The Real World.

He would get little sleep tonight.  His thoughts were agitated.  He was seething as he lay silently under the stars.  The others lay scattered around the smoldering fire, Thomas in arm’s reach to his left, Andrew to his right, but he was as distant from them as the wan moon.

How nice for him. How nice for him to slow down and take his time while we have work to do.  How does he think this little band of followers keeps going?  Not once has he ever even acknowledged what I do to keep these morons fed.  “Render unto Ceasar!” he says.  “Consider the birds!” he says.  Meanwhile I’m working myself dry to keep enough in the moneybag to keep us from starving.  “I’m in no hurry,”  he says.  That’s just the problem, you idiot.  People are suffering.  Your people.  Our people.  And he talks about love.  What does he know about love?  What does he know about suffering?  Yeah, let’s all just love one another.  We’ll make a nice little family where we sit around and pat each other on the back and just loooove one another.  Meanwhile there are people starving.  Meanwhile there are people being crucified for speaking out against this government.  Yes, I’ll just drop everything and make sure little Peter’s feelings aren’t hurt while a family goes hungry tonight.  I’ll go have a little fellowship and get to know little Matthias while Roman soldiers beat a man to an inch of his life just for being a Jew.  “Love one another.”  God, what an idiot.  He has no idea what love is.  He has no idea about the real world.

He would get very little sleep tonight.  There was just too much to think about.

Roses

Everything came washing over her, not in an instant, but in an ever flowing moment.  Images of every secret kept and shame concealed came rushing over her in a torrent of grace.  There was pain in the reliving, but also release.  Her tears rolled on, and as she wept her tears became a rushing river which engulfed her seven times.

She saw herself in a new dress, a girl of eleven.  Her hair was dark and long, and spilled gracefully upon her shoulders. She had a small jar of scented oil, which she dolloped behind her ears, and took a deep breath of the fragrance.  It was sweet, and deep, and made her think of roses. She sang to herself, until she saw the opening of the door, and watched her father enter the room.

She felt his hand on her thigh.  She saw the closing of the door.  She felt the tickling of the tears streaming back upon her face and onto her earlobes, where the perfume lay, still filling the room with its scent.

She saw her father entering her room again and again, closing the door.  She felt his hand upon her shoulder, holding her in place.  She saw his eyes across the table as they dined with affluent friends, eyes that told her this was a secret she could never speak of.  She saw the closing of the door.

She saw the face of the first boy that looked at her the same way her father did, and the closing of another door.  She saw the second, and even the third, but the rest took on just one face:  her father’s.

She saw the money shining in a pile next to her bed, the first time she took charge and made them pay.  It had shimmered dully in candlelight, almost pretty.  But it bore a seed of shame deep within her.  This is all I’m worth, she thought.  It’s all that I am.  Soon there were no candles; only back alleys and roach-infested corners, and the face of her father, and somehow, the closing of a door.

For years without number, and days without end, there was the closing of a door.

Until him.  One day, as barren as any other, there was a new face, and he looked her in the eyes from across the street.  He smiled, only as a gift, with no expectation.  She did not smile back, but she held that smile he’d given her somewhere in the corner of her heart.  Many men smiled at her before, but it had always cost her something.  This one was free.

As she now recalled it, she could almost hear the rusted hinges creaking open as he spoke to her the second time she’d seen him.  Through her present tears, she laughed for just a moment at the memory of his first words to her.

“Hi.  Would you like to join us for lunch?”

An invitation.  An open door.

She had made some excuse not to join them, but she never forgot the invitation.  She saw him many times since then, and it was always the same.  He asked her every time, with that wide, open smile, “Would you like to join us?”  It was a doorway into something big, and it was always open.  What lay on the other side of it was immense, and spacious, and terrifying.

Today, he had been walking past her corner again, and paused to find her.

“Hi, Helen!  How are you?”

She smiled.  “Not too bad.  Better since you’re here.”

