Prayer

There is absolutely nothing like the sound of my little boy’s voice. I love the way he coos. I love the way he squeals and talks to his toys. His sneeze is still the cutest sound I think I’ve ever heard.

I won’t tell you about the belch that left me in stitches for hours.

The other day, I dreamt about my son’s voice. And in my imagination I wrapped that little voice around the words, “Daddy, I love you.” I’m told that when he finally does speak those words of his own accord, I can kiss my heart good-bye. Even now I’m starting to tear up.

God spoke in that daydream. He told me that when Koen starts talking, it won’t really matter what is said. What will matter to me is that he’s saying it.

He told me that prayer isn’t all that different for Him.

My ADD mind wandered to a church Sunday School room where a person asked, “If God already knows my needs, then why should I bother praying about them? Why won’t He just provide?”

Prayer, according to what God whispered in my ear that day, is not about daily bread. Ultimately, it isn’t about words of worship or words of thanksgiving or words of supplication or the Lord’s Prayer. In the end, prayer isn’t about prayer requests or holding others up before the Throne of Grace or asking that a loved one comes to know Christ.

Prayer, at its most basic level, is about the sound of my voice.

Prayer is about the effect my voice has on His heart.

Prayer is about God hearing His little boy, whom He dearly loves to no end, speak the words, “I love you, Daddy.”

The Bible says that His voice shakes the mountains; the very foundations of the earth. He lifts his voice, the earth melts.

We lift our voice to Him in love and worship; His heart does the melting.

His eyes well up with tears of joy and elation.

Imagine tickling God. Imagine telling him a joke that He finds irresistibly funny. Imagine making His day because we stopped to say, “I love you, Daddy.”

Why pray when God already knows our needs? Because prayer isn’t about the needs.
It’s about a little boy talking with his Daddy; a Daddy who stops the universe to listen

My Son

I would like to announce that my son incontinent, and I couldn’t be more proud.

My son babbles in incoherent syllables, and I couldn’t be more proud.

My son is an egocentric little whiner who screams and throws a tantrum whenever the world doesn’t revolve around him. But even then, I couldn’t be more proud.

My son is nearly five months old.

It would be absurd for me to even consider waiting for him to impress me before thinking him worthy of my love. He rolls over, I cheer. He grabs a blanket to stuff in his mouth, I clap. He grabs my hair and gives it a good yank…I scream, but I still love my son.

Anything he can do, I can do better. Yet, he’s the one I brag about. He’s the person I tell stories about in church or at the store or with total strangers on the bus…

I brag about my incontinent, incoherent, unproductive, exhausting, demanding, needy, whiny, egocentrical son.

And why?

Isn’t it obvious?

Haven’t I already told you a dozen times?

He’s my son.

And because he’s my son, the very sight of him fills my heart with joy.

Because he’s my son, I sing a lot more.

Because he’s my son, his laugh is like music. His smile is like diamonds. The word “precious” doesn’t even begin to cover what Koen means to me, because he’s my son.

It is a curious thing that he would come into my life now.

It is a curious thing that after telling God I really needed to see Him as loving, Jill would announce that she’s pregnant.

It is a curious thing that while I approached fatherhood with such an excitement for what I could teach Koen, I didn’t account for what he would be teaching me.

Koen has taught me what I look like from God’s point of view. Incontinent with besetting sins, incoherent with prayers on autopilot that tend to drift into a completely unrelated day dream, selfish prayers that demand this or that or throw tantrums…

And yet, I am completely, unashamedly, and boundlessly loved. Not for what I’ve accomplished—for anything I can do, God can do better. But because He created me.

That’s a good enough reason for me to love my son.

That’s a good enough reason for Him, too.

Practice or Pyre

I’m a better musician than many, not professional by any means, but certainly proficient. As a guitarist, I can lead camp fire songs with the best of them. As a bassist, I usually only need to know the key in which the song is played. Yet, in both cases, I’m really just a competent fake.

Some years ago I attended a concert with a musician who is far and away my superior. Yet, when faced with the master solo guitarist on the stage, he turned to me and said with a smile, “Some guys make you want to go home and practice, and some guys make you want to just burn your equipment.” The musician on the stage fit the latter category.

Again, I’m a good musician, better at least than the youth pastor at my church or the members of some garage bands I’ve encountered. But in this I’m comparing myself to amateurs and other competent fakes. I could probably play a decent rhythm track under most professionals, or at least the staff of the local music store.

But pair me with a true master, whose guitar strings whisper sweet music at his very presence, and I’m playing $300 worth of firewood. I simply don’t measure up, and pretending that I do would only make me look more foolish.

