homecoming

-->

A week ago we did something unusual. We found ourselves heading back to our hometown on a beautiful breezy fall day. It was a Friday afternoon, and the scenic drive through southeastern Minnesota, the Mississippi river valley, and the rural roads of southwestern Wisconsin was especially striking. Autumn color was past its peak, but the fields of cut hay and baled cornstalks and piles of pumpkins reminded us of our rural upbringing. Geese flew over in scattered formations against clear blue skies.  Cattle seemed especially comfortable strewn here and there across hillsides in the fading sun.

Laura and I were heading back to Madison for two quick nights and the wedding celebration of a rather distant relative.  There would be time with family in our childhood homes, even though our childhood homes were no longer the same.  Laura's home felt different because her mom was away recovering from a hip fracture. My home felt different because my father's failing memory became more and more evident with each visit.

It was also a remarkable trip because of the girls who weren't with us.

Family trips to Madison always involved both girls. Only rarely was one left behind at work or school. This trip was different. Liz and Chris were both happily busy in Minneapolis. We were a couple again. As we drove, our conversation came and went. We were as comfortable in silence as when exchanging words. We held hands across the seat for much of the trip. Laura dozed in the filtered sun. I often looked across at her beautiful face and at the autumn scenery beyond, and I smiled.

I felt a deep sense of blessing, a feeling that echoed back a dozen times on this unusual trip home.

We had laughed when we found that the trip home coincided with homecoming at Middleton High School, where Laura and I had graduated, two years apart, in 1979 and 1981. High School was where we met, I a busy self-absorbed Senior, and she a lovely, tall, blonde and selfless Sophomore who made an instant impression. I love telling people 33 years later that we were High School sweethearts. After professional homemaking, Laura was returning home with me as half of a couple again.

So we found ourselves bundled up and on our way to the high school homecoming football game. We sat on metal seats in a brightly lit stadium overlooking a football field with artificial turf, listening to officials announce penalties using wireless microphones. The halftime dance team offered a fantastic hip-hop routine to booming remixed music that Laura didn't like. There was no dance team when I was in high school.  We saw one or two faces that looked familiar, but no sense of reunion overtook us in the crowd.

Instead I was struck again by that deep feeling of blessing.  As I sat quietly next to Laura I looked up at the stadium lights against the black sky and I squinted, watching the blazing brightness turn into a mass of sparkling rays. I was suddenly aware that there was something familiar about that burst of light rays through squinted eyes.

It was a memory of my first homecoming game at that same stadium when I was a freshman in high school in 1975, exactly 37 years earlier.

I had been fascinated by the stadium lights that fall night too.

In 1975 my life had changed. I had missed some weeks of the fall of my first high school year because of cancer surgery, an ominous diagnosis, and the start of chemotherapy and radiation treatments. I wanted to be in denial, but the combination of abdominal incision, painted X-ray targets on my back and stomach, and nausea from intravenous Vincristine and Actinomycin D made the sense of cancer battle hard to escape. I can only imagine what my parents were going through during those weeks. By the time I arrived home from the daily injections I was barely able to make it into the house before the vomiting began.

When you are at your freshman homecoming game you are supposed to be thinking about friends and girls and the upcoming dance and the spirit competition. You are not supposed to be thinking about surviving.

What small bit of denial I could muster was due to a drug called Thorazine, a narcotic anti-nausea medication whose modern uses are limited to the treatment of schizophrenia.  Thorazine had been key in the treatment of the mentally ill, and had led to the massive deinstitutionalization of the second half of the 20th Century.

Thorazine made me feel good during my homecoming football game back in 1975. I had plenty to worry about, but on that evening I remembered feeling OK. I remembered looking up at the football stadium lights and squinting, watching the blazing brightness turn into a mass of sparkling rays...

My girls have never experienced life-threatening illnesses. I have never found myself begging God to be able to take their place in suffering. Or in death. They have seen their share of tragedy, sometimes unforgettably close, but I have never suffered in the way that a mom and dad suffer when their child is given a dire diagnosis. I now have friends walking that path, a place my own parents walked 37 years ago when they sent their 14-year-old off to a football game, dosed with Thorazine.

It was then in that swirl of memories in that same homecoming stadium that I looked to my right, at my wife. She smiled back, almost shyly, almost like that first time I ever smiled at her, not too far from that very spot.

The feeling of blessing.

I didn't die in 1975. Some kids did. I lived on and came to know Jesus and grew up. I married my beautiful high school sweetheart and lived comfortably with manageable recurrent cancer for decade after decade. I had the chance to pour my life into two lovely daughters and ministry and cherished friends. With the wife of my youth.

Cancer isn't always bad. Sometimes life swallows it up and sometimes, with grace, there is the chance to look back across the years and remember.

And squint. And smile.

For Lydia . For Angie.

10.23.12

Nehemiah

Something like six centuries before the birth of Jesus comes a particularly remarkable story in Jewish history. It is buried in the discouraging saga of the degenerating Jewish monarchy. It is part of that central message of the Bible – the inability of the Jewish people to find any consistency in their covenant with God. The promise of blessing in response to the faith of Abraham had come 20 centuries before Jesus. Moses took his turn trying to lead the Jews six centuries later. David's shaky chapter came one thousand years before Christ. The kings who followed David succeeded only in proving that human beings fail, stumble, and inevitably abandon their God, just like us. By the time of the rise of the Babylonian empire, the two Jewish kingdoms were adrift. Judaism had come to be defined by the existence of a physical temple building, with or without its proper sacrificial rituals to symbolically pay for the sins of the people. The destruction of the Jerusalem temple in 586 B.C. was therefore, in a very real sense, the tangible end of what was left of Judaism. For 60 years most Jews were refugees in Iran and Iraq. There was no temple. This easily could have been the end of the story for just another stumbling local religious impulse.

Then something different happened.

The story of Nehemiah tells us about a man who, though far from home, did not forget his homeland and the idea of a temple to be inhabited, somehow, by his God. It is a story of the rebuilding of the destroyed Jerusalem wall and temple, against the odds. Much of the story seems obscure to us, and except for the idea that this episode preserved Judaism a bit longer, the story may lack meaning for the Christian.

But look deeper. In reading this account, two very pressing and fresh messages hit home. Both are practical, even urgent, for the believer in Jesus Christ.

First, Nehemiah acted without any special call from God.  His passion, his sense of responsibility, his initiative, his creativity, his leadership, all these are described as coming instinctively from the man, unprompted. Though we may be tempted to assume that God actively commissions the pivotal leaders of history, Nehemiah shows this not to be the case. Nehemiah felt compelled to take action, and he took action with intelligence, practical consideration, and cunning. Let us not imagine that we must always wait for supernatural marching orders before we act.

Let us remember that supernatural marching orders have already been issued.

Second, the Christian finds in Nehemiah a startling allegory for the most personal of all issues­ – the revival of a fallen heart. The Jewish temple was the very imperfect picture of God's dwelling place – a picture to prepare us for the time when God's true dwelling place would be made known. In the New Covenant, the sacrifice of God himself in the person of Jesus Christ makes it possible for each believer's heart to become God's temple. As believers who have been once and for all purified, God now inhabits me and he inhabits you.

The temple is inside.

Nehemiah reminds us, however, that like the Jews, like all people, we are still unable to offer God any consistency in our relationship. 

He couldn't love us any more, but we scarcely remember to love him at all. 

Nehemiah grieved for a temple that was in shambles, surrounded by a burned wall.  It was a Jewish humiliation for all who saw it.

And what about the temple in my heart?

Is my temple, the place where God's spirit finds its earthly home, any better than this? Though there may be some impressive walls, isn't much of this temple propped up and in dire need of restoration? Is it much different from the ruined temple that so burdened Nehemiah – a monument not abandoned by God, but by those he had loved and purchased?

The story of Nehemiah reminds the Christian that we are actually responsible for the temple of the Holy Spirit within us. This is what being a disciple of Jesus Christ means. We are to grieve instinctively for its desecration, as did Nehemiah for his temple.  We are to take spontaneous initiative for its rebuilding and maintenance. We are to rediscover the worship that was intended to go on right here inside the heart. 

What Nehemiah accomplished six centuries before Christ was revival.  What we are now called to do is to recognize the urgent need for this same revival in this same temple, now found in the new place that God chooses to call home – a place that is uncomfortably, beautifully close.

10.9.12

here

O Lord you are.
You are here beside me, in me, six miles above the North Atlantic,
in the crowded lanes of Leiden, and in the winds above the city,
and in the ocean currents that swirl in the deep, where only electric eyes can see.
Every atom and every wave equation you inhabit,
and you know each bacterium and each rabbit,
and each person who ever was given a soul to carry into timelessness
where you live.

