Pan-handling in a Bust Town

Another beautiful drive yesterday.  Wow.  California 199 into Grants Pass, Oregon, is truly a site, in daylight.  At night, it’s like driving the old Saddle Road on the Big Island (Hawai’i)  – twists and turns at a rapid pace with a speed limit of 55 of which one has to wonder who, in their right mind, would actually drive 55 in that area other than reputable NASCAR, Formula 1, or Indy Car drivers.

This giant of a Redwood stretched at least 200 feet into the misty sky.

We drove along the Smith River banks, 10 miles of the pathway was a hard-packed, clay, old mining road called Howland Hill Road – right through an old-growth Redwood forest.  And I thought Sequoias were alone impressive.

I even claimed a little exercise riding my bike along a portion of Highway 101 on Tuesday and darn near fell over a few times due to a combination of under-inflated tires and my head careening upwards to view old redwood stumps…yes, looking upward to view redwood stumps.  Even the stumps are amazing.

The Smith River, as many rivers in northern CA and southern OR, run azure all year, a quality that comes from the unique minerals in the local area.

While the old-growth areas are beautiful and awe-inspiring, the Smith River is another feature of this drive that makes it worth-while.  The color was described to me as being azure, a color I’ve only names out of a crayon box – but it’s spot-on.  The Trinity River that runs beside much of Highway 299 is also the same color as is, I’m sure, the Klamath River which we’re going to view later today.  There aren’t words to describe the beauty of the color alone.  We’ve been to Hawai’i a few times in our short lives and have been in wonder of the deep blue sea that we’ve traversed.  This is a much different color, a beauty all its own.

A faster-running section of the Smith River, the azure color pops against the rock bed.

During our drive into Grants Pass to meet a former soccer player for dinner, I was inspired by a few of the smaller, more economically depressed towns we drove through.  The undercurrent of the movie Cars was about a small town called Radiator Springs.  A place that had been by-passed by the tourniquet of newer freeways, fast-paced byways that cut off the life supply of the smaller towns.  While Highway 199 isn’t located nearby a major freeway system (even I-5 is less imposing as a major freeway in some parts of northern CA and southern OR) these small towns have been impacted by a similar phenomena where the younger locals area drawn to more metropolitan areas.

Imposing beasts. And the less imposing beast (me) standing at the base of this monster.

I live in a similar town in northeastern Colorado.  Largely agricultural in nature and industry, many of our young folks aren’t carrying on the family farming business with exception to a few dedicated FFA youth who are inspired by their parents – an attribute I find quite virtuous.

I-76 runs right by Fort Morgan, Colorado.  It doesn’t drain the life from our small community but aids in its existence as passerby’s participate in our local economy.  Yet 199 travelers are going from “point A” to “point B”, form one place to another without batting an eyelash at the smaller local communities and their commerce.  I was such an example.  Its not that they offer much, I’d have to admit they are limited in their capacity to produce a wide variety of interests.  Even the down-and-out are even more down-and-out.  We passed a gentleman holding a sign that read ANYTHING HELPS on the corner of 199 and a small-town, impoverished and nearly-bust community grocery store.  Um, hey fella, you’re not going to have much luck pan-handling from this location.

From a fallen redwood many years ago, this stump was roughly 10-12 feet in diameter, about 6-7 feet tall.

As I drove by this unfortunate person I began to think, in my own perverse way, that this guy is really in the wrong place.  I’d help him, too, perhaps offering a ride to a high-traffic area for greater success if he didn’t also look like a stereotypical axe murderer.  I mean, if he were hitchhiking he’d have an even longer wait for assistance.

I began to think of a list of items that could help this guy improve his situation, only a few of which were actually practical, the rest were from my perverse line of thinking.  For example…

1.  Shave.  Look less like a vertically-challenged yeti (Sasquatch is pretty popular in these areas) and more like you play for the New York Yankees.

2.  Scent.  Deodorant.  Even the less-expensive travel size and a single swipe in each armpit may help.

3.  Smile.  The look of vacant emptiness (I know… that’s a bit repetitively redundant) in those eyes combined with a flat affect of facial expression are less attractive to folk who want to help.  Actually, they even frighten a few of us.

And this list goes on… Again, less practical and more useless, really, for a guy like the one on the corner.  For me, the above is even less pastoral than my calling suggests.  Still, what resources are available to guy like this especially in a near-bust town?

I don’t pretend to have the answers, but there must be one for each community – a niche in which a smaller community could build upon to thrive once again for those residing there.  Even if it begins with the thought of the traveller to intentionally stop in and say a kind “hello.”  At least that’s a start.

Me and My Itchy Trigger Finger

A cool mist rises up from between pines on HWy 101.

Well… It took two days.  But we’re here for nearly a week in Crescent City, California. Home to…um…well… a lot of rain.  It’s been raining since we’ve arrived and for a few hours before that – up till now it’s been roughly 9 to 10 hours.  Setting up in an RV isn’t fun in the rain.  Matter of fact, I’ll wait until tomorrow, or until the pond under the RV settles to place the leveling jacks for greater stability inside the RV.  Without those jacks people confuse our RV with the ones that have that bumper sticker that reads If this RV is a-rockin’ don’t come a-knockin’.  Really, as if.  We have a nearly 16 week old baby.  Do you honestly think anything like that happens here?

We’re parked about 30 minutes from the Redwood National Forest.  The drive here was mostly scenic route.  I say mostly because I mostly couldn’t see any of it.  I was too busy keeping the RV between the yellow median line and the white line of the shoulder.  If any of you have ever driven California 299 from Redding to Arcata then you know the hell of which I speak.  I’ve never seen a river that color before.  That and the evergreen that lined the river’s banks was purely breathtaking…at least, what I saw of it.

From Humbolt Lagoons State Park, looking north up the California shoreline.

Being a self-proclaimed amateur photographer my eye was more busy watching the curves than it was framing potential captures even though I spied more than a few, especially along the Trinity River – a rushing aqua-marine river that ran along the meat of the drive.  It’s not that I couldn’t stop and take a few shots, but the little camper we had in the car seat had only just fallen asleep.  Too risky to stop and wake the baby.