“We’re having dinner at my friend’s house.  Do you want to come?”

“No,” she said.  “I need to work.”

“Well it’s just up here, to the left.  Do you know Simon?”

She wanted to laugh out loud for just how well she knew Simon, but only said, “Yeah... I think so.”

“We’re having dinner there.  You’re welcome to join us.”

“Thanks.  I’ll think about it.”

She watched him walk away, and waved a good-bye.  Somewhere inside her, she knew that he himself was that doorway into something grand.  It still scared her to death.  But this day, this barren, ordinary day, she would walk through it.

An hour later, she was knocking on Simon’s door.

“Come in!” Jesus said, before the owner of the house had a chance to speak.

The door opened, and a beautiful girl with long, dark hair stood quivering in the frame.  In her hand she held a small jar of scented oil.  She saw him, and he smiled, and she broke.

She ran to his feet, and wept upon them a stream of unbounded love.  The spirit of humility had been slowly killing the spirit of shame for a some time now.  Tonight, it had finished the deed.  For the first time, she felt she could be forgiven.  For the first time, she believed she could forgive.

She took the jar of perfume, and poured it upon his feet, and kissed them.  She tenderly dried his feet with her hair, which fell like a mantle upon them.

“Your sins have been forgiven,” he whispered.

“I know,” she said, and smiled.  “Thank-you.”

“You’re worth more than you know.”


She smiled again.  “I’m starting to believe that.”

“Your faith has saved you, Helen.  There’s an open door.  Walk on in peace.”

She closed her eyes, and took a deep breath of freedom.  It was sweet, and deep, and made her think of roses.

My Patron Saints, Part One

Everyone in heaven is a saint, and sometimes the Church draws particular attention to one of these saints by bestowing upon them the formal title of “Saint”. Usually this is because this person showed himself or herself to have been an extraordinary person in some way, even if that way was quite common. Whoever they were, they showed that they loved God, and that their lives were touched by him in some remarkable way. Granting a title of Saint to someone is meant to draw attention, not to the greatness of the person, but to the unique outpouring of God's grace and love upon their lives.

Often these Saints are made 'patrons' of people or situations with which they could personally relate. Personally, I can pray for anybody, but I have a special connection to someone who's lost a sibling. I can pray with the insight I've drawn from my own experiences, and my heart is connected to the person I'm praying for in a distinctive way. People in heaven, saints and Saints alike, have this same connection.

Over the years, I've collected my own batch of patron saints. This started years before I actually became Catholic, and I'll write more about that another time. There are certain people that my heart has been drawn to over the years, and sometimes I offer up a few words to them. I ask them, as I would ask any good friend, to say a prayer for me. I'd like to share a bit about what makes these people special to me, and why I esteem their prayers and fellowship in the sacred communion of saints.

Saint John R. Cash.

One day in 1996, my friend Dave Skene told me about a new Johnny Cash album, on which he covered songs by artists such as Beck, Soundgarden, and Tom Petty. I picked up a copy of Unchained from the library, expecting not much more than some interesting novelty songs. As I listened, however, I heard something much greater. I found truth in that voice. He seemed to inhabit these songs in such a way that made them his own, and it was hard to imagine anyone else singing them.

I spread the gospel of Johnny Cash wherever I went. I bought the book, Cash: An Autobiography and as I read I felt like I was sitting on Johnny's porch in Tennessee, listening to him tell stories about his life. These stories helped to inform the songs he sang, and as I listened to his music, it took on even more gravity. He was deeply aware of his failings, both in what he had done and in what he was capable of doing. He had embraced a life of deep and abiding grace, and seemed to exude a wisdom that has come from making a lot of mistakes.

Johnny's spirituality was deep and rugged. His holiness did not come from outward piety, but was displayed in who it was he chose to be with. This was most famously exemplified in his two most popular albums, which had been recorded at Folsom Prison and San Quentin respectively. The energy recorded on these two records is palpable. The inmates saw him as a man who was truly with them. Although he had never served time in prison, they could recognize an outlaw when they saw one.

