Brainwaves

All three of my daughters still not only attend church, but are also involved, in one way or another, within some area of its programming. The oldest is yet faithful to the very assembly I abandoned about two years ago after investing myself into its ministry for more than three decades. There are some great people there, great worship, and my wife’s family were some of those who poured themselves into its birthing. It was not easy to pull up stakes, leave it all behind, and start elsewhere. Yet people change, and theologies change, and somewhere along the way it became clear to me that I could not longer follow where the guy in charge was taking us. While I’m even now convinced his heart means well, I could no longer buy what he was bringing forth and it just came down to a final parting of the ways…………..

Now I’m watching my youngest struggle with the same scenario, different bunch. She and her husband live about a hundred miles south of here and were invited awhile back to become “youth pastors” in a small independent Pentecostal work that he has known since birth. No salary and let’s extend that position to include Music Director, Sunday School Superintendent, Bus Driver, and a few other assorted titles. It’s been a long ride and one that has suddenly turned into a Biblical principle demanded by their pastor for women to simply remain silent and obey their husband in all things. At this point, it’s probably needless to say: all is not quiet on the southern front. My wife is about three shakes away from blowing a bugle and charging from the northern perimeter. Me? I’m convinced prayer will prevail…………..

Bigger, “organized” members of the ecclesiastical community are not without their own problems, of course. I’ve just not been around that too much and it seems to me that they have their boards to insure any one individual doesn’t commit “heresy”. When the group is small and without any national ties, however, it’s a little easier for one guy to declare himself Moses, take a tangent, and attempt to take the flock into what he has determined to be “the promised land”. I suppose it’s why we are termed, regardless of size, the body of Christ. Capitalize it if you so desire, but it yet remains that flesh is flesh and it matters not which side of the altar you occupy. Pulpit or pew, humanity, reconnected or not with the Holy Ghost, still is subject to go its own way, do its own thing, and think itself to be righteousness personified throughout the process…………….

God save us all…………..

It’s Sunday evening. We did the Youth Detention Center today and though the “flow” was present beforehand, as another fellow and I waited in my car for the others, yet the service itself was dry. Indeed, it’s been a strange closure to a five-day break from school. There were two or three things within the time frame that hadn’t spoiled Thanksgiving, but most certainly affected my inner peace. Human nature being human nature, life happens; and there, in the parking lot of Remke’s this morning, Tony and I talked of how sin was not so much what we did as it is who we are. Grace, and faith, and righteousness, are not so much conditions that we receive or achieve in Christ, but a divine Indwelling who encompasses those qualities and more. As we shared, the waters rose…………..

Now Beth is asleep on the couch as I sit in a numb state of mind, flipping up and down the TV channel, happening upon a Jim Brickman concert. His talents at the piano are unfamiliar to me, but I soon learn his skill at weaving words into music is well known to many artists. Several join him individually and I listen, not as they merely entertain, but as they become one with the song they bring forth. And it occurs to me that perhaps the strangest items I’ve ever encountered is the grace of God and the ability of the human heart to somehow connect in the same manner. We are, after all, quite contrary creatures. We lie. We cheat. We hate and offend one another. We are, in too many ways, self-motivated. Yet out of that same vessel can be found that which conquers all: Love that sees beyond the hurt. Hope that dares to believe. And it doesn’t get any stranger than that…………..

My niece’s husband had a brother with the 1970 Marshal University team that was all killed when their return-home flight crashed in the hills of West Virginia. I’ve sat with them on occasion and discussed the details of that tragedy. His personal loss, even after all these years, is, understandably, still fresh in his spirit. But it’s also true that the 1972 re-birthing that took place in my heart yet marks me in many ways and I suppose that’s why he recently loaned me a copy of Jeffrey Marx’s “Season of Life”. It’s the story of the author’s experience with a one-time Baltimore Colt defensive lineman who turned his life around when his younger brother died. I devoured it in about three days and I definitely recommend it to any and all of the male gender…………

Joe Ehrmann didn’t just enter the ministry. In searching for answers, he did indeed go to seminary and become a “man of the cloth”; but he did not take his degree and mount a religious pulpit. He went to the streets of the inner city, literally moving his family to live among the needy and poor. The outreach he established was not a church. Neither was it, however, merely meant as another supply center for the less fortunate. This man approached theology from a different angle, seeing most of man’s woes evolving out of sadly-orchestrated relationships between fathers and sons; and, from such a perspective, he has navigated for the last two decades or so, creating a work entitled, “Building Men and Women for Others”. He is his own sermon…………..