I did squeeze off a few rounds of shots, but it was only back on the Pacific coast of northern California, where the ocean sounded like it was raging mad.  We managed a stop and I walked to the shoreline in a cold-damp, blustery wind.  The sound of the waves crashing a hundred yards from shore and the wash between them and the beach was a low, rumbling that shook the sand beneath my feet.

There was a desire to stop the drive about every 100 feet or so to snap a photo.  If I had done that we’d still be halfway on the 299 with another 120 miles to go.

Waves of mercy, wave of grace… The power of water is not to be underestimated. The sound of the madness going on beneath the crashing waves is enough to let anyone know not to enter in.

For every rise of two to three-thousand feet of elevation there was an equal decline out of the low hanging clouds we had driven into.  Mist rose between rows of pines in seemingly spontaneous places.  An image of the Smokey Mountains came to mind.  Up and down, right then left, wipers on then off.  I kept the RV between the lines a whopping majority of the time, but my butt is still vibrating from the rumble strips I ran over that were carved into the asphalt on the side and center lines.

Life pushes onward occasionally forcing us to keep focused on the necessary but mundane rather than the beauty of life that passes by us as we move.  There was plenty of time on this trip to stop.  I should have.  Even if it woke the baby, I should have fired off a few more shots for the digital album.  Alas, there’s always tomorrow.  I’ll have to do some back-tracking.

Our GPS display at the Humbolt Lagoons. Freshwater Lagoon on the right, the mighty Pacific on the left.              (RV in the middle.)

This is the view from the shoreline of the Pacific, looking back to the RV. Right behind the RV is Freshwater Lagoon, part of the Humbolt Lagoons.

Tahoe, Tahoe, it’s Off to Work I Go

My God.  This place is beautiful.  And we aren’t going to be here much longer.  Should’ve picked this one for a full week.  Wow.

A view from Zephyr Cove, Nevada, Lake Tahoe in the morning is really impressive.

From the million dollar homes with the billion dollar views to Lake Tahoe’s shorelines that are sure to please any eye that meets it this place is beautiful beyond words.

Like I mentioned, we’re only here until tomorrow morning when we roll out back to the California central valley, Red Bluffs, to be exact.  It’s a halfway point for us as we travel over the weekend to Crescent City, California, home of redwood forests and more pacific coast wildlife.

After seeing the amazing Sequoia National Park in Three Rivers, CA, earlier this week, the beauty of Tahoe the last few days, Crescent City has much to live up to – and I’m sure it will.

Still the beauty of these places almost always leaves me in awe.

I remember a trip my brother and his two children made about four years ago and another trip made by brother-in-law and his family out to colorful Colorado to visit us.

Each visit we planned a trip to the mountains to see the state’s spectacular views, wildlife view without the fences, snow in the middle of June.  Each visit the children were a little less than impressed by nature as much as the adults.  I’m sure this is common.  I am also sure that my blossoming family will not be exempt from this phenomena.  After all, I really don’t recall much of seeing “Mount Mushmore” and the “Bad Hills” when I was three, I can’t possibly expect my 15.5 week-old daughter to be an overachiever and recall the details of this 3-month trip.

The southwest corner of Lake Tahoe hosts this jewel of a bay. Lined with boulders for walls and long, tall pines, Emerald Cove is quite the wonder.

Sophie won’t remember any of this trip like her parents will.  Especially this moment as I’m typing and she’s off-the-chain upset at something, which woke her up in her sleep…less than 30 minutes into it.

But we’ll have plenty of digital photos to share.  I can see it now:  just like those days at grandma’s house looking at Kodak slides projected onto the wall.  She’ll be bored out of her gourd.  I’ll have to wait until her first boyfriend comes over to start this.

I must have been a strange kid.  I loved the photos my grandparents would show.  I still love looking at other people’s photos and listening to the stories of their journeys. I also lived off Velveeta grilled cheese sandwiches, Oscar Mayer hot dogs (no buns necessary), Kraft Mac & Cheese, chocolate ice cream, bananas, green grapes, and McDonald’s hamburgers (just the burger, plain please) and french fries (leave off the ketchup).  Oh, and I didn’t eat pizza until I was 21-ish.  That alone is odd.

This is what I hope my daughter will pick up from me.  Not my early-childhood to early-adult picky eating habits, but a desire to hear stories.  And if they don’t come with photos then to be able to imagine what scenery would color in the blind spots.

Stories, read or told, is fertilizer for children’s imagination.  The beginning of wonder, the seed of discovery, the ignition for the flame of desire to see new things.  Dr. Seuss‘s Oh, the Places You’ll Go is a favorite.  Then there’s Shel Silverstein.  Despite his freak-a-delic mug on the back of his poetry books, The Giving Tree, is a timeless classic.  And, of course, being an ordained minister, there are several parables and Old Testament stories that I love to hear from different voices – each bringing or adding a new dimension to a two thousand year old or more story.

What to say about this other than if this tree could talk it would share some great stories about this lake with a view like this.

Countless generations orally passed along some of the greatest stories of our times.  Several more generations wrote them down and read them frequently to their chidlren.  Jacob and Esau.  The Prodigal Son.  Even this one from the Old Testament as told only as Hollywood could tell it – David and Bathsheba.  I never knew David could play the lyre like that nor did I know that Hollywood could glorify extra-marital affairs like they did this one (King David comes off pretty clean after committing nearly all 7 deadly sins in a little less than 2 hours or, scripturally, less than 20 verses).  Each individual voice can cast any one of these stories in a different light – which makes them come to life. (Beware of this last link – I also didn’t know Lego’s were capable of some Biblical literalist atrocities…this guy has WAY too much time on his hands – check out Leviticus stories…they’re pretty amusing.  That’s all I have to say about that.)

What stories do you have to tell?  How would you tell them?  Do they have photos to accompany them?  Should they have photos to accompany them?  If you have a story, I’d love to hear it – if it has pictures, well, that’s just a bonus.  Leave a comment – leave a story.  Pass it on.  Oh, by the way, mommy has successfully calmed the raging storm that is my daughter…at least for the moment.  But that’s another story.

A picture is worth…

A good walk in the fresh air always…um…makes her fall asleep.

 

 

 

The Most Expensive Gas Ever

We’re in Nevada, again.  A lovely three-night’s stay within eyesight of Lake Tahoe.  Beautiful…when it isn’t raining.

