Allison Krauss - Simple Love

A friend just sent me this video.  Now I am a complete mess.  This is beautiful.  Simply beautiful.

(And now, in November 2012, as this song came on Pandora at my office, I am thinking that the lyrics of this song reflect my prayers that my might life might reflect this kind of fatherly, simple love)

Off to Albania, The Family Tradition Continues

This afternoon, we put younger daughter on a plane (ok, really a church van, that was going to the airport) to that wonderland of eastern European vacation spots, Albania.

For those of you who have suffered along with this blog for more than two years, you may remember that this is Daughter Number Two to pick this lovely location for a summer mission trip.  We are completely pleased.

Daughter will be traveling about 5,700 nautical miles from home; LA to London to Tirane.  But maybe she will be doing a whole lot more traveling than that.  It’s not just about a different culture, or people who speak a different language.  Maybe it’s about exploring the world, and really about learning about two crucial things.  Thing 1: God’s love for ALL of the entirety of the world, including this place called Albania.  Thing 2:  Understanding more about God’s love for each of us, and what He may be doing inside our souls.

I am amazed by this girl.  When most of the kids her age are obsessing over the demise of Lindsay Lohan, or completely absorbed by their little local social circle, or finding ways to waste hundreds of hours on Facebook all summer, this girl wants to try something else.  Can she articulate to others her motivation for traveling more that ¼ of the way around the globe, just to hang out in a little country without the ability to flush toilet paper for two weeks?  It’s no Hawaiian vacation.  What is going on here? 

Maybe, just maybe, it’s what people refer to as “that still, small, voice” , calling her to serve and make a difference.  Even if it seems like a small difference.  Playing games with kids, sharing a laugh, going to church where you cannot understand a word but strangely get what is going on, making a meal, cleaning up.  Little things.  Little things that make a lot of difference.  You will never know how much your just showing up means to the folks where you are going.

But strangely, mysteriously, God’s economy is often not based on grand events, or things that change the world in a day.  His sense of what is important is usually found in the small events of life.  A smile, a hand up, really listening to someone, loving when it’s not easy.

And so, my prayer for this group of teens and leaders:  

God, go with all these great kids and leaders.  Give them a real sense of purpose.  Help them to understand what is going on, even when they have no idea what people are saying around them.  Build solid relationships of trust and service.  Keep them free from mishaps and injuries and funky germs.  But most of all God, give them lots of laughter, because it seems to me that so much of what your Kingdom is about is found in laughter.  We laugh because we know You are there in the laughter, and you love us more than we could ever imagine.  It’s amazing.  And for our girl, give her peace and joy deep inside her soul.  Fill her with enthusiasm, even in times when she would rather be napping.  Fill her heart with laughter.  Amen.

This 4th, This Land, Our Freedom

Tomorrow will be the 4th of July.  BBQs with friends, flags and bunting, a parade down Main Street.  Bikes festooned with red, white, and blue streamers.  Fireworks just after dusk.

But there is so much more going on here - and it really takes place in the ordinary of everyday.  Its the making of freedom, the slow forging of liberty.  Its the way we live our lives.  We get up, get dressed, go to work, care for the elderly and the less fortunate, and in the process, we make, hopefully, something good.

Today I came across a piece by my favorite columnist, Peggy Noonan, and it talks about words that were edited out of the Declaration of Independence: 

And so were the words that came next. But they should not have been, for they are the tenderest words. 

Poignantly, with a plaintive sound, Jefferson addresses and gives voice to the human pain of parting: "We might have been a free and great people together."

What loss there is in those words, what humanity, and what realism, too.

"To write is to think, and to write well is to think well," David McCullough once said in conversation. Jefferson was thinking of the abrupt end of old ties, of self-defining ties, and, I suspect, that the pain of this had to be acknowledged. It is one thing to declare the case for freedom, and to make a fiery denunciation of abusive, autocratic and high-handed governance. But it is another thing, and an equally important one, to acknowledge the human implications of the break. These were our friends, our old relations; we were leaving them, ending the particular facts of our long relationship forever. We would feel it. Seventeen seventy-six was the beginning of a dream. But it was the end of one too. "We might have been a free and great people together."