O Lord you are.
You are at a hillside on Callisto, where the chill ever-dark sky shows a weak sunrise,
where no living creature shall ever stand, you are,
looking, knowing,
across time and space, time-space, you smile and joy ever ripples,
where other sheep lived in a corner of Andromeda for a moment, long ago,
and you made your song true there as well–
a story of your rescue – the only really true story of all.

O Lord you are.
You are not all powerful, but power,
not all loving, but love,
not eternal, but the one for whom all of time is but a fallen leaf on a dappled forest floor,
where I will greet you again for the first time, calling your name,
hearing you call mine,
then holding you,
then holding every person I ever have loved,
and stroking every beloved furry animal, long lost,
then holding you.

O Lord You are.


 6.23.12

Color

I had my wisdom teeth removed when I was a teenager. I hadn't had my driver's license for very long, but I was eager to show off my independence so I drove myself to the appointment in our family's boxy yellow Fiat. The nurse looked at me. "The doctor says you have four impacted teeth. We will need to put you to sleep. Who do you have to drive you home after the procedure?"

I hadn't thought about that.

I explained that I had driven myself.

She told me to have a seat and she disappeared to consult. "You'll have to speak with the doctor about this" she said.

The oral surgeon looked at me skeptically and offered that it was possible to have local anesthesia for the operation. There would be lots of shots in the mouth and plenty of noise and violence during the extractions. I could tell that he wanted me to come back a different day, with some parental drivers.

I was young and naive and too brave for my own good.

"Let's do it."

The next hour was brutal. I never imagined you could have so many injections into gums and jaw. I never imagined how much they would hurt. I didn't realize how much debris flies around in and out of a person's mouth during the process of crushing and picking tooth fragments from unneeded wisdom teeth...and I wasn't expecting the sounds of battle ringing in my ears.

I survived and found myself driving home with a numb face.

As I pulled into my driveway I looked into the rear-view mirror, expecting to see my jaw swollen to twice its size.

I looked normal, except for a mouth brimming with blood. A little trickle was starting to run down the side of my face. I was impressed and shared the effect with my mother as I spit out a cup of blood into the bathroom sink.

The rest of the day was made tolerable by some white pills provided by the doctor. They were rich in a substance called codeine. A human body takes in codeine and the effect is similar to that of morphine, another drug isolated from the same poppy plants. I had never experienced significant doses of these drugs before, and within an hour I began to understand why addiction is possible.

I felt really good.

I lay on a couch in my basement for a long time. I didn't sleep. Instead, I looked at the basement ceiling. I looked at the ceiling tiles. I looked at the way the wall met at the ceiling to form a line. Then, wonder of wonders, I looked at how two walls met at the ceiling to form a point.

I was enthralled.

I think I spent literally four intoxicated hours studying that feature of the architecture of the basement, amazed that the great writers and artists and poets of history hadn't adequately treated this amazing phenomenon in their greatest works.

The corner held me mesmerized for hours...the power of drugs.

That night I went to sleep after a second dose of the magic white pills. I remember the night vividly to this day because it was the first time I dreamed in color.

Like many people, all my dreams are remembered in shades of grey. Not that night. I dreamed of flying high above buildings through gorgeous skies of blue and red, with lush green landscapes spread out below me.

Again, the power of drugs.

I never dreamed in color again, until a few weeks ago.

Unlike that teenage night so many years before, this day had been uneventful. There had been no codeine or other prescription drugs. My own daughters are now past their teenage years and have moved out. Driving myself around is no longer an accomplishment. I'm also less inclined to be brave.

But I dreamed in color.

It was a more amazing experience and a more important dream than the one I had so long ago. This dream was very different, very important. It was a kind of gift.

Now that I am 51 I think more about heaven.

Silly, I know, but still.

I believe in heaven. I know I will share that experience with Jesus, who died to forgive my sins and purchase togetherness forever.

What I don't know is anything else about it.

Maybe existence with Jesus Christ will be so overwhelming that its timeless joy will sweep into nothingness every joy I have yet experienced. Maybe my longing for the joys of this world, my wife, my human relationships, music, the glories of color and sensations is simply a misunderstanding of how vastly superseding will be intimacy with Jesus Christ.

Maybe.

Once, long ago, Jesus was challenged by some of his many detractors to explain how a conscious afterlife would work. How does a continuation of earthly joy play out?

Eugene Peterson's Bible translation (The Message) tells the story from the Gospel of Matthew (chapter 22) this way:

That same day, Sadducees approached him. This is the party that denies any possibility of resurrection. They asked, "Teacher, Moses said that if a man dies childless, his brother is obligated to marry his widow and get her with child. Here's a case where there were seven brothers. The first brother married and died, leaving no child, and his wife passed to his brother. The second brother also left her childless, then the third—and on and on, all seven. Eventually the wife died. Now here's our question: At the resurrection, whose wife is she? She was a wife to each of them."

Jesus answered, "You're off base on two counts: You don't know your Bibles, and you don't know how God works. At the resurrection we're beyond marriage. As with the angels, all our ecstasies and intimacies then will be with God. And regarding your speculation on whether the dead are raised or not, don't you read your Bibles? The grammar is clear: God says, 'I am—not was—the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, the God of Jacob.' The living God defines himself not as the God of dead men, but of the living." Hearing this exchange the crowd was much impressed.

"... all our ecstasies and intimacies then will be with God"

These are profoundly beautiful words.

Maybe heaven will then be beyond the kinds of sensations we now know. Maybe my very most beautiful earthly experiences of love and empathy and joy will be like walking on a foggy day—the feeling of water as humid air does nothing to prepare us for the feeling of water when we swim.

My reasoning and my study of Jesus' words tell me not to try to comprehend what living with God will be like.

But I still have been wondering more about heaven.

And so I will never forget the second time I dreamed in color.

There were no drugs to explain the experience this time—it was a kind of gift.

I was asleep in the middle of the night but became aware that I was beginning to have color vision. It lasted for only a few seconds, and it was only one scene, but it was one of the most powerful experiences of my life. What is remarkable is that I consciously felt myself opening my eyes in amazement, an experience of wakefulness even within the dream.

My vision was downward onto a patch of ground before me. In an instant I was given the overwhelming sense that I was seeing something of heaven. The impression was so clear, yet there were no words.

Immediately before my eyes, as if I was kneeling and looking closely at the ground, was a bright patch of forest floor, dappled in sun as one would see on an early fall day when trees are mostly bare. I stared. There on the ground were beautiful fallen leaves of many vivid colors, stirring in a gentle breeze.

Sensing my eyes wide open even in my dream, I looked closer. I perceived a loving message—that seasons and cycles and colors and experiences...and life...continue in this place where I will know my Lord even as he now knows me.

And then I saw something small and simple and unexpected.

There between two fallen leaves before me I saw a tiny beetle wander across the heavenly ground.

The scene faded peacefully, a gift.

As I woke in the darkness of my bedroom, my wife sleeping next to me, I found myself crying.

2.12

August 31, 2011

It was the final day of August, 2011. Chris and Laura were proud of how lightly they had packed, but the 1995 Ford Explorer was stuffed. There was scarcely room to toss in dog beds and a pair of small dachshunds to ride along to the kennel. While the two ladies were still in the house, I stood in the garage and looked at the car and thought about this day. When her older sister had left for college four years earlier I first ran the numbers. What had once seemed an infinite number of nights to share with younger daughter Christina had then been whittled down to 1,460. It wasn’t as if I was still reading her a bedtime story or sharing a bedtime prayer each night, but a sad and maybe even urgent feeling came over me when the number of nights started to be countable. It wasn’t long until it was 365 nights and then 30 nights and finally…zero. We were driving Chris off to start her college education at the University of Minnesota–Duluth. Even with the car packed and waiting, Chris didn’t really get out of bed until 9 a.m. I wondered if it was just her late-night summer routine still in effect, or if there was a bit of lingering in the familiar bed of her youth. Maybe she subconsciously cherished another few minutes before a day that would mark growing up. I gave her a hug when I saw her. She was beautiful–her warm smile flickered and her flowing wavy brown hair was pinned up wildly. Chris had grown into a lovely young woman, inside and out, and I noted how she fit perfectly under my arm as I wrapped it around her. There were no tears or regrets in her eyes as we packed the last things and started down the road. Laura and I would be back in two days. It would be a lot longer for Chris.