This morning, as my lovely bride woke for a 6 a.m. conference call I stayed in bed watching over our snoozing 15-weeks old little girl.  When she woke about 8:00 a.m. it was time for daddy day-care and a spousal rescue effort.  That’s right.  I had to go for coffee.

I had to drive all the way to California for coffee this morning.   A whopping 8 miles there and back.  I even surprised my bride of nearly 12 years with banana walnut bread.  Scored major points.

The last time I filled the gas tank of the RV was somewhere in the central valley of California, about 120 miles south of Sacramento, give or take a few miles.  The price, if paying via credit card, was $4.17 per gallon.

This morning’s “gas” was about $9 bucks for barely a quart.  But it was the best $30 per gallon “gas” that I’ve ever had.

And to top it off, I was able to help someone in need.

At a women’s fellowship gathering this past January, my wife picked up this idea from another lovely lady in our congregation, which she found on Pinterest, to gather some necessary items for a little gallon zip-lock lag of helpfulness.  Included in the bags are a $10 gift card to Walmart, a few disposable razors and shaving cream, some snack bars, tissues, shampoo, toothbrush and toothpaste, hand sanitizer, and a number of other items – the bags can be quite unique with whatever may come to mind.

I simply handed the bag to the gentleman standing on the corner, expressing my hope that the items could provide some comfort and help along this man’s journey, a journey that I hope will turn more fortunate in the days to come.

There’s a raging debate over social care these days.  I have been patient to listen to all sides of the story before putting this response together.

There’s a small piece of scripture that sums up our society.  You will always have the poor with you.

The idea behind social services is to offer a hand up, not a hand out, as many will debate.  I also understand that some people invested in the welfare programs offered exist to abuse said social services for just that, a hand out.

However, I do believe ideas like drug testing for welfare recipients is just as inane an idea as bears playing basketball.  Florida has already proved that beyond a reasonable doubt.  And now North Carolina, Michigan, and a few other states are considering the same testing.

Let’s face it – the concern is wasting public monies on the degenerates of society, if there is such a thing.  I get that.  I wouldn’t want to waste money either.  Especially on coffee…oops.  However, while the concern is heavily on our welfare recipients, why do lawmakers consistently turn down the idea that they should be tested too?  What do they have to hide?

We will always have the poor with us.  That doesn’t mean we should neglect those in need or keep giving those who want a hand out a hand out.  It means we need an overhaul of the social system that offers a consistent hand up.  It also means that we need to recognize that some people just won’t take advantage of a system to help themselves to a better place.  In my line of work, that doesn’t negate the obligation to offer help.  As author MK Asante once said, “if you make an observation, you have an obligation.”

Perhaps that help comes in the form of a zip-lock bag that was relatively cheap to put together to offer some assistance in the interim.   Perhaps that means another food drive to fill the shelves of a community pantry.  We will always have the poor.  Neglect is not an option.

So my coffee was great.  The the bag to someone in need offered a little hope for myself that I’m doing the right thing – offering some assistance that won’t necessarily go to waste.  Sure, the young man could simply throw it out.  I suppose I’ll run into that.

Compassion for others is a great gift.  We shouldn’t let that go to waste.  We must not let that go to waste.

I know this is overly simple.  I know I haven’t even begun to scratch the surface of an issue that deeply divides.  But it doesn’t have to be complicated.

Keep it simple people.  Start with loving one another.

 

 

 

 

Lifestyles of the Rich and the Famous

I was fascinated that with all the elaborate and intricate features of this massing home all Hearst could think to call it was “Big House” – Casa Grande.

There’s something interesting and disturbing, all the same, about Hearst Castle.  I was in awe over the architecture and the relics that reside on the expansive property.  With the simple name of Casa Grande, which doesn’t seem too original if not for the date of the historic build, the rather imposing structure of the home stands alone.

A eclectic collection of religious, particularly Catholic-based, paintings, tapestries, monk benches, elaborate ceilings, and stone carvings occupy the space in the grand rooms of the Castle.  It was William Randolph Hearst’s private collection, donated back to the state of California and its residents when financial woes became his reality.  Most of the artwork was from a particular period of time that Hearst was most fascinated with – thus the large amount of religious artifacts – because Hearst himself wasn’t big on religion.

These halls played host to the rich and the famous of the 1920’s and 30’s.  Charlie Chaplain.  Irving Berlin.  Movie and sports stars galore.

With such a rich history why does a place like this become a museum, or better yet, a mausoleum, a memory to that which has come and…gone?

Well… Money simply doesn’t last.

700 year old spanish monk seating – Used as ‘paneling’ for many of the grand rooms in the Hearst Castle.

Yet we still live like it does.

Does Hearst Castle exist to inspire us to do something similar?  Or is this Californian State Park  something through which we learn from past mistakes?

Either way, the State Park does serve a purpose.  It’s radically awesome to look at.

Close up or from a distance.

It sits high up on a grassy hillside hidden only from view when the spring-time fog off the Pacific veils her from view or during the drive up to the home as the driveway was designed to hide and reveal the castle over and over again.  The pathway is lined with cattle now, part of the Hearst Ranch that sits at the base of the estate.  However in previous years you’d see Zebra, some of which have become native to the surrounding area, giraffes, gazelle, and an assortment of other range animals popular to local zoos.

Believe it or not, that’s the Pacific ocean beneath all those clouds.

I can only imagine the view of the Pacific, deep blue and as vast as any body of water, would be spectacular to view from the various verandas embedded in a rainbow of colorful flowers.  This day wasn’t the case as that mist I mentioned earlier blanketed the entire ocean, making it look more like a soft downy-filled comforter across a king-sized bed.

Truth is this:  Things come and things go.  Memories fade with the passing of time.  History is only made when an event is published…or given, like the Hearst Castle.  Sure, when jolly old William became sick he could’ve stayed in his private Mount Olympus and withered away peacefully.  The entire estate could have simply been moth-balled or even bull-dozed…although, I’d hate to be that bulldozer driver riding that rig all the way to the top of this hill.  Yikes.

Hearst gave it back.  Whatever the amount he made off the folk that bought into his interests, he gave this piece of history back to them…and to their future generations.

As long as the estate went largely unaltered, the State of California Parks and Recreation service could have it.  Can you imagine the millions of people who have traipsed through the Hearst grounds?  Could you imagine, if William were still around, the smile on his face knowing these people enjoyed this place…even though they didn’t get to swim in either one of the pools.