 A free and great people. And interestingly enough, all these years later, Britain and the US are again "a free and great people together" in so many ways.

This 4th I am thankful for my country.  But more than that, I am thankful for those men and women, now stretching back more than 234 years, who have lived and died and sacrificed to make this land one of the best places to live on the planet. 

May we not waste this legacy and heritage.  May we use it wisely in future years to bless this planet.

Dusk on the Hill

Up The Hill
A couple of weeks ago, Younger Daughter and I took a short car trip up a hill.  No big deal, but farther and deeper than I thought.

It was a late spring night, and for about an hour, up there on the hill, we just took it all in.  It was nice to have at least a few moments to disconnect from the routine and busyness of these days to enjoy something simple, like enjoying the simple pleasure of a sunset over  the city.  I can't remember the last time I took time out like that.

Daughter wanted to head up the hill and take in the sunset, and get some photos of it, from a lookout at her school.  I am not sure what motivated her to ask me, in the kitchen after dinner, if I wanted to go.  She had just finished her sophomore year, perhaps this mid-point of high school; a marker in the ground of sorts.  Parents:  when you get asked to do something like this from your fiercely independent kids, drop everything and just go.

Top of the Hill
At the top of the hill above the Rose Bowl, you are surrounded on three sides by the City of Pasadena and its suburbs.  As dusk settles in you can hear the low rush of the freeway below.  This world we live is in constant motion, rushing from here to there, never ceasing.  Standing above it all, I suddenly feel out of place - thinking that we had stepped out of that racing world below to a separate place, one of relative calm and reflection.  Above it all, if only for a while.

Am I like all those people down there on the freeway, rushing headlong forward, not perceiving what is really happening to me, letting life flow past me, and not learning?  There is so much going on around us in each moment, and we rarely take the time to stop and listen.  And wonder.

There I was on that hill above the city, in a place I could not imagine being even several short years ago, with a young lady taking pictures by my side who, its seems just yesterday, was just half as tall and confident as she is now.  Am I taking this all in? Do I know what is really happening in the mystery at the core of this life?

Over The Hill
Recently, I heard something on a podcast that has had me pondering, remembering my Dad, and reflecting on that night up on the hill.

It was a thoughtful conversation about the spirituality of Alzheimer's and aging, presented on Speaking of Faith.  Psychologist Alan Dienstag described his relationship with Anna, an Alzheimer's patient, who was at the point of forgetting almost everyone and everything in life.  They both shared a love of the beach, and Alan told his patient/friend Anna that he was going to be heading to the beach soon for vacation.  The beach, Anna thought, her face turning pensive.

Anna smiled, her face lit up, and after some thought she replied...."There is some kind of music that lives there."

In the fog of her mental decline, there was a mysterious place where Anna remembered the essence of being at the beach, and perhaps of this life itself.  The music that lives there.  Where did that memory come from, in a mind that everyone had just about dismissed as non-functional.  Perhaps it was a prayer. Its a place between knowing and not knowing. Its a mystery.

And there we were, up on that hill, taking in the sunset.  Dad, at nearly 52, and daughter at just more than 16, standing in the gathering dusk.

There was music living there too.

Remembering Coach

Last night, in the seventh inning of the Dodger game, longtime broadcaster Vin Scully informed the crowd via the scoreboard video screen that his friend John Wooden had passed away.

"Friends, I interrupt the ball game, and I come to you with a heavy heart," Scully began. "Those of us who knew him and knew him well are the ones who are blessed by his life."

Scully went on to quote Shakespeare: 

"His life was gentle, 

and the elements so mixed in him, 

that Nature might stand up and say to all the world, 

this was a man."

I had friend who was at that game.  This morning I found a text on my phone from that same friend, indicating that after Scully's announcement the fans at Dodger Stadium, nearly to a last man, and many of them in tears, rose to give Wooden a standing ovation.

......this was a man.  Indeed.

Incentives, Inschmentives!

You will need 10:48 to rethink the role of leadership and incentives in business, the church, and non-profits. Its worth the time, and entertaining. Go for it......