Lunch turned out to be the most emotional time for me. We drove to Edina in the Minneapolis suburbs to pick up big sister Elizabeth at her new job in a large engineering firm. It had been less than two weeks since she started work, and Laura and I were immensely proud of her. Elizabeth had gone from unemployed college graduate with multiple odd jobs to choosing between two full-time offers with benefits. I had heard other parents talk about the pride they felt when their kids found work after college, but this was an unexpected feeling for me. Elizabeth had only weeks before moved into a downtown apartment and disappeared from daily view. On receiving our text message that the car was full, she agreed to meet us in her work parking lot. When she rounded the corner alone in her car, I couldn’t help but break into a smile. When I opened the car door and saw her sitting there in her business clothes, lovely blond hair, earrings, nail polish, twinkling eyes, I just laughed and gave her a kiss. I suddenly found myself short of words. We drove to a local restaurant and sat down in a booth surrounded by hustle and bustle. Somewhere in the moments while we waited for the meal to be served I felt that feeling when it is suddenly hard to swallow, and I was glad I wasn’t trying to speak. I just looked across the table and saw two beautiful young women smiling and laughing and glowing with joy. I looked to my left and saw the young lady with whom I had once fallen in love, now beautiful and radiant in her own middle age, also laughing. Each of these women had blessed me beyond my wildest dreams or hopes and beyond anything a man could ever deserve. Each had accepted my love at the same time that each taught me how to love.

Each had become the very story of my life.

The emptiness that would be left by losing any of them was unfathomable. I realized that this was the last lunch we’d ever really have as the family we had been for the past 18 years. With those thoughts, though I kept them to myself, the lunch took on a deeply poignant feeling. I almost experienced the time as if I were watching it in a movie. We dropped off Elizabeth at work and I hugged her and watched her walk back into her office. This was meant to be a very emotional trip.

The last dinner with Christina was in a quiet Duluth restaurant. The last evening with her in our hotel was punctuated by constant repeats of the Duluth harbor foghorn. Her last morning with us was spent rolling carts of possessions, then negotiating with a new roommate, then previewing college classroom locations, then connecting technology, then glancing at our watches, then sharing hugs. The tears finally got the better of Laura who had come to realize that her younger daughter had also become her best friend.

Many of the essays in this collection were written about my girls, and all of them were written for my girls. Laura and I now live alone (except for Geordie and Rupert and Kyle the bunny). We cleaned two empty bedrooms and shut off air conditioning vents into spaces where nobody sleeps. Sinks and showers now stay clean. Nobody comes and goes after 11 PM.

I miss our girls terribly already.

I couldn’t be prouder of them. I pray for them constantly. I’m still trying to hold onto them as I let them go. I feel them with me when I hug Laura.

When I look into Laura’s eyes I see them there too.

I’ve anticipated these days for years, with joy, with dread, with pride, with tears, with thanksgiving. Now I know why.

Ricky Topp

Ricky Topp was a childhood friend of mine. We grew up together and got in trouble together a few times. We went our separate ways, but would see each other at high school reunions and always shared a hug and some kind words.

Ricky Topp died this weekend. He was 50 just like me.

During his struggles with brain cancer I prayed for him. One year ago I wrote him a letter. In some ways it was very personal, just for Rick. In other ways it is the letter that I want to write to every person I have ever met. That's why I've decided to share the letter here, with greatest respect and appreciation for the life of Ricky Topp, and thanksgiving for how his life and death bring focus to the most important questions we will ever ask.



Rick Topp, 5747 Roosevelt St. Middleton, WI 53562

August, 2010

Hey Rick-

It was nice to see you at the reunion last summer, and then to be able to talk to you on the cell phone from McDermid’s driveway this summer. You know I appreciated your honesty at the reunion, and you were one of the people who touched me by sharing some of the hard things along with the good stuff. People pretend too much. I saw some tears at the reunion, and they were real.

I was sorry to hear from Jon about your surgery and treatments. I’ve never had brain surgery but have had 3 cancer surgeries and chemo and radiation three times over the years, including radiation to my head and a big bald spot to prove it. My cancer is not cured but I am living with it. It is no picnic and I understand that.

I am enclosing a separate letter. That may seem weird, but I wanted to do it that way. You don’t need to open the separate letter now, though you can whenever you want.

When people face cancer, it can be an important thing because it reminds us that this life doesn’t last forever. From the moment we are born we are in the process of dying. Some die too young, some die too old, but we all will die. I will, you will. We pray for each other to live longer and get better, but in the end there will be an end.

I think you know that I am a Christian. I became a Christian when we were juniors in high school. Choosing to be a Christian has changed my whole life.

Some people are ready to die and are not afraid of what they will say when they meet God at the moment of death. Maybe you are one of those people. If so, then I am very happy for you and we’ll leave it that I will continue to pray for your recovery so you can live a long and happy life before you do meet him. You don’t need the other letter.

But maybe you are one of the many people who aren’t so sure what they are going to say when they meet God at death. Maybe you have doubts about heaven and how to relate to God now and when we meet him. If you have doubts or fears, that is why I wrote the letter in the other envelope. If you get to that point of fear or concern about the future, read it. I wrote it because I love you. Even though we’ve been separated by many years and by many miles, we grew up together and I care about you.


Jim Maher

==============================================

separate envelope:

Rick, most people think they can earn their way to heaven by being good. I hear it all the time. That’s not what the Bible teaches, but it’s what most people think. “If I follow the golden rule, or try to do my best, I can live with God forever.” “Bad” people go to hell, right?

I was amazed to find that Jesus taught something very different, and the New Testament makes it clear. Nobody is good enough to go to heaven. NOBODY. Wow. Saint Paul writes in the Bible (Romans 3:23) “There is nobody who is righteous, not even one. For all have sinned and fall short of God’s glory.” He writes in Romans 6:23 “For what we deserve is death, but the GIFT of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ.” What is that all about?

The Bible teaches that God is perfectly good, and he has planned a way to live with us forever, but it requires that we become perfectly good too. That is impossible for us to achieve by trying. God proved it by giving us the 10 commandments, and all of us have broken many of them many times. If breaking even one of them once makes us imperfect, then we’re hosed and none of us can get to heaven.

No, God made a plan so that we can be perfect and holy like him. We can have this forgiveness and perfection even though we are bumbling sinful humans. We can meet God now, and we can meet him in heaven someday, and we can be confident that we will be accepted. How? Not because we deserve it or are “good enough.” No, it is because we can receive God’s forgiveness as a gift.

The Bible teaches that Jesus didn’t suffer and die on the cross by accident or because of a tragedy. Jesus was God on earth, and he died on purpose for you and for me. He died as a perfect sacrifice in my place and in your place. He died on the cross to receive the punishment that you and I deserve. He took God’s punishment in our place, his one perfect life paying the price for all the imperfect lives that have ever been lived. John 3:16 in the Bible (what you see at football games) says that “God so loved the world that he gave his only son so that whoever believes in him would not die, but have everlasting life.”

So what do we have to do to be forgiven and receive this gift? The Bible says that it isn’t automatic, but we just have to ask. I did it when I was a junior in high school. If you haven’t done it yet, you can do it right now, and then learn more by beginning to read the Bible (try starting with the book of John in the New Testament). You can pray a simple prayer just by talking to God. I think I prayed something like “God, I know now that I could never be good enough to live with you in heaven. I’m so sorry for that, and I’m sorry that I have fallen so far short of your commands. But I am so happy that I now understand that you made a way for me to be forgiven forever so I can live with you in my heart now and live with you in heaven forever. I accept the gift of Jesus Christ, and his death for me on the cross. Lord Jesus, come into my heart as my savior and my Lord.”

Rick, if you have questions about that, or if you decide to pray that prayer, feel free to call me to tell me. I’m at 507-261-0345.

Your friend, Jim Maher




In fondest memory of my friend, Ricky Topp
8.20.11

Genuine

Transparency. It’s an easy word to say. It’s a hard word to live. One of the greatest threats to Christianity in general, and to marriage in particular, is the hypocrisy that comes from pretending one thing when we know something else is true. Transparency and integrity are opposites of hypocrisy. Admitting the truth about our lives, our motivations, our sins, and our victories, begins the endless process of sanctification—being made holy, step by step.

Laura and I have been married for 28 years. The quest for transparency is a theme of our marriage.

Some years ago we lived in a different city and were part of a small group Bible study with several other couples from that church. We did our best to be honest about our joys and struggles, and presumed the same from the other couples. We were therefore stunned to learn several years later that one of the couples had split, and that they had been privately dealing with an issue of infidelity all during the time we had been meeting together. Rather than share the issue and allow us to pray and assist, they had chosen to wear the mask of marital perfection, preferring pride to humility. This revelation frustrated and angered us. Life is too short to play games with each other. Isn’t this real life we’re living? Isn’t our faith about real life? Doesn’t Jesus Christ know the truth about us anyway? Doesn’t a relationship with Christ mean forgiveness, openness, and real power for real living? Because of this experience, Laura and I committed ourselves to being transparent and modeling transparency to others whenever we are in relationships and small groups seeking spiritual maturity.