The Neptune pool at Hearst Castle. Nice.

You’ve heard the saying you can’t take it with you.  You can’t.  So why not give a little piece of joy back to others?  I may not have much of an inheritance when I come to pass.  But I do want to give the world back something it can use.  A legacy of sorts.  I haven’t quite figured out what that is.  But according to my cardiologist I’ve got plenty of time.

Maybe I’ll leave behind a grand ool.  That’s a pool… just without any “p” in it.

Located out of general site, beneath the tennis courts, is the Roman Pool. Wow.

Sneeze You Later…

I packed two Kleenex boxes.  Extras for the road, you know.  It’s like packing the proverbial clean underwear for your nose.

We’ve purchased two since we’ve left just two weeks ago.  One of the two I have just now emptied.

I’m exhausted but my abs are TIGHT, YEAH!

Turns out late March isn’t exactly the best time to see southern California…if you have allergies.  I hadn’t sneezed like this in quite some time.  I don’t recall the last time I had a sneezing fit that lasted two weeks.  Yet, since we left Colorado, nature has managed to successfully eliminate my nearly-bionic ability to physically block histamine.

Tonight?  Two generic zyrtec, one Claritin D, and another 200 tissues and counting.

And it was worth it.

Driving up and over the pass to the ocean.

Buellton is  beautiful in the spring time.  Mornings of heavy mist carpet the landscape until the sun peaks about noon-time, when all becomes clear again.  It’s kinda like the ads for Claritin clear… but in a way that really works.  The morning fog evaporate to reveal lush, steep rolling hills.  The grass a bright green with patches of lavender and yellow wild flowers and the hillsides spotted with trees – the kind any boy would love to climb into.  It’s quite the idyllic scene laying in and around vast expanses of vineyards for the vino consumerist in some of us.

I enjoyed a few moments outside on our RV Park patch of grass with my 14-week old daughter.  Until, last Thursday, suddenly the wind picked up and as I turned to see what the weather was doing behind me all I could see was a pale yellow dust-like haze in the air, similar to the dry howling winds of northeastern Colorado that stirs up dust and drops it when the wind stops.

But this wasn’t wind kicked-up dust.  It was pollen.  Within seconds I was covered.  Sophie was covered.  My laptop was covered, my iPhone, my grill, our chairs…etc.

I have yet to recover.

Vineyards in their early blossoming.

I should have invested in some wine from this part of the country, it would have made this hyper allergenic roller coaster much more fun to ride.

I’m thinking the RV may need a deep interior cleaning.  The good news is that Sophie hasn’t displayed any signs of being just as allergic to pollen as I have in the last 72 hours.  (And if babies develop that at a later stage, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know – I enjoy the occasional bliss of ignorance.)

So now we’re in Three Rivers, California, close to the southern entrance to the Sequoia National Park.  From wine fields to citrus groves.  The RV park we’re in shall remain nameless as it advertised wireless internet but that same internet is difficult to access and there is absolutely no Verizon signal.  We’re nearly off the grid.

Speaking of which, tomorrow’s Easter and we’ll also be completely off the church grid for worship, too.  This may be the first time I’ve ever missed an Easter service in my entire life.  What in Christ’s resurrected name am I going to do?  I think I’ll go see some big, old trees.

I’ve harped on those who misunderstand what the spiritual discipline of worship is all about – and here I am missing my 3rd in a row.

I’ve heard all the reasons why some people choose not to attend.  I’m spiritual but not religious (Hear this one all the time).  Being outside is my worship space.  Music is my sanctuary (Thank you to Sarah McLachlan for that one… I almost completely agree with you).  My work is my worship.  Wait a minute.  Your work is your worship?  What is it you do and are you hiring?

There is something I’ll miss tomorrow morning, besides being with family and friends on what I consider to be a special, holy day.  I’m not sure what that something is.

Point is, there is something we miss by not practicing our faith.  The same thing goes for those who choose not to practice their trade.  Would Justin Verlander have just signed a new contract with the Detroit Tigers for a redonkulous (yes, that’s how ridiculous it really is… reDONKulous) amount of money without practice?  We all know what Allen Iverson thinks of practice and perhaps what he now thinks of his former career in the NBA.

So, would you go to a doctor who didn’t practice?  Would you lay odds on the team that didn’t practice the week before the big game to win it?  Would you hop on an aircraft with a rookie pilot who hasn’t taken a real flight out of the simulator?  Would you follow a Rotarian into a mission field if he/she only said the 4-Way Test (scroll down a bit on the page for this one) and not practiced it in real life?  (I know, this last is tough to relate for someone not involved in a service organization but in a way it’s more like an organization practicing the basic principles of Christianity without having to admit that you are one.)

I didn’t think so.

The saying, practice makes perfect, was hinting at something.

Now, I’m not saying that you all reading this post must absolutely practice what I’m practicing.  I wouldn’t pretend to say that what I’ve got is the best.  There may be another road for you.  If there is another road, please DRIVE IT, ALREADY!  And do the speed limit, at least.  No one likes a Sunday driver.

Practice planting a tree if your into the environment.  Practice every facet of politics if you fancy having a say in public policy (not just one party side, but thoroughly researching all viewpoints to one argument to be truly informed and not simply living out a set of indoctrinated values).  Practice the skills of futbol, the original soccer, the beautiful game, so that you can play for the Colorado Rapids one day and help them back to the MLS Cup (it’s been a rough couple years for us season ticket holders).  Practice how to pray if you want to be good at it – really, it’s easier said than done.  I should know, I’m still trying this one on.

I’ll miss the rolling hillsides of that southern portion of California.  I wouldn’t mind returning…after pollination season has ended.  I’m also sure I wouldn’t know what to miss if I don’t ever return to see what it is that I’ve been missing.  Practice means to do something over and over and over again until it becomes something close to second-nature.

Having said that, I’ll be missing the practice of rediscovering resurrection.  New life.  The kind of stuff spring time is made of – flower budding, bees buzzing and, yes, even the pollen falling…seemingly directly into my nostrils.

Go to go now… I feel a sneeze coming on…  But before I do, please allow me offer you a preemptive BLESS YOU! as you rediscover practice on your own.