Seredipitous Evening of Memories

Friday night at 5 PM we got a call from friends who suddenly had happened upon 18 EXTRA tickets to see the Troubadour Reunion Tour of James Taylor & Carol King at the Hollywood Bowl.  Lived here all my life, and I still love living in LA, if for nothing else but stuff like this.

Nancy got on the phone, and rustled up 12 close friends, and off we went.  The concert time was 7:30, and we entered the Bowl (two rows from the very very top) right as the band took the stage. 

As we sat in the gathering dusk, eating cold chicken, crackers, and grapes, we listened to two of the icons of our generation.  It was beautiful.  Thanks to the wonders of YouTube, and illegal videos, below, please watch, for the few days before the lawyers shut it down, a moment from that evening.  This is the first encore. 

From the "If It Weren't So True" Department

This parody is another reason I feeling increasing sad about American Evangelical culture.


"Sunday's Coming" Movie Trailer from North Point Media on Vimeo.

Middle Life Reflections

Over the course of the past several years, I often find myself reflecting on this journey in life thus far. 

How did I get here, to this place, and where am I headed?  What will the road ahead look like?  And when the end comes, how will I feel about where I have been, and what little I might have accomplished?  These are the things that I think about, on occasion, when the softer and calm moments of life present themselves.

These times of introspection seem to come at the oddest turns, but usually in a more quiet place; alone in the car, walking the dog, or sitting on our back porch on a quiet Sunday afternoon reviewing the events of another busy week.

Last week, I was completely surprised by a moment such as this.  We took some friends to Disney Hall to see the LA Philharmonic, conducted by Gustavo Dudamel.  As an introductory piece, "The Promise of Living" by Aaron Copeland was played. 

Ever since I was just out of college I have loved the music of Copeland - which treats the history of our nation with such respect and tenderness.  For some reason, Copeland's music has always had a profound emotional impact upon me.  And so it was last Thursday, as I listened to the music of Copeland in a hushed Disney Hall.  It was if I had been lifted out of myself, for a few brief moments.  Transcendence.

As I sat in the dark, listening and reflecting on the events of the past several weeks, I was completely struck that my life is overwhelmed with blessing, and interwoven with remarkable people.  I also thought back to the events of the past several weeks. 

Time spent with friends, old and new, over coffee and lunches and dinners.  The blessing of brilliant team members at work, and, as part of that, being content in my soul with this recession and its impact on our work.  I reflected on the beauty and joy of my wife and daughters; how they daily amaze me. 

I thought of a good conversation with my daughter in the car - a chat about troubled people, and how we might respond to them in a caring way.  I remembered good friends, who are facing the lingering decline of a family member from an incurable disease, and the deep sadness that brings.  I recalled participating in a charity dinner for children with Down Syndrome, and then of our time at another fundraiser, supporting the amazing work of Young Life in our area. I was overwhelmed. 

For the past week, I have wanted to find a good video of the Copeland piece to share with you.  As it turns out, the best video I could find revealed to me that this music was, in fact, originally composed with words!  And the words.  Look below.  They fit perfectly.  For us all.

The promise of living

With hope and thanksgiving

Is born of our loving

Our friends and our labor.

The promise of growing

With faith and with knowing

Is born of our sharing

Our love with our neighbor.

The promise of loving

The promise of growing

Is born of our singing

In joy and thanksgiving.

For many a year I’ve know these fields

And know all the work that makes them yield.

Are you ready to lend a hand?

We’re ready to work, we’re ready to lend a hand.

By working together we’ll bring in the harvest,

the blessings of harvest.

We plow plant each row with seeds of grain,

And Providence sends us the sun and the rain.

By lending a arm

Bring out the blessings of harvest.

Give thanks there was sunshine,

Give thanks there was rain,

Give thanks we have hands

To deliver the grain.

O let us be joyful,

O let us be grateful to the Lord

For his blessing.

The promise of living

The promise of growing

The promise of ending

Is labor and sharing and loving.

(Erik Johns)

Technology Can Be Beautiful

This video of the effect of the volcano in Iceland on air traffic is amazing. Wait until the end, to see the effect of London coming back online. And remember, each of those little dots of light represents a hundred or more people flying through the air in a steel tube. I love it!

First Church of Pastor Moron

This pastor is a complete fool, pandering to the culture in the most shallow way possible.  So are the Shiny News Persons interviewing him.  I am disgusted.