Are Laura and I perfect in our transparency? No. We still suffer from pride. We would prefer that people believe our marriage to be flawless and unchallenged. We need grace to model humility and transparency to friends, even to our daughters…especially to our daughters.

Transparency can require discretion. Telling the truth is important, but sharing sensitive struggles and challenges may require one or a few confidential partners willing to provide accountability and loving perspective. We have found that such partners need not even be in our own church fellowship. It can be freeing to share struggles with a loving friend or advisor or mentor who is far removed from our situation. Their prayers and counsel can make transparency possible even in the most challenging matters.

So let us be the kind of church that encourages honesty in all things. Let our marriages model this kind of transparency, through God’s grace.


Reprinted from Autumn Ridge Church Ridgelines, summer, 2011

Dad

My dad turns 78 later this year. He and my mom made the trip from Madison to Rochester this weekend. They accepted our invitation to attend the combined graduation celebrations for their two granddaughters who have now finished high school and college. I had several opportunities to watch my father from across the table or across the room. As I looked into his blue eyes and listened to his kind words, I found myself reflecting on memories that had left permanent marks on my life. These are among the countless ways that my dad will forever be part of me, besides the DNA segments he left in every one of my cells.

My dad taught me to make models. Plastic or balsa wood, cars or airplanes, modern or vintage, he showed me what I needed to know. Dad had grown up on a farm and learned to fly light planes. He was good at teaching. Two model memories have stuck with me all these years. As a young boy, my dad bought me a model car. It was a metal model of a classic Ford convertible. There were plenty of parts and long instructions. It seemed daunting for a little kid like me. Even more amazing, the kit called for the parts to be assembled once to assure that everything fit and was accounted for, then the kit was disassembled and the parts were painted and put back together again. This was my first memorable lesson in patience. After supper we would spend time together on the model. Even when we had it together, I understood that all the screws were coming back out and the pieces were returned to the table for painting. When the car was finally done, it was beautiful. That model became an object lesson—doing something right may mean starting over, sometimes on purpose.

It was another model that taught me a different life lesson, and it was again my dad who was responsible. I was older and working alone in the basement on a large model glider, gluing wing spars and ribs over flat plans covered with saran wrap. After hours of work on one large wing I experienced that sinking feeling when I realized that I had used a thin balsa strip for the leading edge. The plans called for a thicker, sturdier wood piece but I missed that detail. Every one of the two dozen ribs was now improperly glued in place. I stared at the error. Eventually I called my dad to come downstairs and I confessed the problem. He looked at the wing and he looked at the plan and he looked at me.

“The wing will probably hold up alright even with the wrong piece. Nobody else will probably ever be able to figure out that there is a problem” he said. “But you will always know that there was a mistake and it could have been done better.”

There was no accusation or shaming in his words—just the observations of a wise father. When he had walked back up the basement stairs, I picked up my X-ACTO knife and carefully trimmed away all the glue, spending another hour replacing the leading edge strip with the proper strong wood piece.

I have told that story dozens of times to PhD students through the years.

As I watched my dad across the room at the busy graduation reception, I sensed that he felt out of place. He knew practically nobody in the house. I wanted to stroll over and talk with him, but I was surrounded by my friends and the parents of my daughter’s classmates. I contented myself with glancing at my dad every few minutes.

It reminded me of a memory from many years before when I had been able to observe my dad without him knowing it. Dad’s career was as a geology professor at the University of Wisconsin- Madison. When I decided to attend college there, I knew that my biology major would probably never make me a student in one of my dad’s classes. In spite of that, my curiosity ended up getting the better of me. Early in my second year I decided to sneak into one of dad’s lectures to see what it was like. Dad taught an introductory geology course (he jokingly called it “rocks for jocks”) and there were probably 200 students in the lecture hall. This gave me good cover, and I snuck in and sat in back. For the next 50 minutes I was completely stunned. My mild-mannered and quiet father was an entirely different character in front of an undergraduate class. He was quick-witted, dramatic, funny, probing, engaging—a dynamo on a stage. In fact, he was a ham. At one point in the lecture I found myself sliding down in my seat, wanting to be sure that he didn’t see me in the back. I had the terrible feeling that the magic would end if he found that he was being watched by a spy from his own family.

I never thought about my dad the same way after that day I saw him teach. I came to realize that he had a gift, probably from his mother’s side, and he had shared that gift with us kids. I often find myself thinking of him in those quiet moments just before I deliver a lecture or an invited presentation.

A poignant and meaningful echo of this stealth lecture experience came years later when the three of us kids learned that dad was retiring and would be delivering the very last college lecture of his career. We drove to Madison from different locations across the country, and agreed not to let dad know that we would attend the lecture. It was the same hall where I had snuck in to watch my father teach many years before. My brother and sister joined me outside the room, knowing that my dad would pass by before class began. We talked about our childhood memories, and we tried not to appear too out of place among the waiting students with ipods and cell phones. It was well worth the trip when we saw my dad’s eyes open wide in amazement as we stood up to hug him in the hall before class. He had no idea we were going to attend. We sat in back of the crowded lecture and listened to dad go over the review material for the final exam. At one point in the class he climbed up to stand on top of the lecture table to make a point. My sister gave me a glance of disbelief, but I just winked to her—I had seen this kind of behavior once before, a long time ago. Near the end of the lecture my dad paused and looked out at the hall full of students. To them it probably seemed like just one more in an endless series of college classes at a major state university.

“Before we finish, I wanted to take a moment to thank my three children for coming to surprise me today.” He gestured in our direction. “It means a great deal to me that they are here, because this is my very last lecture before retirement.”

As the students looked in our direction, my first instinct was to slide down in my seat, as I had done once years before, not wanting to be detected. Instead, I smiled proudly as the class broke into applause for my father.

My dad and mom waved as they drove out of the driveway after the graduation party this weekend. He’ll be 78 this winter. In some ways we spend precious little time together.

In other ways I realize that we’re never really apart.

5.30.11

Tom Regnier

Dear friends, Cynthia, and Eric—

My friend Tom left a deep impression on me because of his attitude.  He typically set
his mind to being a servant, and he made sure his service exceeded expectations.  I try to imitate this as often as I can, and I usually find myself lacking compared to the example set by Tom.

Three happy memories exemplify Tom to me.

In late 2005 the Autumn Ridge Church campus on Salem Road was completed. There was a sense that those of us on the design team were now presenting the facility to the staff and to the congregation for use in service of others.  As I stood at the podium addressing the congregation at those services, I spoke of presenting the keys of the building to a representative who would now shepherd the facility on behalf of the congregation.  It was Tom Regnier who I mentioned in this role.


Soon after Autumn Ridge was occupied it became clear that no amount of planned storage in the new facility would be adequate.  Tom immediately swung into action and studied options, resulting in the design and construction of an excellent storage building placed on the east edge of the church property, connected by a service road.  This project was executed thoughtfully, with foresight, and with huge cost savings to the
congregation.  I think Tom was always justifiably proud of his fancy barn.


In 2007 we started the Autumn Ridge Church Arts Series so that the congregation could invite two national Christian artists each year to share their craft in the performing arts center of Autumn Ridge.  Tom instantly became a valued partner in this ministry, attending to hundreds of details required to assemble the volunteer team and prepare the facility for the events.  We worked together to create a protocol for each concert, and Tom was exceedingly faithful in seeing to his responsibilities in service of the guest artists and the audience.  I will always remember how, usually sometime during the artists' pre-show sound check in the auditorium, I would find Tom quietly standing next to me, proudly.  When the music stopped, he would inevitably say

"Can you believe they're really here??"

It never got old to hear him say that with such genuine enthusiasm. Tom and I also enjoyed a little ceremony that we enacted after each show, where a framed concert poster was carefully hung by Tom on a backstage wall celebrating the Arts Series.

I will really miss Tom.  I miss him already.

I anticipate that day, maybe not so long from now, when I will see Tom again.  He'll be standing with his attention focused to the front.  I'll slip quietly next to him and I'll hear him say

"Can you believe we're really here??"


Joyfully dedicated to the memory of Tom Regnier
12.14.10

Fifty

I turned 50 this weekend.

It was a profound experience for unexpected reasons. A Friday evening celebration with dear friends had just wound down. Dishes were washed and the clean-up was complete. Older daughter Elizabeth was off in downtown Rochester with college friends celebrating a mini-reunion as they were home for Thanksgiving. As seniors, they were able to enjoy themselves as adults. All had returned from schools across the country. Younger daughter Christina arrived at home with a few carloads of friends just in time to re-open all the containers of leftover Chinese food from my birthday party. Frying pans were produced, plates were piled high and kids were gathering around the kitchen island. Laura and I smiled at each other knowing that the third major meal of two days was about to be served. We loved the chance to play host again, even at midnight. Christina was just six months from finishing high school and the days of hosting carloads of friends were numbered. All good.

