they were amazing out here. i laid on my back on top of a van out in the middle of nowhere...it was a show). Still working at the Furniture Connection (peed my pants the other day while on the job...well kinda, actually my belt just got in the way. kinda like putting your hand in front of a hose, [I'm fighting back the urge to write "a really big hose in my case" but kids. old people, or Baptists might be reading this so I won't]...everything gets wet. So I did a little clean up, bent over the sink and laughed my head off, waited till there where no customers, snuck out the back to my truck, and drove home to change) and just started UPS. I'm interviewing at First United Methodist Church in Canyon, Texas for a worship leader position...beautiful people with an understanding of community and a philosophy of ministry focused on relationships. I think I change my mind about the future every few days or so. Couple weeks ago I was sure I wanted to pursue an education degree. Today...seminary sounds good and I just saw a Texas Tech adverstisement at Mountain Hideaway (a store where I go to dream about hiking) for "majoring in nature" a new natural history and humanities degree they are offering combining the natural sciences, the arts, and philosophy. Some indecisive person like me came up with that. So we'll see what happens. Right now I'm just learning to be content, seeking grace to love the people around me, and looking for some new friends (my little cousins just went back to school).

I've been reading a lot of Brian McLaren's stuff lately (hope to blog on some of his ideas soon) and still have In Between Dreams (Jack Johnson) in my CD player. In two days I'm headed for Joliet, Ill. for Jared and Becky's "allstar" wedding. There's gonna be a ton of IWU folks there. I can't wait. I don't think I'll be able to sleep the night before (actually I won't...I'll be driving all night). After the party I'm going to Ohio for a day to see my parents, then back to West Texas ,where the cotten will be blooming soon. I've heard it looks like fields of snow.

Tim, Phil, and Matt's Grand Adventure

2005-07-03T17:47:00.000-05:00

I laid upside down in the back seat with my head on the front seat arm rest between Tim and Phil staring up at the stars through the sunroof of our rent-a-car Hyundai (A nice ride by the way, equipped with heater seats…more for entertainment than comfort). It was one of those moments that cameras cannot capture and words cannot describe. You can take a picture of friends, but not friendship. You can write about stars, but adjectives fall short of wonder.

I had a lot of these moments this past week.

Tim, Phil and I took a trip to the Grand Canyon and Zion National Park. We pulled into the park about 2AM, drove past the signs that say “Do not camp or sleep in cars”, found a parking spot facing the yet to be seen canyon, and closed our eyes.

Morning came quickly. Tim wasted no time violating every “leave no trace” rule. But we let that slide…he doesn’t have a colon.

Then the view of the canyon. One of those moments.

All together we hiked up and down 11,106 feet in elevation across a distance of 22.5 on an average of 3-4 hours of sleep (depending on which part of the car you got that night) in 2.5 days (The rest of the time was spent on the road making videos of kids on bikes and bananas flying out the windows to the tune of Shawn Mullins). I learned to respect the canyons. They’re just postcards until you hike them.

The North Kiabab trail (“pronounced” K-eye-beeb; aka Corncob) taught me this lesson. We trekked halfway to the bottom of the Canyon on this path till we got to the roaring springs and then went back up. Maybe the most physically challenging thing I’ve done. The 3,000+ feet down we joked about asses (you can ride donkey’s a third of the way down). The 3,000+ feet back up we dragged ours. On the way down we stopped to take pictures and laugh. On the way up we stopped to take naps and cry. I’d do it again any day.

After Cape Royal and Uncle Jim’s trail we headed north a couple hours to Zion National Park in Utah where we met up with Ranger Neff and her brother and sister-in-law (refreshing people). It was good to see Juli again. It was good to see her with red rocks in the background. She belongs in Georgia O’Keefe painting.

That night the four of us climbed Angel’s Landing. There are parts of this trail that are only a couple feet wide with anchored chain on a rock face to the right and a 1200 ft drop to your left. No wonder the sign said it was hazardous to hike in darkness. I wondered as I climbed, “If I could see this drop-off would I still be climbing this rock.” Then I wonder if there was a spiritual insight in that thought.

It was one of the scariest and fulfilling things I have ever done. Sometimes I wonder if fear is actually a blessing and not a curse and danger an invitation not a warning. Fear teaches us what we love by showing us what we are afraid of loosing. Danger urges us to risk what we love in order to keep it. They both cause us to trust and grow. And they both make for some great stories and memories.

