Still (the rabbit song)

There was a time, when days seemed long,
always more, never done.
There I touched you – forever time,
forever time, when time was young.

There is a time, together now.
So short a time, and daily less.
Sweet moments, but so countable,
this now time, time alone with you.

There'll be a time, when counting's done,
when rush and retrospect are all.
Tomorrow time draws closer now,
feel my hand, so soon, so soon.

What color, oh I dreamed it once –
What flight, what wind, what sound.
What distant forest floor, what leaves,
what shore – your eyes at dawn.

These are the days, the time stands still.
Clocks smile back, hands motionless.
Ever dawn, and noon, and night,
and ever you beside me here.

For Kyle
For Titan
11.1.14

RENT

I am part of this fall's civic theatre production of the broadway musical RENT because I am a bass guitarist.

I am also involved in this production because I am a Christian.

Let me explain that.

First let me clarify that being a Christian is not about acting a certain way, or trying to earn God's favor, or being good enough to achieve something. This is a common misunderstanding.

Being a Christian is about being forgiven by God in spite of what I deserve and in spite of how I act.

Being a Christian means accepting that my failings and my evil and my guilt have all been handled for me.

My failings, evil, and guilt separate me from God, yet the Bible explains that God has made a way for these obstacles to be removed. They are not ignored by God. In fact, he knows my failings better than I will ever know them. He knows them personally because he suffered for them in my place.

The obstacles I created have been removed by God because of his love for me.

As a Christian I believe that God paid the price I owed for my failings – and he did it through a kind of suicide. He himself assumed responsibility for my wrongs. God revealed himself in the person of Jesus Christ in Palestine 2,000 years ago. Then, beyond revealing himself, God suffered for me by this suicide in which Jesus experienced the separation I deserved.

I am a Christian only because I accept Christ's death in my place, as a gift that makes possible my intimate friendship with God, now and forever. I live my life to express my thanks to God for this gift, and to explain this relationship to those who don't yet know him.

What does this have to do with RENT, Jonathan Larson's Broadway musical that opened in 1996? 

 

I am drawn to RENT because the characters in the musical remind me of the disenfranchised and hopeless to which Jesus Christ was drawn in his ministry. The suffering HIV-infected artists, addicts, and members of the LGBTIQ community of late 20th century New York City shed their dreams for existential phrases like 'no day but today' in defiance of their hopelessness. It is into this kind of Bohemian quest for purpose and meaning that Jesus Christ brings his message of a bigger picture and a fulfilling relationship beyond suffering. Jesus called it the 'kingdom of God' and his message is that this kingdom is now near.  If Jesus had appeared to us in the late 20th century, his friends would have been like those he selected 20 centuries earlier – people like the characters in RENT. He accepted them just as they were – he could not have loved them more. He died for them, and he offered them, just as he offers us, a purpose and meaning beyond today – beyond any day.

 

7.22.14

transcendence

Keith Getty is a remarkable modern Irish composer and musician. Collaborating with his wife Kristyn and with English worship leader Stuart Townend, Getty has created noteworthy songs of modern Christian worship. Composition skills, attention to poetry, and pentatonic Irish stylings make this work beautiful and effective.

On Friday April 25, 2014, Keith Getty led a session for more than 50 worship leaders and pastors in my city. This was an act of kindness associated with weekend performances at our church. Among the helpful points made by Keith Getty during the session was the call for clergy and worship leaders to spend more time reflecting on congregational participation, not simply the quality of the worship presentation. "How did the congregation sing?" was the question Getty implored us to explore after each worship service.

Keith's point was that Christian worship should involve the assembled congregation.

Perhaps this seems obvious, as assembling to honor God should be a corporate act, somehow.

But I've been thinking hard about "How did the congregation sing?"  Though Keith's point about moving the focus from the stage to the room is always appropriate, let me explain why congregational singing should not be the measure of an effective Christian worship service. In this discussion, I assume that the elements of the worship service have been skillfully designed and convey truth. That is not the issue here.

The central problem is a confusion that equates congregational singing with congregational worship.

This is the same confusion that faces liturgical churches, who confuse congregational reading with congregational worship. 

I believe, at least for me and in my experience, whether I do or do not sing at some particular point in a congregational worship service is not a good indication of whether I am experiencing and offering worship in my heart and mind.

Let me be blunt: the Lord isn't the least bit interested in hearing my voice singing or reading. This is not a joy to him at all.

It totally isn't!!

Singing or other visible evidence of participation is a superficial measure of worship. Worship isn't even really about congregational time together. Worship is rather a lifestyle that has the potential to pervade what we do and think all our lives. 