The phone rang and suddenly everything changed in the buzz of the kitchen. Christina checked the caller ID and saw that it was Elizabeth’s cell phone. Christina picked up, listened for a second and then spun toward Laura—

“It’s something really bad”

She thrust the phone to my wife. The kitchen began to quiet as Laura tried to make sense of the screaming she was hearing from Elizabeth on the phone.

It was that phone call no parent ever wants to get.

Laura ran to the room adjoining the kitchen to try to hear better. Elizabeth was hysterical. Laura’s voice was instantly panicked. Elizabeth was screaming, I could hear it from where I was standing a few feet away, trying to search my wife’s eyes. There was something about an accident and some fragmentary phrases about Chris being hit and Austin being hit. We knew these were names of two of Elizabeth’s friends but Laura was trying to make sense of the hysteria. Within 10 seconds it was clear that there had been a terrible car accident and her friends were hurt, and that Elizabeth was near a familiar storefront along Broadway in downtown Rochester.

“Dad will come find you- he’ll be right there. He’ll find you!”

My coat was on and I was in my car before I could think. As I sped down the street I was praying and I was telling myself to drive carefully to avoid creating some other disaster. Within five minutes I was rounding the turn onto South Broadway. Something caught in my throat as I saw the flashing lights along the street ahead, vehicles converging from all directions even as I pulled into a nearby lot and jumped out of the car. I ran the block along Broadway as ambulances pulled up beside me.

A war zone. As I approached the corner, rescue vehicles with flashing lights were screeching into position. Sirens were screaming. It was a cold crisp midnight. The sidewalk was lit by streetlights. I ran to the curb and the hysteria of the scene was unavoidable—bystanders and young women were literally screaming and crying. There was debris on the pavement. A body lay motionless on the sidewalk ahead, thrown unimaginably far from the street. Another lay against the curb, bent unnaturally.

I got to the corner and saw Elizabeth running toward me in anguish. She screamed to me just one word

“Dad!!!??”

Her scream echoed in the street. It was a single word carrying a thousand emotions, part desperate cry for help, and part questioning plea. I ran right to her and took her in my arms, holding her tight. She was sobbing and frantic and shivering and crying. My tears began to flow. Even in the midst of this chaotic hell in a street in a small Minnesota city my mind flashed to the gospel passage where Jesus cried in anguish as he watched the hopeless sorrow of those who mourned for Lazarus. Humans suffer. Christ knew all about it. He knows all about it. Still, he cried as he experienced it.

A war zone. Elizabeth dragged me to the edge of the curb where she had just been holding the hand of her friend, Chris, where he lay on the cold pavement. A coat had been placed across his body. A small pool of blood was in the gutter. I had met Chris two days before as he stood laughing with Elizabeth in our front entry. Chris was now conscious but in great pain, crying out for help, trying to find a way to stay warm, and moaning about how much it hurt. His cries were haunting. The sound of his voice and the anguish rose above the noises in the street, mixed with the screams and sobs of the girls gathered nearby. Elizabeth was still frantic—wanting to help her friend, wanting to run away, wanting to comfort the girls with her. She turned to me and screamed that she had heard everything, that they had been hit in the crosswalk right behind her, just after she reached the curb.

“Dad I heard the sound! I can’t get it out of my head!”

A war zone. I kept trying to come to terms with the contradiction of college kids celebrating the Friday night after Thanksgiving in a quiet town where not enough usually happens, now in the midst of a kind of hell.

I held Elizabeth and looked around me. I began to realize that I knew all these faces. The women crying and anxiously running along the sidewalk were Elizabeth’s childhood friends, girls I had known for years, girls whose elementary school field trips I had chaperoned, girls who had been in our home many times. They were all now beautiful young women in a nightmare. Stephanie had witnessed the entire accident ahead of her in the crosswalk. She was finishing her description to a police officer and she was trying to be brave. Kristine was screaming and throwing up, helped by another crying girl. Lydia was in tears pointing down the sidewalk to where Austin’s body lay, surrounded by a growing team of paramedics. Michelle dashed up, just alerted by a cell phone call. Their friend Luke paced back and forth between the two bodies on the ground.

The paramedics moved quickly to get Austin onto a body board. He was strapped down and stabilized as I saw them lift him gently into the ambulance. His body was still, eyes closed. He had been intubated but not ventilated. I prayed that he was breathing on his own. I also felt that terrible ambivalence, knowing that his silence was ominous but easier to bear than the sound of Chris suffering and calling out from the pavement.

A war zone. Stephanie had been brave. Finishing with the officer in the cold light of the storefront, she turned to us and locked eyes with Elizabeth. In a second her face melted into sobs as the two girls rushed together in an anguished embrace, crying uncontrollably even as the air was filled with sirens and wails and the calls of pain.

It was horrific.

I threw my coat to Kristine who was sobbing nearby, her jacket having been placed across Chris’ body in the street. I reached my arms around both Elizabeth and Stephanie wanting in all the world to hug them so tightly that it would all just go away. I was crying. Before I knew it I was praying out loud, calling out to God for help amidst the chaos. I prayed for mercy and protection for Chris and Austin, and that the doctors would be able to help them quickly. I prayed that somehow God would be honored on this terrible night.

The ambulance sped off with Austin. Chris moaned as a body board was slipped beneath him. Stephanie looked at me and sobbed that she couldn’t believe what she had seen—that the boys’ bodies had been tossed as if they were weightless. Michelle and I exchanged glances.

“Chris is talking—it’s a good sign”

We tried to comfort each other with his consciousness. I was so afraid that he might have internal injuries.

A war zone. Kristine’s coat and cell phone were left in the street near the puddle of blood. More squad cars arrived and crime scene tape was stretched between light poles and debris circled with spray paint. A few blocks up Broadway another array of flashing lights betrayed that further carnage had been wrought just seconds after this hit-and-run. We later learned that the same driver had collided with two more pedestrians, critically injuring both, dragging one on the car.

As Chris was loaded into the second ambulance, Kristine’s mom arrived. Kristine’s face captured the frantic torturous reality as she ran in tears to her mother. The entire scene could not have been more heartbreaking.

These are the sounds and images that moms and dads would die to prevent from reaching the ears and eyes of sons and daughters.

Elizabeth and I ran to our car. She was shivering and crying. We sped off to the emergency room along with the ambulances. Groups of friends were assembling. One of the guys had called to make sure the parents of Chris and Austin were reached. Within a few minutes Austin’s family members began to arrive, and were taken immediately back to the ER treatment area. Chris’ family members waited with us in the lobby. I felt sick knowing that Austin’s situation appeared much worse. As the minutes turned to hours, I caught the eye of a familiar ER doc and we learned that Chris’ vital signs were stable. The doctor also winced, saying that it was a bad night in the ER, with six critical cases, four resulting from the same hit-and-run driver. That was the first we had learned of the extent of the accidents.

I met Pat and Peggy, Chris’ parents. They were amazingly calm. When they were finally called back to see their son, they thoughtfully returned to the ER lobby, frequently updating the circle of friends that waited. Chris had broken bones in the leg and arm, but he was stable. It was 2 AM. Elizabeth looked at me and I could tell that she wasn’t leaving the hospital until she had seen and spoken to her friend. When it got to 3 AM we were allowed to wait upstairs as Chris was prepared to move to intensive care. The small group of friends followed me as my key card got us through interior doors and to the elevator. The conversation was lightening.

As it approached 4 AM we got word that we would soon be able to see Chris. I instinctively checked the internet using my phone, wondering if the world of the media had yet picked up this story. The screams were still echoing in my mind, just as the sounds and sights of impact would keep running like an endless tape loop in the minds of Elizabeth and Stephanie.

I gulped as I realized that the local newspaper website already had the breaking story posted online. I read and my heart stopped. I called Elizabeth quietly and handed her the phone.

“Oh my God.”

She read the story out loud, her voice shaking in the dark waiting room. Four had been hit, three were critical, and one of the first two men had died.

“Oh my God.”

The room fell completely silent. For the next 20 minutes each friend sat silently, looking in a different direction, eyes filled with tears, stricken.

We agreed quietly that Chris didn’t need to know. Somehow everyone would stay upbeat. And they did. Chris was in pain, but lay in the ICU as his friends gathered around the bed. They didn’t say that they loved him, but I’m sure that is what he heard. I stood quietly in the dark just outside the room, watching my beautiful daughter at Chris’ bedside, exhausted, her makeup still staining her cheeks.

We drove home together at 4:30 AM, just Elizabeth and me. She shuddered and sat silently and then looked across the car at me.