I think the same can be said for people in general. As an evangelical Christian I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard people brush me off with the words, “I’m a good person.” But what if that “goodness” is determined by a fallen standard? Most who say that following the Ten Commandments will get you to Heaven can’t even name them—not by half. No matter how good we are, God is still better, and compared to His mellifluous tones, the best of us sounds like a violin student in his first lesson. After that jam section, the prospect of being thrown into Hell won’t sound so unjust.

But God as a trick up His benevolent sleeve.

The soundtrack to the movie Black Snake Moan is played by a group of highly professional, highly competent blues musicians. The actor, Samuel L. Jackson, is not one of them, but he did spend some rather humbling time with them learning to play. In the film we see the actor playing the song to the best of his meager ability. Again, he was taught by the pros, and he knows the part. But in truth he’s just playing along with soundtrack, and it’s the notes of the master musician we’re actually hearing.

This is what the cross was about; Jesus taking our pour excuse for righteousness and replacing it with His own.

This is what the Christian Faith is about; crap musicians learning to play at the feet of the Master.

For those of use who know Him, He makes us want to practice.

And of course, there’s also the desire to keep others from needlessly burning their equipment.

Philosophy and Chess

I suck at the game of chess.

It’s not for a lack of study, mind you. I’ve read about a dozen books on the topic; some comprehensive overviews, some focusing on strategy, or tactics, or openings, or whatever. I know how to fianchetto a bishop. I’m familiar with the concepts of material, time, and position. I’m fluent in a few different types of Chess notation.
I know the point value attributed to each piece, and I know to develop the lower point values first. After all, “Pawns are the soul of chess.”

I also know the adage, “To learn, play.”

But of course, if I play, I might lose, and if I lose, I’ll feel foolish for all those hours I spent studying the game instead of simply letting the computer—or local chess club—kick my butt. A friend of mine—who just recently learned that a Knight is worth three points—follows this latter tack and his experience on the board really shows.

I don’t play him much anymore.

Instead, I run back to my safe little chess opening puzzle book and try to learn what not to do in an actual game.

But chess is not a theory to be studied. Instead, it’s a game to be experienced. Only by spending time at the board can one learn the intricacies of the pieces. Only by losing can one hope to win the simple pleasure of knowing, not knowing about, but knowing the game. To learn about knight forks, get caught in a few. To learn the power of pawns, challenge them.

To learn, play.

With this in mind, I’ve met a number of philosophers and theologians who treat God the same way I treat chess. They’re much better read on the subject than me, having absorbed books by monks, and rabbis, and seminary teachers. They know the difference between Calvinism and… and… whatever theology is the opposite of Calvinism. Compared to them, I’m sure I sound like a backwater hick.

Except, that I’ve spent time at the chessboard of God. And at that board I’ve lost opinions, unfounded beliefs, sugar-coated doctrines, and a part of my soul that I came to learn wasn’t really mine in the first place. I still come away licking my wounds more often than not. But like a chess player who exchanges bad habits for good ones—inexperience for wisdom—I don’t miss what I lose, especially when compared with what I gain.

The Bible makes it very clear that following Jesus comes at a cost, so I don’t blame the theologians for hiding from the Lion of Judah in their non-threatening books. But to do so is like studying art without ever attempting a doodle, or learning to sail from the comforts of one’s couch.

Or learning to play chess without facing an opponent.

I know a lot about chess.

And yet, I suck at the game.

I love it at a safe distance, denying myself the adventure of its company.

And that is my greatest loss.

Church Essay #2: What?!

(To be fair, things have changed since this was written.)

I’m trying not to see this as hypocrisy. I’m trying to connect what’s being said with what’s being done. I’m trying, really trying.

But I’ve seen this before.

I told the planning committee to focus on Christ. Focus on worship.

“We are,” they said. “But we need a band, a good band, and band that would really rock this house for Jesus.”

I told the music leader to forget the band. I told him to play, not for the crowd, but for the King.
I told him to play for an audience of One.

He told me he was. He insisted he was. I stood blinded by the laser lights on the stage as he told me about fog machines for Jesus.

Yeah, yeah, worship. Check. But what we really need is a band. A band will bring people. A band will fill this place like the mega-churches that Jesus never preached at.

He gathers musicians. They look and sound like American Idol rejects. Yet, they play louder as though the neighbors not filling the pews are missing out. The cacophony rattles the stained glass.

Thirty come to hear the band play.

Twenty-five faithful souls.

Twenty willing to give them another chance.

The precious band draws a faithful dozen … sometimes.