John 17 Reflections

Recently, this fellow asked me my thoughts about this passage from the book of John.  And so, this is what I replied, in an email today:

I have nothing smart to say or ask.  I am dumbfounded.  This prayer has always confounded me. 

I feel inadequate to receive it, just reading it.  Its as if I am listening to Stephen Hawking describe the nature of Dark Matter, or Einstein on theories of time.  Its like, for a moment, we are given a glimpse, in this out-loud prayer, of the essence of the forming of the cosmos - in terms of the relationship between Jesus and his Father.  It is too great to take in.

In short, I only understand vaguely what is going on.  The content and context here is too boundless.  These are the final farewell moments before Christ must face the Ultimate Question of death we all will face someday.  How does he spend these moments?  Praying out loud about his relationship with his Father, what he wants of his disciples, and words for us all to follow.  This prayer is very intimate stuff.  May we all be driven to a place like this.  More often.

Something very mysterious is happening in this prayer.  Jesus is not praying for himself to hear the words come out of his mouth, but for others to hear who are there.  What might the moments of this prayer felt like for those watching?  I can only imagine that it might be the most profound mixture of emotions we humans can feel in all of life.  The feeling of joy and tears at the birth of a child; those rare moments of epiphany in the voices of a choir performing sacred works, the brilliance of an unexpected sunset, the pain of a broken friendship, and the foreshadowing dread of facing the impending death of someone we love so dearly.  All these things, all together, at one time, rolled together as we sit closely and watch Jesus pray. 

We try to open our mouths to respond, but nothing comes out.  This must be a moment for silence - in the way that nature affects us most profoundly when we stand in the alpine forest and absorb the calm.  There is deep meaning in our quiet reflection of the words of Christ.

Maybe part of understanding is to read this prayer over enough that it has a chance to sink into our souls, and affect the way we move forth into the word, and in turn, love others for Christ.  Can we take the time?  Can we really let it sink in?  Can we, will we?

I still feel inadequate.

Of History, Colleges, and Hope for the Future

Somewhere, high over the Nebraska corn fields, the ride home got rough.

And when it did, a teenage girl hand next to me tightly wrapped itself around my wrist. “I just hate turbulence, I just hate it”, said Younger Daughter, as we encountered bumps in the air.

Soon, that hand will loosen its grip, loose its fear of turbulence, and generally not be there as much any more. Life is like that. I know those emotional bumps will be more painful for me than these clear air ones, at 38,000 feet and Mach 0.75

This past week was spent in Boston, looking at colleges with high school sophomore daughter. What a great city Boston is....the deep history of the Freedom Trail, North End, Boston Common. And then the colleges, Tufts, Boston University, Northeastern, and Boston College. Even a trip to Harvard Yard. Oh my. I want to be 18 again! Wait, I take that back. No I don't.

I left the East Coast feeling greatly encouraged and enthusiastic about the state of higher education, certainly at least in Massachusetts. Enthusiasm, joy for learning, and minds ready to challenge the future, all very encouraging to this middle-aged fellow.

And so, that grip on my arm is gradually less.

If anything happens as a result of this college trip, and the someday soon ensuing college education, it will be that this same hand, the one that gripped my arm at 38,000 feet, will, after graduation, reach out in service, in creativity, in real friendship, and in compassion to a world that needs a hand to hold.

That is my hope.

Remembering a Paper Route, Forgetting Human Dignity

When I was 11 years old, I had a paper route. It started near my house, and continued down Baldwin Avenue in Arcadia, right across the street from what was then the practice track for Santa Anita racetrack. The first paper I delivered was the day Robert Kennedy was shot - June 5, 1968. I will never forget that.

I will also never forget what my Dad, a World War II Pacific Theater veteran, used to tell me as we drove past Santa Anita when I was a kid. "That was where they used to keep the Japs penned up during the War", he would say as we drove past the stable, just off Baldwin Avenue. I remember the feeling of being glad we "penned them up", during the War. They were scary savages, according to Dad, and he never really had much good to say about any "minority" as I grew up. I feel like I have spent the rest of my life overcoming my Father's biases.