The “program”, as its label suggests, does not ignore the feminine side of the equation, but, first and foremost, finds masculinity erroneously defined in this country via terms of one’s (a) athletic ability; (b) sexual conquests; and (c) material accumulation. That, plus false conceptions drilled into us regarding any display of “silly” emotions, breeds an individual unable to relate to those he loves. Honest, humble communication signals weakness; and a “real” man must be strong. What Joe’s philosophy strives to implant in young minds is a two-fold question that our existence will one day bring to us: (a) What kind of husband, father, brother, son were you?; and (b) How much of yourself did you actually invest into others?................

The car I drive to and from school is not equipped for CDs. My collection of tapes has dwindled and somewhere along the way, for at least the last six months or so, when my brain isn’t drifting elsewhere, I’ve begun listening to National Public Radio segments. A friend recently considered me a little weird after I confessed to such practice. He, on the other hand, openly admitted to being a Rush Limbaugh addict, as if that was a badge of honor or something. To each his own, I suppose; but, as to my own choice, I find myself unable to endure the full scope of music any particular station plays nowadays. If I’m so inclined, I usually just drift up and down the gamut in search for something in tune with my mood. It ends and the next one has me looking elsewhere. NPR’s programming, of course, is much the same to my palate, but suffices as alternate entertainment………..

Driving, then, to school this morning, I was drawn into a “filler”, of sorts, where people are invited to opinionate on what they believe. Not in terms of some broad, theological over-view of life, in general. Some woman whose entry had been deemed worthy of its presentation today spoke on preserving and honoring one’s heritage. She expressed that idea via her own passion for baking. Measuring up to grandmother’s culinary talents, to her, was a way of keeping the elder woman’s memory alive. Achieving success with her own accomplishments established a family tradition to be maintained. It wasn’t bragging. She brought it forth from her heart and, with Thanksgiving just a few days off, the topic grabbed me in more ways than one. Making a mean pecan pie probably wouldn’t qualify as an ethical principle to most of us; but, as much as any other ingredient, this person’s values went into the recipe………….

Do not we all, though, navigate by perspectives that we hold as truths? The question is not so much a matter of our individual pursuits as it is the soil from which such fruit has sprung. We frame our lives by the entanglement of our roots and the understanding that evolved during our existence. The faith we possess is in those things which we perceive as having been faithful (or unfaithful) unto us. We’ve a mental schematic by which we operate, an image of the world as we see it; and we wonder about the other fellow who doesn’t share it with us. We’re convinced. End of story. It’s who we are whenever the subject under discussion is one that we “believe” to be solved in our mind. All the more reason for His reins upon our heart. Even if the Book were “infallible”. We aren’t…………..

A large, white van was parked in the alleyway entrance when we arrived last night. As several men boarded it, I learned from a few others huddled there beneath the overhang out front that the vehicle was transporting some to temporary job opportunity just across the river in Cincinnati. A misty rain was falling. Bob and I stepped into the alley where a side door provided better access to our own destination. Around its perimeter, about fifty feet or so further in, those who would, in a couple of minutes, become our congregation, huddled here and there in the darkness. Sharing a smoke and conversation, they gathered after dinner. All knew the routine. Bob and I greeted each as we passed, then climbed the stairs and went inside.……………

It’s rumored that the city is about to renovate this area of town, utilizing the legality of “eminent domain” for the intent to build condominiums. If that is indeed so, there’s not much doubt about this particular facility’s future. A number of churches sponsor it with nightly volunteers to help feed and I would imagine a portion of its operational expense is also so shared. Relocating, however, is more than just a matter of transporting things from one place to another. It’s more like: Where to? How much money? And will that neighborhood accept such an outreach in its midst? As long as the ministry remains in the ghetto, people usually acknowledge the need. Set the kitchen up in their back yard, though, and grace gets a little fuzzy……………..