Climbing Out the Valley

The Santa Barbara Mission prepared for the Holy Week & Easter.

Another 40 days of Lent have come and nearly gone.  Another time of sacrifice and journeying coming to a close with the celebration of Easter and the entrance of a number of people who haven’t set foot in church since last Christmas Eve.

My own journey isn’t what it has cracked up to be.  To borrow a friend’s expression, it rather “crapped” up to be less than I had hoped.

I had wanted some real time in silence.  Some intentional time in prayer.  Some time spent on my own faith journey in reflection, other than writing blog posts.

It hasn’t happened.

That feeling of renewal I had hoped to experience this time of Lent hasn’t happened.

Maybe I’m to caught up in the travel to settle my own spirit down.  Maybe I’m too busy providing daddy day care to find time with God, after all, I did chalk up a good hour and a half nap today after one fussy ride into town and back.  And maybe I’m just not wired the way I had hoped I’d be.

I look up to a lot of spiritual-based people of the past, hoping to live up to those expectations and do something great – like, maybe, change the world or something.  Martin Luther King, Jr., Archbishop Oscar Romero, and so many other notables run through my thoughts.

At this point, the fictional Luke Skywalker sounds pretty appealing, too.

I think I’m right when I say, I’m just not wired that way.

If I can self-differentiate that over and against my own expectations, or even those who have expectations of me, then I’d be fine.  I’m not fine.  I am in this valley.  This valley shadowed with doubt.  Doubting myself.

While touring the Santa Barbara Mission, a beautiful historical site founded in 1786, I had a few moments to reconcile my own faith.

So here goes…

Listen, I’m not the kind of guy that’s gonna be remembered in 300 years.  For that matter, I’m probably not going to be remembered after 100 years except in old digital photos carried on by family and the occasional Rev. Larsen 8X10 hanging in a hallway of a church I used to pastor.  I’m not the kind of pastor that many think of when they hear that term, pastor.  I prefer to not wear a robe (I know, I’m a real trend-setter here), I prefer to step out of the pulpit and “talk” to the congregation rather than preach.  I prefer to not do a lot of things traditional pastors do.

I have a friend on Facebook who writes an awful lot about personal achievements.  I’d consider this person a scholar – smarter than your average bear…uh, pastor.  While trying to read this person’s posts I feel I’ve been dumbed down.  It seems like half the words this person uses are not in my vocabulary…all my literary slots are full.

Inside the Santa Barbara Mission

If I can’t understand him… well…

I’m a tell-it-to-me-like-I’m-a-third-grader type of guy.  A real keep-it-simple learner.  And doer.

I’m too broken of an individual to be in a spotlight.  The skeletons in my closet are enough to make any politician feel at ease.

There’s this statue inside the Mission that appealed to me.  It’s an image of Christ appearing to Mary Magdalene after resurrection.  I love this for a few reasons…

First, the Son of God appears to a woman…first.  Not just any woman, but a woman that some think he may have been quite fond of.  And she was broken.

The image of Mary looking up, responding to a call from the resurrected Christ.

Second, and sounding a bit redundant, she was broken.  Quite the follower, though.  Stayed by when the others had left or even denied.  She was a cast-away, a marginalized of society…and yet loved.  Loved enough to be appeared-to first.

Third, whatever she thought she was she had left behind.  This is the absolute power of Grace.

My own memory prevents me from moving forward.  The faults of my past, and there are many, bitterly linger in my thoughts, only a second away from being reminded at moments notice.

This image of Christ holding out his had to Mary struck me silent.  I mean, aside from looking rather caucasian and being ripped – you could do laundry on those abs – there is a sincere look on his face that is replicated in Mary’s.

The way I see it, that is complete understanding.

Call it love, call it grace, call it whatever you want, there is this moment where the two understood each other.

I guess that’s all I want to be.

For my congregation members and my peers and my family, I just want that understanding.  The kind of understanding that says okay, I get it, you are who you are and that is more than okay with me.

I’d love to lead a large, mega-church style congregation.  I’d love to be published (I have a feeling my vocabulary will hold me back on that one).  I’d love to be admire in the field of Theology by hundreds…

But…and that’s a real big BUT…

OMG – The cuteness is overwhelming. Please God, don’t let me screw this one up.

I’m okay if it doesn’t happen.  I have to be.  Matter of fact, my focus is a little more on trying not to screw up the life of my beautiful 100-day old daughter than it is on the realities of practical ministry.  I can’t believe these little critters don’t come with Lego-style how-to manuals for us guys.  I mean, Ikea furniture does, why not babies?

All said and done, I am your average Joe pastor.  Not too much flare, but sincere, loving, grace-filled, and wanting to have an honest talk with those who want to honestly listen to something simple and obtainable – how to love one another.

Doubting isn’t necessarily a bad thing.  Being an insufferable know-it-all may be to those trying to find a way in from the margins, for those trying to climb up out of a valley in shadow… for one like me.

I’m grateful for the sincere face holding out his hand…  This Lenten season I am reminded of that relationship of acceptance for who I am – me.

 

 

My Greatest Symphony

It was a dark and stormy night…  which has nothing to do with this post, it’s just that I have always wanted to write that.

The map is beginning to fill in! 5 states and counting!

For 392 miles I have been thinking of what to write for this post.  There is much ruminating in my head after a busy weekend in Vegas with friends – A trip to the Hoover Dam and a Las Vegas Wranglers hockey game, too.  Made for one tired little 13.5 week-old daughter.  And mother.  Okay, and me, too.  So by the time we arrived in Buellton, California, I had this idea…

I love music.  I would think that I have a deep appreciation for music that didn’t stem from my Music Appreciation 101 class in Junior College.  My family, in varying degrees, have all been into music.  My oldest brother even worked for a time as a radio DJ.  (But he makes an even better high school english teacher)

I’d move to Tennessee just for this plate.

My father and mother both sing, as do my older brothers, although one doesn’t admit it.  Even my wife can carry a tune in a bucket better than some I’ve heard.  But she doesn’t believe me.

With all this music in the family I, too, was immersed into a creative culture of tunage.  My first concert was Harry Chapin at the Welsh Auditorium in Grand Rapids, Michigan.  I was 9.  Way before that I had my father’s headphones on listening and memorizing words to Chapin’s tunes with greater efficiency than any early elementary student could.