Atop Angels landing we watched the stars (“some of the best on earth”), attempted to take some group pictures, and called JMak (our old boss) who was not surprisingly up doing homework. I miss that dude.

We trekked back down and shut our eyes for what felt like a few minutes in our four-wheeled sleeping bag. That morning we hiked a hidden canyon and napped on the lodge lawn until Juli got off work. Gelato, laundry, the Virgin River, Daddy Ray’s, picture, goodbye, The Colorado River, Mt. Humphries, Outback, I40, Nitequal, Ben Folds, nap, fried chicken, goodbye, work. It went too fast.

Thanks Phil, Tim, and Juli for the pictures and stories, and for the moments too big for 4x6 glossing paper and too articulate for times new roman black ink. I missed all of you more than I thought.

A Poll: Birdie on Hole 4

2005-06-25T02:04:00.000-05:00

This morning I tossed the “b”...I was approaching the basket on Hole 4. A par 3. My initial drive was sweet. Walking toward my disc for my second shot, I guessed I was about twenty feet or so from a birdie.

I’m not very good at judging distances.

“Birdie” was a lot bit closer than twenty feet.

It was the biggest pigeon I had ever seen. A fat grey hawk of a pigeon. A Texas sized pigeon! I wasn’t sure if the initial swoop at my noggin was deliberate so the first feeling was excitement. It was thrilling a blast of air over my head.

Ok I lied, my first feeling was, “Holy Caca!” But excitement was second.

Fear third.

Terror forth.

Then excitement again. For a second I had a thought…“Maybe some dude with a video camera has caught my disaster out of the corner of his eye while taping his daughter feeding the ducks by the pond and is getting the whole thing filmed and will send it in to be the winner of the When Animals Attack or American’s Funniest Videos television show and then split the big money with me.”

Back to terror. Turns out the first swoop was intended. So was the second. By now I had my frisbee. A little self-defense. I ducked, holding one arm over my head, waving my disc in the air with the other.

I wonder if birds laugh.

I began to run away from the hole. But not fast enough. Freak pigeon took another dive at me. That’s three. Again I threatened it with my long distance driver and turned toward my vehicle. I sprinted like a bat out of…like Batman out of the Bat Cave.

I stood there stunned staring back at psycho bird soaring over the air space of McKenzie Park’s disc gold hole number four. Watching it glory in its victory.

Suddenly I had a flashback to my shanked approach on hole 1. I missed the basket completely sending my disc spiraling into a pole that happened to be a perch for some lazy bird. I remember thinking, “I bet that bird just crapped itself” and laughed to myself.

Hmm. I think I have a motive.

Was that the bird that attacked me? Was my misfortune a product of revenge? It could have been. Or was that overweight turtledove just a mom or dad guarding its nest of babies?

What do you think? Leave a comment and vote. Pissed-off pigeon payback or parent pigeon protection?

One Ounce Action Beats a Ton of Words

2005-06-16T11:11:00.000-05:00

I saw him there on the side of the road with his turquose dufflebag thrown over his right sholder, left hand held high in the air, thumb out. At seventyfive miles an hour I did not have much time to make a decision. My mind began a debate with itself.

“He probably smells.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“He may have a knife, a gun, or deadly right jab.”
“Maybe he just needs a ride.”
“But what if he steals my truck.”
“What if he really needs my truck more than I do.”
“What if…”
“Maybe he’s Jesus.”

I needed time to think this over, to hold a pray meeting, to get a air freshner and selfdefence classes. So I stopped at the next gas station and “dropped the kids off at the pool.” A good place to process. After much deliberation, I stepped through the door with verdict in mind. I got back in my truck and determined that if he was still there I would pick him up.

But I had my pocketknife ready just in case.

Turns out it was a good fight. And I still have one functioning arm (which makes typing this blog interesting). He got one shot off (my left arm) before I put a blade in his splean and kicked him out the door with my right flipflop (I’d like to thank Old Navy). Just kidding. The only battle that went on was in my head. Tom didn’t try to kill me. He was (is) just trying to make it from Dallas to California to see his Aunty who is sick. He told her, “I don’t got any money, but I’ll be there in a couple weeks.”