My pastor preached this past Sunday morning on “ragamuffins”, noting that, while some may take offence at the term, he saw it as a compliment. Then he delivered us a list of definitions gathered from sources unrevealed: (a) the sorely burdened still trying to shift the heavy suitcase of life from one hand to the other; (b) the wobbly and weak-kneed who know for sure that they don’t have it all together; (c) the inconsistent and unsteady whose cheese is constantly falling off their cracker as they shuffle along on feet of clay; (d) and the bent and bruised who feel their existence gravely disappoints God. Somehow I kept finding myself in his words……………….

Worship was good Wednesday evening. But, then, it always is.

My wife has been suffering back problems for nearly a month now, trying to address it with a number of solutions. Mineral Ice, heating pad, horse liniment (I kid you not), and a couple of visits to a chiropractor have given no relief. Last night, yet in misery, she decided to sleep on the living-room sofa, hoping its firmness might help in some way (it did not) and that, in turn, prompted me to attempt slumber beside her on the floor utilizing an inflatable mattress. That proved too small for my bulk and too unsupportive of my weight, though. After several hours of it, I abandoned ship and retreated to my own bed, only to be awakened by the alarm much too early this morning. Neither of us was much in the mood for Bob Evans. Breakfast was a cereal bar. Icing on the cake was a dead battery that refused to start my car. The straw that broke the camel’s back was the hood of my Corolla smashing down on my elbow while I attempted to attach the jumper cables…………

Understanding that part of our emotional structure is not all that hard for me. If you kick an old dog, it will either whimper and run, or turn on you one. In that sense, maybe the dog and I only differ in an ability to grow in our handling of such feelings. It just instinctively reacts. I, on the other hand, hopefully learn to better cope with who and what I am, recognizing that things like anger and discouragement are just part of the package. Life is a rollercoaster, full of ups and downs, making items like love and happiness but the other side of the coin. It is but each day that determines the circumstances and what you do with the ride is a matter of choice and self-control. As my five year-old niece once observed: “Sometimes you eat the bear and sometimes the bear eats you. And sometimes HE…ain’t even hungry!” I couldn’t have said it better myself, Misty. The real problem, though, is the chance of me becoming no more than the bear……….

The Fifth Grade Aspergers lass with whom I work is prone to enthusiastically raise her hand to answer a question and then talk non-stop for five minutes on something that has nothing to do with the topic being discussed. Tell her she’s in error about anything and she immediately climbs into a state of remorse. Your correction, in her eyes, translates to a failure on her part to hold your affection. Meet her for the first time, however, and her childish lack of language structure would be all that might betray her affliction. The boy who has suffered with epilepsy from birth has, understandably, been “mothered” along the way. As much as knowledge, I try to instill self-confidence. It’s easy to see, though, that conquering the educational process is not easy for him. Slow-motion is a necessary part of the procedure. Sometimes I really wonder what an ex-railroad clerk/U.S. Navy ditty-chaser is doing on a job like this………..

On Fridays, class scheduling conflicts with my assigned lunch-period, so usually I drop the kids in the hall outside their homeroom to await the bell. This week, having already retrieved a salad from the cafeteria and returned to a small nook across the way that the teachers utilize as a dining area, I stuck my head outside the door and invited my two to join me for a few minutes. Standing beside me as I opened the container of greens, the little girl squealed with excitement. “Cheese!” she giggled; “I looove cheese!” and, with no other warning, suddenly reached down to grab some with her fingers. Another illegal seizure while I poured dressing over the mixture. Then: “Eggs! I looove eggs!” Picking up the white plastic silverware, I simply handed her the spoon, kept the fork; and, while the boy, with elbows plopped on the table so as to rest his head, quizzically took part in the scenario, she and I ate toward each other from opposite ends of my dinner………..