One of my favorites was this song called Six String Orchestra.  In case you’re too busy to listen to it, here are the words to the chorus…

And so I’d dream a bass will join me,
and fill the bottom in.
And maybe now some lead guitar
so it would not sound so thin.
I need some drums to set the beat
and help me keep in time.
And way back in the distance,
some strings would sound so fine.

And we’d all play together,
like fine musicians should,
And it would sound like music,
and the music would sound good.
But in real life I’m stuck with
that same old formula,
me and my monophonic symphony,
six string orchestra.

This is my vision for what I do in ministry.  I dream a bass would join me, and fill the bottom in.  There’s nothing like having the unconditional support of one’s congregation, family, friends, peers – for whatever it is you do.  That’s that bass line – dependable, always there in the background and, if you’ve got a great sound system, when your support is there you can feel it in your gut.

And maybe now some lead guitar.  Oh, I wish I could solo like some of my friends could – shred the fretboard with, as Jack Black would say, “mind-melting riffs.”  I play guitar…but not like Eddie Van Halen.  These are the people that aren’t afraid to come forward to lead something.  Anything.  When something needs to be done this is the person who jumps forward to rip a solo and take care of awe-ing the crowd with their abilities.  Let’s face it:  we all have strengths we can use.  Even in a church-setting.  Don’t know yours?  Maybe you should ask someone like me.  In ministry we call this process discernment.  We pastors simply don’t use it enough.

I need some drums to set the beat.  I grew up playing the drums.  Since I was 11 I was keeping time on my brother’s drums while listening to my favorites with cassette tapes (omg – I’m old) and, more contemporary but still out-dated, a portable CD player.  In the 31 years that I’ve been playing I have come to learn that being too busy on the drums can be a bad thing.  Rhythm isn’t just keeping time.  It’s knowing how important and crucial silence is between the beats.  Yes, silence.  Without it, you can’t have rhythm.  A decent drummer knows when to play hard and when to lay back or even stop altogether.

In my early 20’s I attended a drum clinic with Liberty DeVitto – drummer for Billy Joel.  This is the guy that taught me how drums do more than just keep the beat; they can shape the whole song.  Listen to Billy Joel’s Downeaster Alexa  and tell me you’re not feeling the peak and trough of the high seas on a fishing boat.  Or, better yet, listen to Pressure and tell me your anxiety isn’t rising with the progression of the tune and the heartbeat-like thump of the drums.  You need someone to drive that music, right?  Prayerfully, they’ll drive it while knowing what the tune is really all about, like Liberty.

And way back in the distance, some strings would sound so fine.  StringS.  Plural.  Not one.  Not your guitar solo and not your rockin’ 12-minute drum solo by Dr. Neil Peart.  Many hands make for light work, right?  I love a good string background.  Without that element some music can sound just empty.  It’s the same in our churches.  Without people to help with the work flow…well…so many things stop dead in their music track.  Compare a half-filled sanctuary to a filled sanctuary on Easter and you’ll understand the difference.  There’s an energy present that can only be describes as “spirit-filled.”

And we’d all play together, like fine musicians should…

I once heard Church described like this:  Imagine a great concert hall.   The kind of hall where grand orchestras and symphonies jam out the classics like Mozart and Bach.  Some would say that to compare this venue to a church God would be the conductor, directing the pastor, who is the orchestra, and the audience are the people in the pews.

That works…in most dying churches today.  I’ve overheard some people say they just want to show up, be fed, and be left alone.  Really?  This is why you go to church?  Why bother?  You’re missing the point.

I think the analogy works better like this:  The pastor is the conductor.  The people in the pews are the instrumentalists, and God is the audience.  Now… what music are we going to play for the audience?

Like any pastor, I want a congregation that’s willing to play.  I want a congregation that knows each and every one of them has a part to play in this great symphony of life.  It’s simply a matter of finding the right instrument, the right music, and the right conductor.  Then the music begins… melodies so rich and full.  And when you listen carefully you can hear the individual artists playing their part.

I want to direct the greatest symphony.  I want you to be a part of my orchestra – either nearby or far away.  I want to conduct a tune that makes the world go ’round.  A song that makes hearts sing and leaves a person with a sense of accomplishment and a better world.  And here’s the thing – you do have a part in this.  I don’t care if you don’t follow Christ or if you’re so cynical that the words you say may offend me or anyone else.  I don’t mind if you use salty language or if you consider yourself Jesus’ next of kin – YOU have a part in this symphony.

I personally don’t want to be stuck with that same old formula, if you catch my drift.  Nope, no monophonic symphony for me.

Dinner before a Las Vegas Wranglers hockey game.

Now, I realize not all will want to play along.  That’s okay.  It really is.  To each his own… or in this case, her own.  That hockey game we went to this past weekend… there was at least one who did not want to play along.  With obnoxious voice and a crass vocabulary that would make Pope Francis blush, she wasn’t going to go quietly into the night, no, she had to play her own tune over and above everyone else’s.  She even played it right over my very tired daughter.  Of course, that’s why you have the bass support of arena security – they fill the bottom in.

There are some that need a little more directing than others.

Still, there is a symphony to be played.  I hope and pray that those of you who follow this will want to play along with me.  Create a little beauty that may leave someone humming it’s melody.

And it would sound like music,
and the music would sound good.

A little more…

As Fast as You Can…?

I drove the minivan today on an 80-mile stretch of I-17 in Arizona.  I felt like I was of Richard Petty talent in a minivan race of NASCAR.  After driving the RV on interstate roads and local highways I’ve noticed a slight difference in the acceleration ability between our Honda Odyssey and the Jayco Greyhawk.  Just a little.

Kinda like my Odyssey… without Homer. Let that one sink in a bit.

It was difficult to keep my foot off the pedal and not go for broke – after all my minivan does have balls the size of church bells for a family sedan grocery-getter.  There (to Phoenix) and back again (not a hobbit’s tale) in about 3 hours with some heavy traffic on the return side of the trip – not to mention, two stops to plug the baby.  (She’s so stinkin’ cute, but she doesn’t hold on to that pacifier when it is just me in the car)

While in Phoenix I met with a good friend, the one responsible for this career in ministry.  Back in 1996 Pastor Ted, as I have known him, told me I should go into the ministry.  He said I had a ‘gift.’  I politely told him he was full of sh_t.  Four years later, I was in the ministry.  He was right.  I was wrong.