I wonder how long it took Tom to make that decision. Did he calculate the risk (he could get run over, hungry, or sunburned) or write down pros and cons (saftey or Aunty)? If he did it didn’t take long and he didn’t need to “sleep on it”. He walked all night after the phone call with his Aunty. Tom was so tired that when he got in my truck he mumbled a few words I couldn’t understand and fell asleep for four hours. That’s determination. That’s faith backed with works. That’s love. That’s what I want.

How long will I let “It’s not safe” keep from loving people? How long will I have conversations with myself? How long will I be like a wave in the sea blown and tossed back and forth by the wind?

That’s it. I’m not going to do this anymore! No more hesitations. No more second guessing. No more loving comfort more than my nieghbor. I’m gonna pick up the Holy Spirit’s phone call on the first ring. I’m gonna to be singleminded. I’m gonna ask for opportunities to love people and when they come, no matter the cost or danger, I’m going to take them with courage.

Maybe.

Two Thumbs up for Texas

2005-06-09T13:04:00.000-05:00

An update from Lubbock, "The Giant Side of Texas": I've been spending a lot of time with the fam here. I live with my grandma (wearing the trucker hat). She makes the best fried chicken this side of Texas. I work at the Furniture Connection, a family owned Sauder outlet, for my uncle and aunt, Rich and Nancy. I do assemblies and a little retail. I make sales with ease because of my charming midwest accent (actually they point and stare when I say "you guys" instead "ya'll" and "I'm going to" instead "I'm fixin' to"). My aunt Sherie works at the store too. She laughs at customers alot. My unlce Marty and I enjoy making grandma nervous. During some almost golfball size hail we ran outside with baseball gloves on our heads to cover his van with a blanket. Hurts like paintballs. I make a weekly habit of tossing the "B" (disc golf) with my cousins Paul and Jacob. Not sure what to say about my cousins Lidnsey and Natalie. Uhh...they just got sun burned real bad the other day...and they're pretty cool. My great uncle Peanut and great aunt Fronsie got us on a Texas Hold 'em kick. Now we have weekly poker night.

I still haven't called Dr. Cherry about finishing up that worship practicum...I guess I'm trying to earn that "F". I hope to do some subsitute teaching here in Lubbock this fall to see if I really want to get an education degree.

I saw Bobby Night's house the other day. It's big, real big. (While writing the blog I entertained the idea of ommiting this last comment, because really, who cares?! But then I thought of the greatest Hoosier fan in the world, my former roomate, Patrick Cooper. He would care. So Coop, for the slight chance that you may reading this, I did see Bob's mansion. Go Indiana.)

I've been going to church at Live Oak, a Willow Creek plant. Just started playing guitar there. Not sure if its my place. I'm still haunted by that DeNeff sermon when he said, "You will find your place when your greatest joy meets the greatest need." Joy...check. Need...not sure.

I get to see my Dad this week in Dallas. Texas Motor Speedway. May the force be with Sam Hornish Jr.

Tim Founds, Phil Stuller, and I are going to the Grand Canyon in couple weeks. Phil is going to make me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich (That's a joke for "Team Cankles", those who went to Sri Lanka...Keep praying!)

You can see for miles here. A beach of red dirt and a sea of blue sky. Watching the storms roll in like a giant wave strikes enough fear and wonder in my heart to trust the God who moves them. I do miss the trees though, but I'd trade them all for West Texas sunset. And the nights. I never knew there were this many stars, and I've only seen the moon so bright one other night...I'm seeing another side of God here, a beautiful, not necessarily better, but excitingly differant view of Him.

Miss and love all of you. Rebel against your own indifference...Beck

The Wisdom is in the Trees not the Glass Windows

2005-06-08T00:03:00.000-05:00

I dropped some cardboard off at the “Sold Waste Management Facility” the other day. I think that is what the conservative republican West Texan’s here in Bush country call recycling centers so they can convince themselves that they are not really recycling, just “managing solid waste” so they aren’t accused of hugging trees or confused with being environmentalist war hating democrats like Kerry and those Dixie Chicks they kicked out of their state. But that is just my theory. Anyway, there at the “recycling center in disguise”, I met a man named Cliff, who worked there. He wasn’t good at talking, but he said a lot of interesting things. His real name is Clifford, but his friends call him Cliff. He told me I could call him Tom. That’s his middle name. He said it’s easier to remember than Cliff because all I’ll have to do is remember my favorite drink the “Tom Collins”. I’ve never had whisky or gin or whatever is in the “Tom Collins” cocktail, but I remembered Cliff and Tom because that was quite the introduction. I won’t forget his office either. Looked like a storage shed without a door. In the process of giving me directions to another recycling center closer to my house, he took me inside to show me around his place. “Lookit here,” he said, drawing my attention to the news program he had on. “I fixed that television someone threw away. And watch this,” he turned on a fan, “Works like brand new. And this here’s my new fridge I pulled out of the junk pile…” With joy he proceeded to show me functioning appliance after appliance that someone had thrown away as junk.