There are no degrees or diplomas hanging on the wall of any office I maintain. The name chosen to identify this particular portion of blogdom, “brain-waves”, was never intended to signify intelligence on my part. It was a last-ditch choice, made only after a multitude of others had been rejected, and indeed merely meant to frame the truth of my constantly being lost in a search for “what it’s all about”. Re-connecting with my Creator over three decades ago provided an assurance and a peace “in my belly”; but, in truth, there remains, yet, a good eighteen inch distance from that hook-up to the guy who lives in my head. No diagnosis of autism, to my memory, has ever been pronounced on me. I think I’m in my “right mind” (whatever that means), but it’s for sure that, even after all this time, I’ve got as many questions about myself as I do concerning Him. How blessed it is, therefore, to know that He always grants opportunity to sit and sup with Him………..

My mother turned eighty-four this past August. She suffered a palsy stroke about eight years ago, shortly after she moved herself into a senior community high-rise. Typical to her character and her beliefs, she refused medical treatment and advice. For most of her adult life she has avoided doctors, putting her trust in herbal remedies rather than modern science; and it’s hard to argue with her. Her record speaks for itself. This particular attack did leave her face partially paralyzed, but only to the extent of giving her some speech problems. Her eyes being reduced to mere slits through which she yet navigates without the use of spectacles is probably due to nothing more than old age. No cane. No walker. No need of anything other than company. The building provides that…………

I went down last night to visit and found her in one of the lounge areas playing cards with a few others. It was Bingo Tuesday and they were waiting for “the gang” to arrive. As each new arrival appeared, one by one they purchased a set of cards for a buck and a half, hoping to make fifty cents profit if they got lucky. Twenty-one games. Two dollars to every winner. Plus a couple of “specials” that boosted the trophy to five dollars. A volunteer called the numbers and they knew exactly when “everybody” was there. All the complaining that went on at such events in their younger years was not to be heard. One woman handled the bank, established the rules as they went, and was available to swap quarters for greenbacks if you needed change to do your laundry later. Just twenty-five or so friends gathered to enjoy some time together. A lot of people didn’t get this far………….

Old age: You get there one step at a time. What you have when you arrive is an accumulation of all you’ve put into it along the way. To be truthful, Mom and I have never known a great relationship since my father died. She remarried shortly thereafter, gaining two more children in those first few years. Then a divorce, two more marriages, and enough mistakes thrown into the mixture to change anyone’s disposition. My attitude, from the start, simply maintained it was her life and my decade in the Navy ensured that position. She was on hubby number three when I returned home married. He was a nice guy. Mom and my wife didn’t “click”. In her eyes, she’s a “survivor”. That might be; but the person I knew way back in the beginning is buried beneath a thick layer of life. She utilizes her magnetic stick to remove the plastic, circular covers from her card as we share small talk…………

We began a new series in Sunday School yesterday, settling in on the question of how any body of believers could deny the virgin birth. Somewhere in the mix, the word faith arose and I spoke my personal view of that particular item. Having come to Christ with no knowledge whatsoever of “thus sayeth the Word”, I believe it a gift of God, capable of being exercised once received, but in no way a created force by which we, ourselves, move mountains. Another fellow in the class, however, wasn’t all that convinced by my witness. His own ecclesiastical history was rooted in another denomination that used to discourage its laity from reading Scripture; and, for him, Romans 10:17 said it all. No reason for fisticuffs. “This isn’t about the experience encountered.” I suggested; “Each of us have ours to tell. What’s important is the connection established and where we go with it from that point forward”………

Not that we climb some sort of spiritual ladder having so joined ourselves unto Him. A few hours before, I had spoken with someone about the ritual of Communion. Through the years I’ve known those who opted not to partake, declaring their own unworthiness, dissatisfied with their lack of “perfection”. They fail to understand that such attitude is what “brings us to the table”. Forget the symbolism. I recently read how “Prayer only seems like an act of language. Fundamentally, it is a position, a placement of oneself.” Can we not, then, if that is true, so equate this sacred ceremony? This has little to do with consuming a sanctified wafer and sucking down a thimbleful of wine. We aren’t joined together by a seasonal snack, but by our connection in Him. If our membership is determined by any other standard, we have missed the mark and fail to rest in that which was purchased for us……….

People come to Christ from individual perspectives. His grace, however, meets each of us where we are, coming up from within us, overflowing to connect us one to the other. Dismiss that from your theology and all you’ve got is religion……..