The fact that he was comfortable following up 'A Boy Named Sue', with the famously bleeped line, “I'm the sonofabitch that named you Sue!” with 'Peace in the Valley' said a lot about his spirituality. He showed me that a saint and a badass could be one and the same. In fact, both of these qualities were most on display simply in his being himself. He was an outlaw that knew grace and beauty and tenderness.

In his book, he wrote openly about the loss of his older brother as a little boy. He wrote of the connection he continued to feel with his brother, despite the distance that comes from death. Although our circumstances were very different, I knew what he was talking about. And I could feel what he was singing about when he sang of death, of hope, and of heaven.

Today, I work in Modesto, California with broken men not unlike the people Johnny sang about, and sang to. As I become more intimately acquainted with their stories of loss and regret, I feel many of Johnny's songs all the more deeply. These songs of brokenness and brutal honesty become prayers of hope and healing for these men and for myself.

Despite his success, Johnny Cash seemed to embody honesty, devotion, and even simplicity. He wasn't perfect, and like any saint, he would set anyone straight who would see him that way. After all, what is a saint but a penitent sinner?  What he was, like every other saint, was himself. He didn't just stand up for the forgotten and the broken, but, like Jesus, he stood with them.

He life continues to inspire me, and his music continues to renew me. I'm not saying I'm the badass that Johnny Cash was, but if I have my moments, a great part of me has Johnny to thank.

Saint John, pray for us.

I have been ungrateful,

I've been unwise.

Restless from the cradle,

Now I realize,

It's so hard to see the rainbow,

Through glasses dark as these.

Maybe I'll be able,

From now on, on my knees.

Oh, I am weak.

Oh, I know I am vain.

Take this weight from me,

Let my spirit be unchained.

Gentleman Jim

He's about five foot-nothing, and shaves his white whiskers a couple of times a month. His voice sounds like a Harley-Davidson when he inevitably tells you, “I ran with the Hell's Angels for forty years.” Usually he has a beer in his hand, or he'll let you know that he's on his way to get one. “At least I'm honest, right, buddy?” and then laughs with the sound of a Gatling gun. “ You got any pies?”

If the world were full of beers and free pies, Jim would be a happy man. A terrible, terrible, happy man.

Jim's been married to Lisa for nine years. Usually one of them ends up in jail for a week or two from time to time. Last time Jim went to jail because, as he said, “they tried to tell me I hit her. I didn't hit her, she hit me!” It's equally possible that was a big fat lie, or the absolute truth. Either one is as likely as the other.

Jim and Lisa's relationship is dysfunctional to say the least, but that doesn't mean there isn't a real and true love underneath it all. The last time Lisa went to jail, it was for several weeks, and Jim was a mess without her. I know, he's also a mess with her, but he cried more.

It's been a slow process getting to know Jim. I suppose that's because he's such a crusty character, and it can be easy to think of him as just that, a character. A one-dimensional personality that adds a bit of flavour to our life in ministry. But no one is just a character. I've come to realize that more and more over the last several months.

There was a day a few months ago when I stopped by to say Hello, for no particular reason. I just had the time. He asked if I could give him a ride up to the store so he could get a couple of groceries. He hadn't been drinking that day, and as I drove with him to the store, we had a nice, normal conversation. I was reminded that there was more to him than just the crusty old biker. As he walked down the aisle at the grocery store, he said things like “Pardon me, young lady” to a retiree and “Excuse me, sir” to someone else. He even brought a smile and some laughs to the check-out clerk as she rang up his items.

There's a regular guy in there. Sometimes even a nice guy.

A few weeks ago, I dropped off a friend at the motel after church. As I was pulling out of the parking lot, Jim came walking by. He stopped and came over to the van. “You guys goin' past the Arrow? Can I get a ride?”