“Dad, the sound was so terrible. This is the worst day of my life.”

As we pulled into the driveway, I touched her hand. We both knew that the accident could easily have involved Stephanie and Elizabeth rather than Chris and Austin. I made a comment about angels.

She looked back and me.

“Dad, I don’t think this is about angels at all. I don’t think there were any angels there.”

Two days passed. Elizabeth twice visited Chris in the hospital. We drove her back to college in Minneapolis.

The more I think about it, the more I think that there were angels there that night in that war zone. I can’t prove it and we can’t know for now, but we will know someday. I think there were angels there that night, and they weren’t alone.

They were fighting.

I turned 50 this weekend.




respectfully dedicated to the memory of Austin Melville

soul

I spent the afternoon of Friday, October 8, 2010, on the Mall in Washington D.C. I visited some of the places that had touched me exactly nine years ago when I wrote:

http://jim-maher.blogspot.com/2001/10/she-was-shy-little-girl.html

This visit also gave me a chance to think.

It’s strange. During this business trip I’ve been thinking about peculiar questions. I guess it is because I am a scientist and also a Christian believer.

Are souls real? What are they? Where do they come from? Where do they go? Are they locked in time or do they escape time? Do souls pre-exist?

The world’s great religions and thinkers have weighed in. If time does not forever trap existence and consciousness, then perhaps souls could exist on both sides of this life. Maybe that is where Hinduism finds itself.

I am a scientist. That means my professional life is about studying things I can reproducibly measure with tools.

I was once fascinated by my discussion with a believer who stated opposition to the potential generation of cloned human life because such cloned individuals would not have received souls from God.

Wow.

The lady feared that cloning would result in soul-less zombies.

So I’ve been thinking about it. As a scientist I believe in the extreme complexity of the human brain. The brain is built from a few chemicals, but its complexity defies our understanding.

The brain points to the important scientific concept of emergent phenomena. The concept of emergent phenomena is exemplified by an ant colony. An ant colony is sophisticated and reproduces, defends itself, migrates. An ant colony does things that individual ants do not. The complex behavior of the colony is an emergent phenomenon, greater than the sum of its parts.

The human brain is built from neurons and accessory cells. It is a complex electrical machine filled with circuits. It is (perhaps) the most complex electrical machine of its type among all living things.

Christian believers see in the human an image of God, created by God for the purpose of communication, rescue, and eventually, co-existence and intimacy. Deity has created a persistent attribute in humanity in order to love it. That persistent attribute is evidently the soul.

Given that I am built from machinery, but with the purpose of knowing God, could it be that God perceives my soul as an emergent property of my complex human brain?

A brain has its roots in neurons, but just as the study of individual ants does not prepare us for an encounter with an ant colony, so the soul exceeds the machinery of the brain.

Maybe the soul is an emergent property of the brain. Maybe the soul consists of something immaterial, unlike the brain.

Maybe the soul is to the brain as a love song is to the vocal cords. The one emerges from the other, but the one is carried in a different medium. The song conveys something unimaginably different from the muscle and stretched membranes that created it through moist oscillations.

The song travels. It echoes. It is perceived. It changes lives. It can change history. It can be recorded. It can inspire.

It embodies love.

Maybe the soul is an emergent phenomenon, an ant colony from the billions of ant-like neurons of the brain.

Maybe the soul is the song that is carried as compression waves through air molecules, arising from the vocal cords to be a pilgrim in a different world.

Maybe that is why humans are a little different. Maybe their emergent souls are uniquely God-like. Maybe their souls are songs that are, like his, mutually audible, linking created and creator as the created learns to both sing and listen.

Maybe.

Rupert

She was 16 but that didn’t mean she could hold it in. She sat by the fireplace, cuddling the small dark dog and the tears welled up in her eyes, uncontrolled. She looked up at her dad and mom who stood nearby, helpless. “But we have to do something” she sobbed, letting tears drop onto the blanketed animal.

Rupert was obviously hurt. Maybe it was something deep inside—they couldn’t see any outward damage. He was a middle-aged dog, at least in dog years, a crazy mix of miniature dachshund and miniature pinscher, mottled colors in a smooth, short coat of fur. He had two dispositions, either sweet (when he wanted to share a lap or a bed), or ferocious with raised back fur (when a neighborhood cat was seen outside). The girl loved him unconditionally. He responded the same way.

Some time in the previous few hours Rupert had injured himself. Like the girl’s middle-aged father, a middle-aged dog can’t just burst around the house with adolescent agility. Busting a sudden dance move could cause sore muscles for days. Rupert must have jumped from a high chair one time too many. Maybe nobody told him to do warm-up exercises before dashing from window to window to look for the sneaky cat.

Like all dachshunds, Rupert was a long, tubular dog, and long tubular dogs are prone to spine injuries. Something was wrong with his back. Rather than prancing and dancing around his owner’s feet, he stood stiffly, puffing out his belly to brace against the pain. He whimpered and called out a quiet yelp when she lifted him to her lap. The warmth of the fireplace made no difference.

“We can’t just sit here—we have to do something.” She repeated.

The little dog had been sired among the broken-down outbuildings of a struggling farmstead along the border of Iowa and Minnesota. It was a muddy, overgrown place. When the upper middle class buyers had visited, the picture of poverty was overwhelming. A dirty comforter was produced, crawling with a pile of puppies. Various farm cats and dogs wandered the yard. A miniature horse was tied up nearby. The buyers looked at the chosen puppy, imagining the long list of intestinal parasites to be conquered. The girl’s mom and dad had even wondered a bit about how many animal species might be represented in the genes of this dog—that miniature horse had a peculiar look in its eye.

The years had passed and now Rupert was grown and injured. Two days of vet appointments and scans set the family back a few hundred dollars, and only confirmed the diagnosis—a ruptured disc in the lower spine was putting pressure on the spinal nerves. Within a day Rupert was dragging his hind quarters rather than using his legs. He was a pitiful pile of dog, nothing like the spritely animal they knew. The future didn’t look good. A few dachshunds recover with long bed rest. Most don’t. Pain medicine would help little.

Distraught, her mom picked Rupert up from the local vet. She sat alone in the car with the broken dog and called the girl’s dad at work. The conversation was short. Now mom, like daughter, found herself unable to control her emotions. The caller lost all composure, crying into the phone, letting the tears roll down her cheeks, oblivious to others in the parking lot or the effects on makeup.

Her mom and dad knew about the other option for a small active dog that couldn’t even drag itself into the yard for its morning business. When euthanasia was mentioned in dinner discussion, the look on the girl’s face cut to the heart.

Rupert was a member of the family.

A consult at the large university veterinary center suggested one other option, but it seemed extravagantly expensive. Spinal surgery. She and her mother drove 90 miles for the consultation. She cradled the crying dog as best she could. Her college-aged sister joined them for the vet visit. The price tag had four figures. The expensive operation couldn’t ensure recovery.

There was another phone call. The three women sat with the small dog. They wanted to be extravagant. Seeing him raise his nose to new scents on the air outside the veterinary hospital seemed to convince them. The girl’s father took the call from his office, far from them, listening to the tones as the phone was passed from one woman to another. He imagined the three of them sitting in the grass with the helpless animal. He ran the expensive scenario through his mind.

Something occurred to him as he listened. It was both a sensation and an impression, and it grew more powerful in an instant. A helpless, broken animal lay suffering far away. The animal had no intrinsic value—the repair expense could not be rationally justified. Why sacrifice this kind of money for an operation with no assurance of success? What kind of life lesson would the two young women of the family take away from such a crazy and irresponsible investment?

The sensation and the impression grew. The contemplated sacrifice was a tiny picture of something unfathomably greater.

Grace.

Grace is the central concept of Christianity. Grace is the ultimate synonym for Jesus Christ himself. Grace is extravagant, sacrificial love by the perfection of deity bestowed upon objects with no value. Grace is he most worthy of worship reducing himself to the tortured sacrifice extravagantly rescuing his own enemies. Grace is the decision to love irrationally, imitating that ancient, irrational love that was nailed to a cross.

The operation was an expensive success.

The little dog soon could walk again. It wasn’t long before his prancing dance came back to him, with some uncontrolled sway in the hind quarters. The family joked about the expense of the procedure. They saw the traces of clumsiness and smiled together—knowingly.

Abstract concepts come alive when personified. The personification of grace lies at the heart of the story of Jesus Christ. If dogs will someday scamper around heaven, I am sure that one little mottled dachshund with a slightly awkward gait will often be seen waiting his turn to feel the embrace of his Master.

professionalism

Introduction to professionalism in Christian worship music

One of my greatest joys is playing pop-gospel music with a group of instrumentalists and singers who regularly lead our congregation in worship. This is extremely fulfilling from a spiritual perspective, and it is a blast. Particularly significant to me is the opportunity to play with people I deeply love, appreciate, and respect. Many of us on the musical team have been working together for more than 15 years. In some ways we’ve matured together both musically and spiritually.