The birth of modern space age exploration took place in the late 50s and that’s probably why most of the details are sketchy to me. Those were my high-school years. I remember a television host for one of those morning shows “co-starring” with a chimpanzee named Muggs. Dave Garroway’s face is yet clear in my mind as he addressed with humor the practice of using animals for astronauts. We were in a race with Russia at the time. Cold War. People building backyard nuclear bomb shelters. In ’57, Sputnik was put into orbit. In ’58, Explorer announced our success. In ’61, Yuri Gagarin became the first human to so defy gravity. By that time I was stationed on a deserted, sandy beach just outside the city of San Diego and such accomplishments were just passing notes of interest. Mostly my days were filled with learning Morse code, assigned duties, and basketball………..

It was interesting to me, therefore, to sit in the Fifth Grade Science class last week and watch a video on the genesis of the International Space Station. Almost unbelievable, I think, to envision being strapped into a cramped vehicle with your chin resting on your knees for about forty-eight hours while you and the whole apparatus punch through the upper atmosphere to reach your destination. Easier to accept free-floating from place to place inside the structure once you’ve arrived. At least there’s some semblance in that scenario to possessing control over where you are and what you do. To imagine myself tethered to its outer perimeter, however, by no more than a safety line produces phobic juices that rock my brain. One mishap, one miscalculation; and you’re forever adrift in an infinite void. Beyond reach. Beyond touch. Just you and eternity………..

And yet…having survived this lower plane of existence to the ripe old age of sixty-five, so far it seems to me that the only difference between here and there is several miles of altitude and a matter of what we each choose to utilize as an anchor for our next breath. Weightlessness isn’t a part of our every-day experience, of course; but don’t most of us carry around, in one manner or another, a heavier load than just this clay, earthen shell in which we live? I’ll agree that, for the most part, we learn to cope, pick up on the art of sharing space with each other, and adjust to life as it is. The memory of our journey to get here was lost long ago. We live “inside the box” and that which provides us any sense of security is a matter of personal preference. In March of ’72, I cut all lines and found peace in a reconnection through Christ with Him…………

Forget Kerry’s recent foot-in-mouth remark concerning our troops in Iraq. He’s not the first to stumble over his tongue and he won’t be the last. The only thing that bothers me about the incident, anyhow, is it was born out of an attempt to smear the President; and, yes, I do know our Commander-in-Chief is no virgin in that particular arena. But, then, as Davy Crockett once observed: “There ain’t no ticks like poly-ticks. Bloodsuckers all!” I believe it. Here, in Northern Kentucky, there’s been enough mud-slinging the last month or so to bury the Ohio River valley about six feet under. Not one candidate, to my knowledge, has stated any of his qualifications or intent. Nope. Everybody’s too obsessed with making sure we know his opponent is a horse-thief. ……………

National Public Radio has become a favorite of mine lately. Getting old, I guess; but, if the topic strikes my interest, it holds me from here to there as I travel. Coming home yesterday from school, I found myself listening to a Muslim woman explaining her personal feelings about the traditional garb assigned to her. It “marked” her, she declared, saying to any man who might be near: “I am not like these women of the world. Approach me with respect!”
Her inference, of course, was easy to read: Any female who would appear in public attired otherwise just didn’t measure up to this lady’s state of purity. Nothing that I haven’t heard before. Old-time holiness had their share of those who seemed to think that no jewelry and no cosmetics accomplished pretty much the same thing………………

Whatever floats your boat, I suppose. Call me what you want. Your accusation says more about your condition at the moment that it does mine in general. Each of us, it seems to me, establishes our own witness out of an inner flow, not some dress code, and none of us walk on water. Give me the guy who can honestly admit his mistakes, works hard to do what he believes to be right, and knows his need to connect inwardly with that stream from on high. I realize such union doesn’t eliminate error; but, if genuine in its “hook-up”, it does tend to bring more integrity into the picture. For me, though, that doesn’t equate to bringing one’s religious agenda to the ballot box. How you live each day will give testimony to “the real deal”. That’s true of the pew, the pulpit, and public office……………