I would argue that the Lord is really ultimately interested in my heart and mind.

In John's gospel, chapter 4, verse 24, Jesus meets a faithful woman from Samaria who inquires about how God should properly be worshipped, given sectarian religious arguments between religious factions of the time.  Jesus responds

"But an hour is coming, and now is, when the true worshipers will worship the Father in spirit and truth; for such people the Father seeks to be his worshipers. God is spirit, and those who worship him must worship in spirit and truth."

If I do good or look good or appear to participate, but have a bad attitude, no points for me.

If I have a seeking and submissive attitude, or am broken and surrendered, yet stand quietly, arms folded as an "observer," full credit.

After all, his love for us isn't related to what we do anyway, it's related to what Christ did for us. It's not outward appearance that matters, it's what's going on inside my heart.

Here's a confession from my own experience. Worship is not about me telling God something. It is about God and me experiencing each other. I find that during worship services there are really just fleeting moments or instants of true worship in my heart, punctuating very long periods where my heart attitude is cold to God because I'm thinking technically or pridefully or I am distracted.

Working to increase the number and duration of these rare surrendered and selfless moments is my goal as a worshipper and as a worship musician. 

That being said, if I think about my most powerful experiences of heartfelt worship, some have indeed involved singing my heart out (easiest for me when the music overwhelms me and those around me) and other times when I am in a huge audience watching and listening silently in awe to the beauty of a stunning performance by a skilled person or team.

Worship is what is inside. "How did the congregation sing" is superficial in that it fails to measure the important questions like "how were people's hearts surrendered?" or "how many sensed a special closeness with God during this time together" or "how many were changed by this worship experience" or "how many had even a few moments thinking less about themselves and more about him?"  or "how many found themselves overwhelmed by joy in spite of their circumstances?"

All those questions relate to what I believe God wants for us in worship, and none of them has anything to do with whether we are speaking out loud, reading, or singing! We oversimplify and cheapen in our desire to "measure" worship by visible signs of involvement. Worship can be happening without these signs. Absence of singing does not mean an absence of worship. Conversely, outward appearance of participation absolutely does not prove worship.  I "participated" in reading liturgy for years without engaging my mind or heart.

Because worship is about my heart and my mind, not my gestures or my voice, motivating more people to sing accomplishes nothing if the experience doesn't move their hearts. Moving hearts accomplishes everything, with or without singing.

This analysis has practical implications. As a worship musician, I need to be working to actually clear my own heart, submitting and welcoming the spirit during my time on stage. My focus needs to be on my own worship before I can try to guess what is going on in the hearts of the congregation I serve.

My discipline is then to seek in my worship to at least sometimes experience Christ and in those instants to express my love for him, thanksgiving for him, and praise for him, whether in words or not.

It's about my thoughts not my visible behavior.

I have decided that focus on the external appearances of reading or singing or moving misses this whole point. I can only measure worship by my own heart experience. I don't know any other way.

Finally, in thinking about worship, let me suggest that two words guide the discussion. These words can help us meaningfully talk about our own personal experience. That is all we can know.

Passion: this word implies that I will bring to my intentional interaction with God an internal energy and focus of heart and mind reserved for only the most important things in my life.

Transcendence:  this word describes those few moments in this life where I glimpse selflessness and surrender to sense him, not me. C.S. Lewis described such fleeting instants with the word joy. My goal in worship is to seek these moments of transcendence in my own heart, not for my sake, but for his. Worship is not for me, but for God. His terms are spirit and truth. Since I can only assess that reality in myself, the pursuit of transcendence is where I must place focus. It is in these transcendent moments that God shares what awaits in the timeless life beyond.

7/6/14

Kyle

Friday morning I got up at 5:30 as usual and started my day with the normal routine. When it was about 6:45 and the early spring light was just dawning, I pulled out of the garage and began down our cul-du-sac.  The robins are arriving and the cardinal was calling from a nearby tree. It has been a terribly bitter cold winter, so the sense of spring in the air is more welcome than I have remembered for a long time. It has been a difficult winter in many ways. It has been emotionally draining for me, and there is some stored-up sorrow and even grief.

When I got to the end of our street, something caught my eye on the pavement in the road ahead. There was just a bit of movement. When I looked more closely, I realized what I was seeing.  It broke my heart and it changed my day. There on the side of the road was a wild rabbit. It was dying from injuries it must have received from a  passing car moments before. One of its hind legs was kicking meaninglessly in the air, even as it lay on its side in the cold morning gravel.  I pulled over, torn between the urge to drive away and the inexplicable need to take in the heartbreaking sight.