This activity has led me to experience deep times of worship, often in surprising ways. I spend a number of hours alone listening to the songs, playing along with them, and then listening some more. I saturate myself with this worship music each week, whether while driving, or in my home studio, or in rehearsal, or in performance. During these private and public times I sense the meaning of the songs and their call to intimacy with God through Jesus Christ. The experience often brings me to tears. Maybe being in my late 40’s makes me more sensitive!

It has gotten to the point that I consider leading a congregation in worship music to be more about my own worship mindset than anything the congregation is doing. Maybe that seems individualistic, but it has become true and freeing for me. It is as if we worship musicians were saying:

We on this team are about to spend some very special time playing and singing as an imperfect but heartfelt gift to God. It will be a very meaningful and touching time for us. We love doing this more than anything else in life. If you want to join us, please do, but we’re going to do it whether you join us or not.

At a recent lovely retreat with worship ministry musicians we discussed opportunities to excel in worship ministry. Here are some of the things we covered together.

"Professionalism" in worship ministry

I want to share some of my ideas about “professionalism” in worship ministry. This may seem strange, since most of us are not professional musicians. Maybe it may even seem wrong to discuss professionalism in the context of church music. This isn’t a business, right? Shouldn’t we just be happy with sincere good tries and leave it at that?

I’ve been playing the bass since 1970. That’s 40 of my 49 years. Through the years I’ve done some semi-professional playing in Madison, Los Angeles, Omaha, and Rochester. I had a full-tuition music scholarship at the University of Wisconsin—Madison. I’ve been a union musician. I’ve thought more than once about how it would be to play professionally rather than being a molecular biologist. I’ve decided that I love playing so much that there is great joy in not trying to make money at it.

But that doesn’t mean I’ve given up trying to aim for professionalism in all I do. A professional musician makes enough money at music to live off it. That is rare. However, any musician can display professionalism, and that is what we are talking about today.

We’re going to start by watching two YouTube video clips by and about a fantastic professional studio musician, bass guitarist Nathan East. I don’t know Nathan East’s spiritual perspective, and it doesn’t matter for this discussion. He is a super musician, and much in demand. He plays beautifully. The first clip is one of his live performances with Eric Clapton in 1999 on Clapton’s heartbreaking song “Tears in heaven.” Besides the fact that the song is about the accidental death of Clapton’s little boy, watch Nathan East, and listen to his playing. I try to imitate his style every chance I get.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AscPOozwYA8

The second clip is Nathan East talking about professionalism and what it takes to be an “A-list” studio musician in the professional music industry. Never mind that this clip is part of a series promoting Yamaha Musical Instruments (note that beautiful white bass guitar). The fact is, what Nathan East and other professionals say in this clip is powerful. His comments convict me about all the ways I fail to show professionalism. His comments also make me long to be more professional, and to inspire professionalism in my musical team members. Listen to what Nathan East says, and listen to the comments of the producers who appear in the clip. Think about what they are saying on the subject of “professionalism.”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SfxYjQ9ZuSU

So now that you have these ideas in mind. Let’s talk about how this might fit into our lives as amateur worship musicians.

First off, let’s realize that professionalism in worship is not a new idea, and it is not a wrong idea. In fact, though they often stumbled into wrong-hearted and misguided rebellion (like us) the ancient Jews worshiped through organized music. This music was not spontaneous, but was rehearsed and offered by highly trained professionals using voices and dedicated instruments. Remember too that much of the book of Psalms is lyric sheets from ancient worship songbooks where the music has been lost. We learn about professional worship music in several Old Testament passages. Some examples are:

1 Chronicles 9:33
Those who were musicians, heads of Levite families, stayed in the rooms of the temple and were exempt from other duties because they were responsible for the work day and night.

2 Chronicles 5:12
All the Levites who were musicians—Asaph, Heman, Jeduthun and their sons and relatives—stood on the east side of the altar, dressed in fine linen and playing cymbals, harps and lyres. They were accompanied by 120 priests sounding trumpets.

2 Chronicles 7:6
The priests took their positions, as did the Levites with the LORD's musical instruments, which King David had made for praising the LORD and which were used when he gave thanks, saying, "His love endures forever." Opposite the Levites, the priests blew their trumpets, and all the Israelites were standing.

2 Chronicles 29:25
He stationed the Levites in the temple of the LORD with cymbals, harps and lyres in the way prescribed by David and Gad the king's seer and Nathan the prophet; this was commanded by the LORD through his prophets.

2 Chronicles 29:26
So the Levites stood ready with David's instruments, and the priests with their trumpets.

Ezra 3:10
When the builders laid the foundation of the temple of the LORD, the priests in their vestments and with trumpets, and the Levites (the sons of Asaph) with cymbals, took their places to praise the LORD, as prescribed by David king of Israel.

Psalm 68:25
In front are the singers, after them the musicians; with them are the maidens playing tambourines.

Nehemiah 11:22
The chief officer of the Levites in Jerusalem was Uzzi son of Bani, the son of Hashabiah, the son of Mattaniah, the son of Mica. Uzzi was one of Asaph's descendants, who were the singers responsible for the service of the house of God.

Nehemiah 12:8
The Levites were Jeshua, Binnui, Kadmiel, Sherebiah, Judah, and also Mattaniah, who, together with his associates, was in charge of the songs of thanksgiving.

Nehemiah 12:27
At the dedication of the wall of Jerusalem, the Levites were sought out from where they lived and were brought to Jerusalem to celebrate joyfully the dedication with songs of thanksgiving and with the music of cymbals, harps and lyres.

Interestingly, we learn essentially nothing about Christian worship music in the New Testament.

So now that we’ve thought a bit about professionalism from the perspective of a professional modern session player, and we've been reminded that the ancient Jews involved professional musicians in worship music, let’s think about the implications for us.

Before going on, I want to mention a comment that world-class Christian artist Michael Card made when we shared dinner with him before his concert at our church several years ago. He said something simple and profound:

We all bring mixed motives to our music.

He was talking about music in service of Christian life, whether as entertainment, teaching, or worship. He was honest and he was accurate. We are sinful people. Remarkably, when we give up our lives to Christ, God chooses to see only Christ in us. He sees me as pure, even as I struggle and fail in my attempts to offer meaningful gifts to him.

As Michael Card said, what brings us to make music is a complex mixture. Many of us in this business were made to be musicians and to praise God through musical creativity. We’re doing what we were made to do—what could be better? Sometimes we genuinely want to communicate with God through this medium, and lose ourselves in the process. I think those are my highest and most meaningful moments. I don’t even remember those songs when they’re done. But let's throw in some reality. We love being with our friends, we love the sounds of music, we love hearing ourselves play, we like the affirmation of others, we like the compliments of strangers. We like to feel needed or even indispensable. We like to think of ourselves as good players and singers. We enjoy performing. We are proud and arrogant (some of us more than others). Michael Card said it right: we bring mixed motives. Thankfully, God seems to graciously respond: "Let's start with that."

So here we go. I would argue that professionalism includes at least the following 12 ideas. There are a number of others, but these 12 form a core. I’ll provide my list and we can discuss them as we go along. Remember, I’m a bass guitarist. That’s both an excuse and a reality. These principles of professionalism are universal, so translate them into your own experience.

Skill
I’m sorry to start with this, but it is the most obvious. Skill doesn’t imply professionalism, but professionalism implies skill. When we seek to display professionalism in leading worship, it assumes that we are working very hard to hone our musical skills and bring excellent (and improving) musicianship to everything we do.

Quality
Here I mean dedication to getting things right and not accepting mediocrity from ourselves. I know, I know—I am offering imperfect gifts to a perfect creator. I am going to stumble. My heart is more important than my playing. All that is true, but my aspiration for both my heart and my playing is the same: quality. What we lay on the alter of our private and public worship is to be meaningful and expensive and genuine. That starts with quality. Franky Schaeffer (the son of leading 20th Century Christian theologian Francis Schaeffer) has written an entire book called Addicted to Mediocrity (1981) dedicated to the premise that Evangelical Christianity has forgotten quality and replaced it with “good intentions.” Ouch. That’s not professionalism.

Servant attitude
Isn’t it interesting how much of the Nathan East video was about attitude! Think of the quote from Lionel Richie. Do you remember it? It was something like “attitude determines altitude.” Professionalism is not about showing off or expecting accolades or looking for praise, or even playing really well. Especially in worship, professionalism is about a servant attitude, seeking to serve the other team members, and the joint musical product, as more important than one’s own playing. Making each team member feel good about their respective contribution can be a hallmark of a musical leader who displays professionalism.