Pastor Ted is the kind of pastor I want.  The man exudes unconditional love – for all.  He and his ordained wife co-pastored a large UCC in the Phoenix area.  Notice the past tense.  He’s now off on a new-church start with a whole new set of perimeters that any established church would find too nonspecific.  But before I derail my train of thought, Ted is the person you’d find on all those, um…er… those TED talks – inspirational.  His laugh and his love for others is contagious.

The point is he and his wife are no longer there and not by their own choice.

Churches can be brutal.  They can be brutal in countless ways.  Any non-Christian may wonder why we worship a God whose symbol is an ancient Roman tool of torture and inevitable death – the crucifix.  I believe the answer is, quite frankly, that some Christians want to put it back into practice…on their own parishioners or even their own pastors.

Some will say churches have lost their significance.  Some will say the Church isn’t a relevant source of inspiration for their spirituality to feed from.  From the ‘Spiritual-but-not-religious’ to the agnostic to the atheist to even the regular worship attendee – they’re almost right.

It’s not that the Church has lost touch with the general population, but it has lost the ability to be unconditionally compassionate, empathetic, simpatico.  It’s exchanged unconditional love for self-righteousness, occasionally for righteous indignation.

If anything else, the guy is handsome.

Recently, Rob Bell, thought of as one of the leaders of the emergent church movement, made the news as being openly supportive of gay marriage.  To my dismay, a few of my colleagues started hating on the fella because he’s just now doing this instead of doing this back when he was the lead pastor of his start-up church in Grandville, MI, called Mars Hill Bible Church, not to be confused with Mars Hill in Seattle, a church that is far from proclaiming marriage equality.

Here’s my take: (And so glad you asked)  First, Rob has never preached against marriage equality.  In all his work and teachings, all I’ve ever heard from Rob, aside from occasional and appropriate satire, was a positive message about following Christ.  Boiled down into two words – love others.  That’s it.  Period.  I know Rob started this church on his own.  I know the first Sunday’s attendance was over 1,000 people.  I know that many of my friends and their friends were leaving mainline denomination churches in droves to attend worship in this converted, nearly-abandoned mall – yes, a friggin’ mall.  The place is gigantic.  I also know that my personal feelings toward this Rob Bell phenomenon were not pleasant at first.  I was just as pissed at Bell, calling their worship ‘candy store’ theology…until I attended a service at Mars Hill Bible Church…and learned something new and something about myself in the process.  In its heyday Mars Hill would see about 12,000 people file through its doors on a worship Sunday.  That’s A LOT of people.

Did you know, just off hand, that Ben Fold’s Five Song for the Dumped makes for an awesome prelude to worship?  Give me my money back, give me my money back, you… (they didn’t sing the lyrics, but the house band rocked it!)

Second, I belong to one of the most progressive mainline churches in America – the United Church of Christ.  Which, of course, is almost unapologetic in its progressiveness.  It’s known as The Church of Firsts – ordaining the first African American, ordaining the first woman, and ordaining the first openly gay minister.  Sweet.  Matter of fact, in everything the U.C.C. stands for it is about 20 years ahead of other mainline denominations.  Not bad for a smaller denomination compared to the Presbyterian Church, PC(USA) or the Evangelical Lutheran Church of America (ELCA), or, the overwhelmingly huge Catholic Church. (They are, by the way, Christians)

What bugs me about the U.C.C. are the following:

• It’s the UnitED church OF Christ and not the UnitING Church IN Christ.  It’s like we’ve hung the MISSION ACCOMPLISHED sign on all of Christianity.  Oops… not yet, people.  If anyone reading this has been to a General Synod of the United Church of Christ during its business meeting portion of the event then you’d know that being united  is harder than it looks in print.
• Because of their radical stance on social justice issues like marriage equality, the U.C.C. estranges people in their own denomination.  What?  How can that be?  Due to this beautiful and complex phrase called local autonomy, any local church can believe in a manner acceptable to their local church as long as they’re not going off the deep end, which, for the U.C.C., is occasionally hard to see where that ‘end’ really is.  Still, the faster it goes, the more people are left behind… more on that in a moment.

I live in a more conservative area of Colorado.  I preach there, too.  I preach in a church that considers itself “theologically diverse.”  I am also an advocate of equality for all the world’s people.  I also despise the use of the word queer to describe a people I find as beautiful as the rest of the straight world.  Doesn’t queer mean things like odd, strange, unusual, funny, peculiar, curious, bizarre, weird, uncanny, freakish, eerie, unnatural, unconventional, unorthodox, unexpected, unfamiliar, abnormal, anomalous, atypical, untypical, out of the ordinary, incongruous, irregular, puzzling, perplexing, baffling, unaccountable; informal fishy,spooky, bizarro, and freaky.  I think those that argue for and support equality for all people don’t find gay people to be any or all of the above…on the contrary.

In the communities to the east and west of our humble community there were two more U.C.C. churches.  Notice the past tense.  They now have joined another denomination – the Conservative Congregational Church Conference, a.k.a The Four C’s.  These two churches felt as if the national office of the U.C.C. were forcing upon them the belief of marriage equality.  For many local church members, and sadly, many local church ministers, the phrase local autonomy didn’t matter.  The national office stepped off the deep end of belief.

Now, I don’t believe words like conservative or  liberal belong in theological conversations whatsoever.  They only serve to cause division rather than, say for example, unite.  Oh… there’s a concept.  What if we had a uniting Church?

Even within the U.C.C. there is rabid division – you can be O&A (Open and Affirming) or Faithful & Welcoming (still recognizing homosexuality as sinful gig) or you can be…well…you can just be.  Kinda like the church I serve.

But then, I would be accused of not being prophetic enough.  So I should just risk it all and tell my congregation to accept gay marriage and “get over it” if they don’t.  At the same time, I’d lose a majority of my congregation by verbally pushing that social justice issue…all up-in-your-face about it.

What many of my peers fail to realize is how many Christians we piss off by telling them point-blank it’s my way or the highway.  In a denomination that believes, or so I thought it did, in unification of Christians, telling other Christians who simply can’t wrap their minds around an opposing view that they are wrong simply doesn’t fly.