I’ve thought about Cliff’s trash treasure for a couple weeks now, and I just finally finished reading Ron Cider’s book, Rich Christians in an Age of Hunger (I think he made it really long on purpose so the Truth inside would be harder to forget). Before Paul and Amanda Stonehouse, SEEDS, and Townhouse 602, recycling meant nothing more to me than the memory of how the couple bucks I got back for aluminum made up for the few minutes my Dad made me smash cans on Saturday mornings when I was kid. I know now that it is about more than pocket change and even political parties. There are deeper issues—the sins of materialism and consumerism. Materialism hates God’s people. Consumerism hates God’s creation. I hope to write more on materialism in a couple days, but here I want to talk about the trash heaps we are producing.

Its about 100 pounds a week added to the landfills for every American family. Imagine the devastating effect on our environment that will create for future generations if we continue this pattern. Where will all that trash go? Many Christians would say, “I don’t know and I don’t care. I’ve got more eternal things to think about.”

But I think we should know and we should care, because it has a lot to do with eternity.

God reveals his greatness through His creation. Have we deemphasized the power of nature in the salvation process as the Church? I think so. And I would suggest that recycling is a powerful means of evangelism. Stewardship of our planet gives the opportunity for people to know the Creator. Yes I know that we are saved in community, that people are more important than trees, and that God will someday destroy this earth. But God put us in a garden for a reason. He gave us the Rockies, the Atlantic, and Big Dipper for a reason. He was trying to say something about Himself. What else could describe the extent of God’s love than the immeasurable distant to the heavens, and His faithfulness than the vast skies. Without the mountains to what could we compare His righteousness? Besides the ocean depths, what could capture His justice (See Psalm 36)?
Sure, if there was no beauty left on earth, we would still have His Word and we would still have His presence when we gather. But would we still know His greatness? Would we forget how big He was? What would our view of God be like if we could no longer gaze up at the stars at night because a thick layer of smog was blocking our view. Or if we could no longer see a sunset, because a new landfill was placed in our back yard? Or if we could no longer walk with Him in the woods because there no longer are any forests?

“The wisdom is in trees not the glass windows” (Jack Johnson).

So recycle your cans, ride your bike, simplify, plant a tree, vote environmentally conscience, next time you go to park bring a garbage bag, and quit buying soon to be obsolete crap you don’t really need that will soon end up in the dumpster. Take a hike, visit a National Park (like the Grand Canyon with a couple guys named Tim and Phil), dance under the stars, smotch your lady during a sunset, climb a mountain, or watch storm. And when you tell that awesome God or yours that you can’t get used to Him, remember that it is Him, the Creator, who made you, loves you, and wants to have a relationship with you.

For more ideas read Rich Christians in Age of Hunger or visit www.sierraclub.com. Be creative and befriend your neighborhood recycling center worker.

Thanks Wal-Mart

2005-05-25T10:39:00.000-05:00

I pulled up to the state line with "Beautiful Day" blaring on my CD player. And it was. After a trip to IWU, Tucky, and 20 hours on the rode, I finally made it. Texas. On the way I pushed Cooper's dead car a quarter of mile down a highway to a church parking lot, visited Payton's seven bedroom house and mowed a couple of his eight acres, prayed over his little country church, saw Indiana's first capital and its local drug store (Butt Drug), had a burger and half at Cooper's house, fed the rest to his dog Taz, got lost in downtown St. Louis at 2AM trying to take a picture of the arch, slept two hours in a Walmart parking lot, called my mom every couple hours to tell I was still alive, passed a cowboy cop driving a dodge van filled with handcuffed scowndrals, took my picture in front of the Texas state line, saw the largest cross in the western hemisphere (even Jesus is bigger in Texas), and smelled a 72 ounce steak in Amarillo (it's free if you can eat it).