Soon, only the pastor is clapping.

I told them to focus on worship, instead of the band.

They didn’t listen.

There isn’t a planning committee anymore.

That church is dead.

No one speaks of them, not even in whispers.

I’m seeing it happen again.

This time, the band can actually play. This time no one comes to throw shoes at the chorus of screeching cats. This time, people clap.

But the music is too loud. People stop coming for the ringing in their ears. People tell me they can’t hear themselves join in the song.

I voice my concerns.

“We’re reaching a younger generation with this service,” they tell me. “There are those who would complain we’re still too quiet.”

I look at them and shout over the ringing, “What?!”

They don’t hear me.

They don’t see the people leaving.

More speakers appear on the stage.

It’s this or the traditional service. If only I could stomach the sound of the organ. If only I could stomach worshipers who smile too much, or too little. If only I didn’t mind gray headed relay racers who won’t let go of the baton. I don’t belong in the traditional service.

I try to tell myself that I belong in this service because it’s the only other option, this service where everyone keeps saying the music is too loud. I can’t hear myself pray, or worship despite the songs I don’t know. Speakers compete with the still small voice.

They tell me to be seated as the band leaves the stage.

I shout, “What?!”

Earplugs are provided at the door.

Standing outside in the parking lot, I can identify the song being played.

I sing along as the sound man moves the master volume slide up.

The pastor says that worship is worship is worship. He says style doesn’t matter. He says rap, hymns, rock, country; worship is worship is worship.

Style doesn’t matter. He says it like a man so hurt by racism that everything becomes about race. “Style doesn’t matter,” he says, again and again and again.

I shout, “What?!”

No one is listening.

No one can hear me.

If they could, they would know I’m not talking about style. They would know I rather enjoy the band. They would know that worship is worship is worship, but I’m not worshiping.

I don’t see worship in the band’s faces either.

The music leader says, “We’re worshipers first, and musicians second.”

The guitarist chews his gum, focused only on the next chord.

“We’re worshipers first, and musicians second.”

The pristine notes of the base player thunder from the extra speakers. He’s playing the music, but his face doesn’t move.

There’s a look that comes with love songs. There’s a glow that overtakes the countenance when the singer voices in melody the most ardent cry of his heart. Worship is worship is worship. But what is worship if not a love song to the wild and passionate lover of our souls?

The band speaks of worship.

The pastor speaks of worship.

Worship I can neither see nor feel.

I raise my hands despite the absence of that radiance from the stage.

My heart and lips remain silent, a counter-balance to the assault on my ears.

In my head, I wonder if I’m not going crazy. I wonder if I’m not just being overly critical. I wonder if I haven’t allowed the Evil One to corrupt me, and block me from encountering Christ.

They tell me God is moving in the band, and I want to believe. I want to support what God is about.

Yet, I wonder if I’m the only one noticing the diminishing crowd.

I’ve seen this before.

I’ve seen a church forget that the world is turned around, and that the way that seems right often isn’t. Beware the yeast. Beware the decoy. Beware the theatrics of Hell.

Since when has church been about bringing people in the doors instead of sending them back out into the world refreshed? Since when did this spiritual gas station become a concert hall? Since when has music in the service been the focal point? When did we forget that we aren’t singing for our benefit, but for God’s?

Treat the root to treat the tree, not the leaves.

I long for a church that creates a place where Christ—not the band, not the style, not the target demographic—but Christ is the center of the service. Only then will He come to inhabit the praises of Hhis people.

I long for a church that teaches the discipline of being still and listening to God when He speaks, letting Him saturate our lives.

That would be a church where people would leave dreaming of returning next week.

That would be a church where our hunger for something real, something of substance could be satisfied.

That would be a church that doesn’t waste it’s time with laser lights and fog machines.

Focus on worship.

Focus on lifting the name of Jesus.

Focus on encountering Christ, and the rest will come.

They tell me they are focused on worship.

They tell me they are seeking the glorification of Christ.

I shout, “What?!”

The congregation applauds the band. At least I presume it’s the congregation. I’ve run for the door to find a place where I can hear my own thoughts. Five people are clapping near the sound board.

I leave church as exhausted as I was when I came.

I dream of not returning next week, of staying home with my guitar and playing a few hymns.

The neighbors in the unit above mine wouldn’t hear me worshiping. But God would. I’ve felt Him in my living room as I voiced in melody the most ardent cry of my heart.

Perhaps I’ve gone mad. Perhaps I’ve become a curmudgeon so stuck in his own ways that nothing anyone else does is good enough.