I heard of a pastor in Stone Mountain, Georgia who did just that.  Told his congregation that marriage equality was they way they were going to go.  End result?  Nearly half of a 6,000 member church left.  And those that left were probably pissed.  Not just the members that left, but the children of said members and maybe even their children.  So, while advocating for social justice for all people (something I deeply believe in) that church managed to divide over one theological issue, sending thousands into the abyss of resentment, digging in their heels for a battle anytime a chance at unification may rear its ugly head.

Rob never told Mars Hill he was pro-marriage quality.  Why do that and risk angering 6,000 people who desperately need to hear a message of love?  Just because it’s the right thing to do or there’s no better time than the present?  For who?  Also, who decides when the right time is for such an announcement to be made for this particular environment?  There is more than one social justice factor to consider.

But there’s another way.  And this way takes time.  This was always takes time.

Ask yourself these questions:   Have you ever noticed social change on a day-to-day basis?  From today to tomorrow, do you witness change on a global scale?  What you look back on the past 20 years of your life (if you’ve lived that long), how has life changed?

Truth is, we see change far better in the rear-view mirror than looking at the pavement in front of us.  Yes, change does happen.  Mostly in small increments.  We could say that the State of Colorado signing into law a civil union bill is massive change.  But how long, again, did it take that to happen?  It wasn’t overnight.

I often sit this way when I’m on my throne.  Wait… is that too much information?

When the Israelites are in Babylonian captivity under the rule of Nebuchadnezzar, the prophet Jeremiah wrote to them telling them to build houses and settle down there.  He told them to seek the prosperity of the city in which they now live, not just for themselves but for the sake of the city.  He told them that after 70 years God would come for them.  (Jeremiah, ch. 29)

70 years?  Why 70?  Why not just one?

How many generations of one family can you fit into 70 years?  Perhaps four?  One new generation every 20 years, for example, would make four generations in 70 years.  What happens when the ideals of one generation pass away?  Then the next?  Then the one after that?

Slowly with time and the quite literal death of old-shool thought, the world changes.  To change a societies way of thinking overnight, whether it be secular or theological, is nuttier than a Nutter Butter.

The methodology behind Jeremiah’s madness was to teach the Israelites to love their new digs.  To love those around them while maintaining their faith beliefs and practicing them just as they always had done before.  Keep doing what you’re doing with that LOVE thing, people! is what Jeremiah was preaching.  Love one another.  Regardless of their beliefs.  Even if they can’t change their mind as fast as the generation before them – love them.

To tell them they’re wrong, that the older ideals of theology just aren’t relevant anymore is to tell them that they aren’t relevant anymore.

I’m not willing to do that to anyone.  But I am willing to love all.  Unconditionally, no matter their speed of their faith, even if they never come to agree with me.

A good friend, April, wrote this.  I happen to admire this writing as it relates to this lengthy one of my own.

We are a society bent on winning, sometimes at all costs.  While we may believe it is all the right reasons sometimes it is just to piss off the ‘other’ party and set them back a decade in progressive movement.

It is okay to lose.  How you show love in the process makes the difference.

I don’t think we should drive as fast as we can to that final destination – we risk hurting others.  We risk hurting others who have faith, just a faith that’s lived differently than our own.  We should not forsake them.

I do believe we should keep on ‘driving’ per se, knowing it may take us 70 years to change.

Love… It really does win.  I have two of these stickers on my beloved RV – I may need to adhere a few more…

Oh, and Rob, thanks for your opinion, no matter when you spoke it, it’s all good!  By the way, I’m rolling through LA next week… can we meet?  Coffee?  A donut?  Some good conversation?  Please?

My Patronus is an Aerodynamic RV

Battling the wind didn’t take away from the awe-inspiring beauty of southeastern Utah.

355 miles.  What was the mileage like today?  Glad you asked.  Roughly 5.5 mpg.  Yep, from Moab, UT to Sedona, AZ a little bit of a headwind.  Not sure what the gusts were, but this rolling 31 foot billboard felt the breeze.  From the left.  From the right.  From the front.  But not once from the rear.  That’s where I like it – from the rear.  Ooo… That sounded weird.  I like a good tailwind, is what I meant to say.  Really.  I swear.  Anyway, that mpg was roughly $.85 per mile.  I could physically run cheaper than that, but I’d still be in Moab.

To know that your RV rig only spent all but 15 minutes of driving time downshifting due to high winds is somewhat stressing.  That knot that I had in my shoulder returned with vengeance.  After all, I was sitting up in the ‘captain’s’ chair, pulling myself forward to the steering wheel like my leaning forward would induce greater, progressive momentum.

The Jayco Greyhawk 31FK in tow-mode. Nice setting against the brilliant bazillion year-old rock surfaces.

What I’d love to develop is a fine-running, sleek aerodynamic RV for these kind of conditions.  I mean, we did drive through northeastern Arizona.  (Sorry AZ, but Utah stole your picturesque scenery on highways 163, 160, and 89 all the way to Flagstaff)  There was absolutely nothing to break the wind from beating the sides and front of the RV – no trees (at  least, trees tall and wide enough to do the trick), no nothing…  There was a lot of sand, however.  I still have some in my shorts.  How it got there I have no idea.  I want an RV that can plow through high winds at the holler of “EXPECTO PATRONUM!!!”

A delightful time (in the morning hours) to watch the sun move through the opening in the arch…

Life can present itself in much the same manner.  There are days when it is simply hard to move froward and doing so requires a exorbitant amount energy.  Then there are days when your energy pushes you forward.  My near-13 week-old daughter Sophie Ann is mostly like the latter.  When I’m with her I feel delighted…most of the time.  There are days when nothing seems to settle her unsettledness, not even Dr. Karp’s 5 S’s.  Kinda like having nothing to block the wind.

Still, whatever the day brings, at the end of the day you arrive safe at home where rest awaits – a recharge for the day to come, the oasis gas station to fill your tank when the wind has caused you to lose more than anticipated.

So stop and fill up.  If your day was life-taking or life-giving, you deserve a break from the winds of life.  A good rest awaits.

Located minutes from Mexican Water, Arizona (didn’t go there… I had mexican water once. Didn’t go well), Mexican Hat stands out in a crowd of rock structures. By ‘Hat,’ do they mean sombrero? Because I don’t think it looks like one.