Respect for the time of others
This is a big one. Respect for time is hard to understand until you have played with professional union musicians. It was an eye-opener for me. People are paid by the clock, there are prescribed breaks, and overtime costs a lot more. People come prepared, and leaders work efficiently. Before and after a professional rehearsal there is time for humor and good fun. During the rehearsal it is business. Players are silent when they are not working on a section together. The leader has the complete attention of all involved at all times. Players take notes to speed their subsequent preparation. Players arrive totally prepared, assuming they won’t have any time to re-orient to the music. They come assuming that the first time through in rehearsal needs to be tight, and might be recorded. We should act like each member of the team is making $200 an hour. How would it change our behavior if they were?

Patience
We in worship ministry often rehearse at night, after long and difficult days at school or in our other careers. We often work weekends. We are often tired or stressed. That’s life. Professionalism means the discipline of patience. Tempers are held in check. We exemplify professionalism, expect it in our team members, and do not blow the whistle when we don’t see professionalism around us. Like good parenting, professionalism is 90% setting a good example, and 10% expecting others to imitate it. If that player needs to go through the part 5 times to get it right, we do it 6 times. If the vocalists need some time to work out their harmony parts, we sit alertly and give them the time. They’re each making $200 an hour, right?

Self control
We joke all the time that professionalism means being paid for the notes you don't play, not for the notes that you do. Professionalism is about choosing the correct notes, and placing them (or singing them) in such a way that a song is complemented. Self control is also about disciplines like finding something complimentary to say about the musical gifts of your dear friend, or even the gifts of that new younger musician just sitting in for the first time.

Flexibility
This is about making one’s playing a tool in someone else’s hand. Maybe that someone else is another player with a suggestion, or maybe it is the worship leader. Flexibility means trying new things, willingly and cheerfully offering musical options, stretching to explore new and unfamiliar musical territory. It also means switching instruments or vocal parts or transposing as if the new key means being paid double! Flexibility also means choosing to sit out when one’s voice or instrumental part is not helpful. It means I smile and agree about sitting out even when it wasn’t my idea!

Listening
Professionalism means excellent musical skills, and an essential musical skill is listening. This means being constantly aware of what the other team members are doing musically. Many of us benefit from personal monitor mixers allowing us to choose which team members dominate our musical experience during rehearsal and performance. This is fantastic. I am a bassist. I listen to the drummer and my favorite singer and that’s almost all (OK, a bit of an exaggeration, but sorry guitarists and keyboardists and background singers). I’ll admit it though—it is an all-too-common experience that I study our rehearsal recordings and realize that a team member was creating an important musical statement, and I either played over it, or improvised a part that didn’t agree with it. Bad listening.

Encouragement
The Nathan East YouTube video makes the claim that professionalism means helping others to have a good time and to feel good about their musicianship. If there is one thing I’ve learned as a scientist who writes research proposals for money, it’s that people don’t create well when they are scared. People create when they are relaxed and when they trust those around them. Professionalism means passionately investing in that kind of environment. Professionalism means setting aside pride and cliquishness and making the musical process a pleasure for all involved. I fail at that way too often.

Attention to detail
Professionalism means caring about the little things and finding ways to eliminate errors and unhappy surprises. Such musicians think ahead, plan for problems, and bring plenty of experience in providing solutions. Players like this know their gear, know their limitations, and (in the Zen sense) play (or sing) “within” themselves. This means offering well-seasoned tools and practicing the discipline of treating body and vocal cords with respect and care.

Team playing, not cliquishness
Professionalism means reaching out to new team members who are less familiar. As I mentioned, some of us have known each other for many years and we have shared some of the most sensitive and personal experiences of our lives together. Some of us are married to each other! Some of us admire each other very, very much. Many of us love spending time together. This is all good, and it is all beautiful. It is only an obstacle when the bonds of friendship and love create a clique, an obstacle to giving and meeting and serving and hearing others in ministry with us.

Preparation
Last and not least, professionalism means preparation. This has been extremely important for me. Preparation is important not just because it supports all of the other aspects of professionalism, but because it has freed me to get closer to what I think worship should be. Let me explain. What I share is about me. It may not apply to you. If it challenges your thinking, good. No apologies.

As a classically-trained orchestra musician, I grew up focused on the technical act of interpreting printed orchestra music on the page. No improvisation. No memorization. No transposition. Detail-oriented technical playing is everything in this setting. That is about reading music, notes, symbols, Italian. I brought this “chart-centric” culture with me to pop music, jazz and worship. Put a chart in front of me and watch me play. This mind-set is technical, but it hindered my ability to actually experience worship as an intimate and emotional reality. My mind and heart were engaged technically, not passionately.

Bob Kauflin (involved for 30 years with the a capella Christian music group Glad) describes how members of a congregation can become stuck in this technical mindset. He calls it SDD (screen dependency disorder) or HDD (hymnal dependency disorder). As a musician, I had CDD (chart dependency disorder). I was too busy technically interpreting marks on a page to think about why the acoustic compression waves were propagating from my instrument, and whether the acoustic compression waves were expressing my love for him for whom they were created.

One of my most cherished musical partners once gently challenged me, just in passing, to get my head out of the music. “You don’t need those charts anyway” she said.

Say what?

Her passing comment changed my life. Not just my musical life, my whole life. I realized that a very large fraction of the praise and worship music we share has simple structure. I can easily internalize the chord patterns and feel them rather than read them. For me this changed everything. I deliberately now learn my worship music by listening, not by reading. Sure, when I play chamber music I’m a technician of written detail. Yes, if I were hired to record with two takes, bring the chart. When I want to make the worship genuine for myself, even as I lead others, I now choose to prepare so the music is fully internalized.

Preparation and memorization should not be about pride. They should be about getting beyond the technical to a place where my contribution is at the level that my mind is on Christ, and my emotions are engaged in communication to and about him. I look forward to this experience in both rehearsal and performance. In fact, I tear up in rehearsal, and find myself transported on Tuesday nights as often as on weekends—if I have taken time for adequate preparation.

For our worship preparation we receive a lovingly-prepared packet of charts and a demo CD in advance of rehearsal. I start work immediately listening to that disc every time I am in my car, and every spare hour at home in my studio. I digitally input the music into an inexpensive transposition tool:

http://www.ronimusic.com/

(yes...there is a PC version too)

that allows me to play along with the recording and work out my part and memorize the structure in the appropriate transposition over several days of intense playing prior to rehearsal. Yes, you heard me correctly, I said “several days of intense playing prior to rehearsal.” For me, that is preparation. When I arrive at rehearsal, professionalism means that I expect everyone has done the same. There should be nobody saying “I didn’t have time to study the CD” or “can you play the CD once so I can remember this next song?” We all should have been living each of these songs for the days leading up to rehearsal.

I was intrigued to discover that this freedom I have experienced through worship music preparation has a parallel in the writings of C.S. Lewis, the wonderful Christian apologist. Lewis wrote in Letters to Malcolm, Chiefly on Prayer:

Novelty, simply as such, can have only an entertainment value….church goers don't go to be entertained. They go to use the service, or if you prefer, to enact it.

Every service is a structure of acts and words through which we receive a sacrament, or repent, or supplicate, or adore. And it enables us to do these things best...when, through familiarity, we don't have to think about it. As long as you notice, and have to count, the steps, you are not yet dancing but only learning to dance. A good shoe is a shoe you don't notice. Good reading becomes possible when you need not consciously think about eyes, or light, or print, or spelling. The perfect church service would be one we were almost unaware of; our attention would have been on God.

Interesting. For me, memorization and familiarity and preparation are aspects of professionalism that get me beyond thinking about the dance steps. They get me to dancing. More important, they allow me to think about and actually enjoy my partner in the dance during worship.

So I cannot emphasize enough the freedom and significance that have come with my attention to the discipline of musical preparation and memorization. It has changed everything. Yes, this commitment requires a lot of time each week. It is a meaningful investment that has had a profound and very personal spiritual impact for me. It may not be for everyone. This commitment to preparation may take different forms for different singers and instrumentalists. At the bottom, however, professionalism can probably be summarized best by that single word: preparation.

Summary
So there we have them: 12 principles that capture aspects of professionalism in Christian worship music. Are there more concepts that might be added? Sure—things like passion, intentionality, humor, modesty, sacrifice, consistency, accountability, mentorship, etc. etc. They start to sound like discipleship terms, don’t they?

I think these 12 provide a good start. Let’s continue to discuss them together. Let’s continue to challenge ourselves to practice these principles and display them. Let’s agree to expect them in each other and remind each other when we stumble. Please remind me.

Oh, and did I mention, I love serving him with you. It is my favorite thing. It is a privilege.