In the 15 seconds it took me to get to the rabbit, it had stopped kicking, and it took its last breath while I watched. Its damaged body lay stretched out, almost gracefully. Its warm eyes were open, looking up toward a sky pink with sunrise.

I just stood there in my work clothes, my car running a few feet away. The praise music from my CD player could be heard along with the songs of the robins and the cardinal. I stared at the rabbit, so suddenly still, its fur wet.

I didn't know what to do.

The violence of this brutal ending seemed so out of place at the start of my routine day.  I carried the warm body of the rabbit across the street to a clump of evergreen bushes, and laid it there below the protecting branches where the grass was just beginning to turn green.

I pulled back onto the road toward work and made it about a block before my vision was obscured by the tears.

I turned into the empty parking lot of the neighborhood elementary school. I put my head in my hands and I found myself crying harder than I had cried for a long time.

I didn't care. Something about the finality and irony of the early spring death of that solitary rabbit had snapped something deep within me. There was such a feeling of pain and brutality and unfairness.  This little animal had somehow survived the most terrible winter in decades, with months of sub-zero winds and snowy desolation. It had managed bleak and dark days and hidden from untold dangers. Now, on this spring morning with the first sounds of birds, it had met its end beneath a roaring automobile just a few hours before the first warming breezes would transform Minnesota into something beautiful.

It was so brutal.

As I cried alone in the car I considered how it could be that God had created a living world through such harsh principles, referenced conveniently with phrases like 'survival of the fittest,' and 'the circle of life.' These phrases embody the very process of God's creation, but what a cruel process it is.

I found myself praying that heaven will be a place filled with every kind of plant and animal – that all the innocent living things, having joined with all creation in the redemption of Christ, will find themselves forever there in that place that is beyond time and beyond the fear of death.

It took me ten minutes to compose myself and continue to work. I was shaken. I shared the story several times during the morning, each time fighting back tears.

Why did it have to be a rabbit?

My heart has become attuned to rabbits since Kyle came into my life. A domestic lop house rabbit, Kyle was adopted 2 years earlier by my older daughter when she learned that he needed a new home. Kyle had lived with her for months in her Minneapolis apartment, until a dog adoption made Kyle homeless again. At that point he came to live with us.

That's when Kyle started training me.

Rabbits are prey animals related more to horses than to rodents like mice and rats. Rabbits are instinctively shy and difficult to befriend. Unlike dogs, with their predictable affection, rabbits are fickle, full of complex personality and full of surprises.

I never ever would have imagined how quickly I could become attached to a house rabbit.

Kyle is a dependable litter box user, allowing him to have free access to our entire finished basement during the day. He spends solitary hours patrolling and dozing in various of his favorite locations beneath chairs and on sofas. Kyle has trained me to a morning ritual that has re-written my personal devotional time with God. My prayer time is now spent lying on the carpet, Kyle snuggled in the crook of my arm, allowing his ears and head to be scratched. These quiet moments, me in prayer, Kyle with eyes closed, gently grinding his teeth in a bunny purr, start my days in peace. Inevitably my prayers include thanks for time with a small furry soul who offers such simple companionship.

After a few minutes of this quiet time, Kyle will cock his head, look at me, and then offer a contented thump with a big furry hind foot, and dash off to my office where he stands tall on his haunches until I provide a yogurt drop. Kyle is then free to run off and spend his solitary day, awaiting my return after work. In evenings when I am in my office or recline on the basement sofa to watch a TiVo recording or an NFL game, Kyle will inevitably appear and linger in the periphery of the room, entranced by the movements dancing on the TV screen. Lop rabbits are notoriously hard of hearing. It is not uncommon for Kyle to silently hop up onto the sofa for a quiet ear rub, his head pushed gently against my arm.

Kyle knows how to melt my heart. I guess it doesn't take that much.

For some reason I always think of Kyle as a tragic figure, though his life is the very story of redemption. He's been spared no expense. He is indulged to the extreme. In return he offers moments of dearest affection, punctuated by aloofness and suspicion. It is like having a tiny miniature horse in my finished basement.

Sensing the bond forming between Kyle and me, my older daughter was also the one to urge me to read Richard Adams' 1972 classic Watership Down. My tears at the death of the wild rabbit on our street echoed my weeping as I finished the last page of that beautiful book.

There is something about rabbits, their simplicity, their complexity, their unpredictability, their softness.

Though at 53 it is easier and shows more decorum to write about theology and science, I have decided that being genuine and transparent and honest also means writing about how heartbroken I am to experience the death of a wild rabbit on a spring day, and how it makes me dread the death of another rabbit.

And why I pray that there will be rabbits in heaven.

4.13.14