Or, perhaps I’m truly seeing church for what it was meant to be. And in that vision, I’m seeing church fall short of its true potential.

Self-diagnostic complete, yet inconclusive.

I’m still trying not to see this as hypocrisy.

Am I missing something?

I try to ask others for a second opinion as a sanity check on my perspective.

I try to voice my concerns and observations.

I try to say, in love, that I feel we’re going the wrong way.

I try to keep my church accountable in its claim of seeking Jesus above style or band or demographic.

They look at me and shout, “What?!”

I wonder why I even bother.

Church Essay #1: The Dance Party

He’s thinking about cheating on his wife.

But he won’t say so here.

It’s not allowed.

In church, we’re not allowed to be human. We’re not allowed to come through the door tired from the week, or struggling with besetting sins. There’s no room on the altar for our shit; it might soil the hand-crocheted doilies.

People ask how we are.

We nod, smile, and tell them we’re fine.

We’re getting our asses kicked by hostile employers, unappreciative wives, unsupportive husbands, and yet, we nod, smile, tell them we’re fine, and move on. That’s the dance.

No one waits to listen to the answer anyway.

People ask how I am.

I tell them I’m dead.

They say, “That’s nice.”

And walk away.

I tell them I’m wrestling.

A plastic smile says, “That’s nice.”

They move on.

I don’t.

I’m still wrestling.

I’m still dead.

No one will bear my burden.

It’s not part of the dance.

No one teaches that step in Sunday School.

I suppose it clashes with the doilies.

* * *
She walks through the church doors and packs away her thoughts of suicide, packs away the pain of a life that didn’t turn out as advertised. She packs it away behind a plastic smile.

People ask how she is.

She lies, because this is church.

Thou shalt not tell the truth.

Thou shalt say thou art fine and move on.

She didn’t always lie. She talked about her daughter’s stalker. She talked about the worthless man she married who walked out on her for a waitress, walked back in when the money ran out, walked out again with borrowed funds she’d never see returned. She talked about the revolving door of her heart, and the burden of not knowing what to do with it.

She told the truth, and the dancers tripped.

She told the truth, and the dancers got angry.

Jill the Tripper.

So, she learned to dance like the rest of them.

Learned to lie.

This is church, after all.

Nod, smile, tell them you’re fine, move on.

Pack your true self behind a plastic yellow smiley mask. Pack your heartache. Pack the lust that knocks on the door. Pack away the sins you’re not supposed to struggle with anymore because you’re saved.

Learn to dance.

Learn to play along.

Learn to lie.

Trip, and they’ll turn on you.

Fall, and you’ll be ostracized.

Show your true colors—toilet brown—and they’ll call you a hypocrite.

* * *
A man stands in the corner. He isn’t wearing a suit. His hair is too long. He looks too thin to be healthy. Even cleaned up and showered he looks grungy. He looks like those prostitutes and drug pushers we talk about bringing to Jesus, but not to church.

Save the sacred hand-crocheted doilies.

He talks with another man, a man in jeans and a Budweiser T-shirt.

They smile at each other. It isn’t plastic. It isn’t natural … here. They smile the way brothers smile, the way neighbors smile, the way love wraps itself around a persons face.

They don’t nod.

They don’t say they’re fine.

They don’t move on.

They stop long enough to share each other’s lives.

They stop long enough to share each other’s burdens.

I join their little group.

They ask how I am.

They wait for the answer.

I tell them.

They listen.

I lay my sickly brown burden on their shoulders.

They bear it with me.

Behind me, the dance continues. Clumsy kindergarten ballerinas cute in their tutus; crashing into each other; dancing for what’s-his-name.

But in our corner, we say words that aren’t allowed. We talk about porn and the struggle of resisting the cute girl in the copy room. We talk about the heartache of life not meeting expectations. We talk about being works in progress, not works perfected.

We promise to pray for each other, and we actually mean it.

We bear each other’s shit.

An eavesdropping dancer trips. We shouldn’t be saying words like that.

A man will have an affair this week.

But we shouldn’t be using words like that.

A woman will stop coming to the dance.

But we shouldn’t be using words like that.

She won’t be missed anyway. Jill the Tripper. Few will hear about the hanging. Fewer still would
believe it.

Christians don’t do that.

Christians don’t say words like that.

Christians, good Christians, dance.

Nod, smile, tell them you’re fine, move on.

Dance on the coffin of hurting souls

Dance to the tune of Nero’s Fiddle.

Dance to show the world that Jesus saves.

We stand in the corner and watch the spectacle. Jesus stands with us, playing a drum. But the dancers continue moving to a different beat.