“Sure,” I said, “Hop in. I haven't seen you in a while. Where you been?”

This was when he told me that he'd been in jail for hitting Lisa, and there's always more to the story than what's at the surface. Just as he was getting out, he told me that his daughter had died on Christmas day. She was murdered. I almost had no response. “Jim, I'm so sorry...”

Jim had a daughter in her thirties. She lived in Texas and managed a Walgreens. She had three children, all under the age of six. On Christmas Eve day, her ex-boyfriend, the father of her children, broke into her home, started a fire, and attacked her with a tire iron. She died in hospital almost a day later.

Later, I found Jim in his motel room, and told him again that I was sorry about his daughter.

“Thanks, buddy,” he said. He whimpered as he embraced me. “I'm okay.” And some more tears escaped.

“We love you, Jim.”

“I know.”

I was able to find a couple of nice pictures of her from news reports on the internet. I had them printed and gave them to him the next time he came down to the Ninth Street Cafe for some bread. As I handed them to him he started crying again, and gave me a hug.

“Thank-you” he said.

A few minutes later I saw him showing off his photos to his friends, and soon they were posted on his motel room window for all to see.

Jim really is quite a character. He's funny and practically defines the term, “crusty”. He's also a character with deep wounds and a longing for real love. I've seen him with his other daughter, who is mentally and emotionally handicapped. Gentleman Jim can sometimes be a gentle man. He has love in his heart, and no one is beyond hope who has a friend.

I'm glad that he's my friend.

L

LOVE

I have a thought, a theory, that I've been mulling over for a long time.

What if it's all Love? The Whole Thing. Heaven and Hell and everything in between. What if it's all Love, and what if all this Love is fire?

Most images of Hell are associated with fire. Purgatorial language often refers to a cleansing fire. The Bible speaks of the refiner's fire. What can this fire be but Love? You could say it is wrath, but isn't anger or wrath simply an action born from a Perfect Love trying to make things right?

What if Heaven is fire, too? What if it's all Love, and our experience of Heaven or Hell or purgation is dependent on our response to Love?

I see it in life. I see how people respond to love. I have watched, often in tears, as friends respond angrily, even violently, to acts of Love. Call it pride or sin nature, but their response to an act of Love is painful and isolating. If they could have let go of self for just a moment, they could have been embraced and changed by Love. Instead, they are only burned by it.

C.S. Lewis sees Hell as isolation, a complete cutting off of relationship. In The Great Divorce (which you should take a couple hours and read as soon as you finish this entry), Hell is shown as an ever-expanding neighbourhood, with each house becoming increasingly distant from the next until your next door neigbour is an infinity of miles away. I've seen this happen here on earth. In response to Love, a person becomes distant, desperately holding on to what they are comfortable with and rejecting right relationship. Certainly, they've been covered in Love, but only feel it as though burning coals were dumped on their head.

For one who can't stand this Love, who wants no part of it, what could be more Hell than to know there's nothing you can do to keep this Love from loving you? His Love knows no bounds.

Others respond to this same Love and embrace it, no matter how much it burns. They are willing to go through the pain Love can cause, if it means that they can be True. When I went through a time when I needed my friends to see things more clearly than I was seeing them, my friends honesty in Love burned. By God's grace, I ultimately chose to let it burn. In the end, I was changed. I let go of the things in my heart that were causing the pain. Like gold encrusted in garbage, only the bad stuff burns. As long as I'm alive, this process will continue.

Then there's Heaven. Isn't it fire, too? We tend to think of Heaven, even those of us who think we're 'enlightened', as a geographical place, but isn't it simply God's Love? What could be more heavenly than to be wrapped completely in the Love of God? Certainly, this Love is fire. Gold is not burned by fire. It welcomes fire. For one purified by this Love, it is Heaven itself, for whatever is pure has no need to fear the flame.