For several years I would peddle my bike past the past the practice track, and sometimes think about all those Japanese people, locked up there, some 25 years earlier. What did that feel like for them?

Here is a glimpse of what it felt like.....

Why Not a Shameless Promotion

When you get things for free, for years, why not promote the latest thing they offer you.

I must admit, I love Blogger after this latest change!

The New Puppy, Cinderella Story, Traveling On

My, what a difference 12 years can make. A voyage of a couple hundred miles can feel like decades.

This past Saturday, Nancy, Heather and I piled in the family van and traveled 3 hours north, up the Kern River valley, to Lake Isabella. More than a hundred miles away from home. But I was not measuring the distance in miles. My dimension was in time.

As we left South Pasadena, the weather was cool, bright and sunny; it looked like a wonderful Saturday was in store. About 50 miles north, after an hour of travel, we encountered a wall of clouds near the Tejon Summit on Interstate 5. At first, the clouds spit rain on our windshield. Soon, the rain increased, and in the course of 15 more minutes of driving we found ourselves in the midst of a mid-March snowstorm. Turn on the defroster, there is ice on the wipers! Winter was not yet ready to yield to spring in these hills.

We soon emerged from the clouds, as the car descended down the Tejon Pass, and the California Central Valley appeared in front of us. A familiar sight, one we have seen many times on family trips, dropping the kids off at summer camp, and visits to Yosemite, farther north. Our lives seem marked by these journeys away from home and back again. Before us lay the open Interstate, in my mind this road reminded me of time's passage.

Its like that growing up, and being a grown up. Some days start out sunny, and rapidly go dark on you. Cold and unfamiliar. You find yourself in weather you did not expect, you are unprepared, and not sure what to do next. Being a parent has so often felt that way....where is this road headed, we thought we knew the way there?

There are gorgeous moments on the journey as well. The trip up the Kern River Valley felt like a sudden trip to Switzerland. Steep canyons, green hillsides, the rushing river beside us. Blue Stickseed flowers carpeting the hillsides above us. Wild mustard yellow, and the beginnings of California Poppys. Breathtaking. Surely, God's hand is upon these southern Sierra canyons. Often, being a parent gives you a glimpse of God creating. Every day, as a matter of fact.

This Saturday was, for me, a journey sideways and backwards, altogether in one day. Just a little more than 12 years ago we made a similar but shorter trip, south to Rolling Hills to pick out our first chocolate Labrador, who I wrote about recently, here. Heather, now 16, was very small, just 4 years old, and very excited to be adding a new puppy to our family, after the loss of our first dog, Champ, several months prior.

There she is above, to the left, just four, holding our new family member. In my mind, this is about as cute as life gets. Little girls and little puppies. And there she is again, 12 years later, an amazing young lady, holding our new family member.

And then, after emerging from the storm, there we were, last Saturday at Deltadawn Labradors, choosing from three female chocolate lab puppies. Childhood all over again. I felt like a kid.

Do we need another dog? My wife will take the Fifth on that question. We already have a cat. So another pet, particularly a small one, is a LOT of work, I am constantly reminded. Piddle on the floor, whining at night, lots of walks, another needy little one in the house.

I confess this puppy is one of the more self indulgent things I have done in a long time. And I also confess, this little dog is a form of coping for me. Coping with the sometimes twisting and snowy road of middle age. A way to adjust to the poor driving conditions of one daughter out the door to college, and another getting closer to leaving us each day. I am not sure how I will cope. A furry brown friend (who never offers criticism of my clothes) at my feet each evening might just help.

And so, we drove up the Kern River Valley, from Bakersfield to Lake Isabella, looking for Dad's Fuzzy Brown Coping Mechanism. Perhaps we should have named our puppy Anna, for the daughter of Sigmund Freud, or Evelyn, for Evelyn Underhill, famous female theologian. But, as is often typical in my life, I had no real input into the naming of this brown colored dog. The girls of the family took charge. My voice became small and muted. But the name was not a bad choice.

Our new puppy will be named Ella, which primarily means "she" in Spanish. In medieval France and Germany, Ella is the name given meaning "all". For the part that really matters in our family, Ella is the second part of the name Cinderella. Our last dog, Cindy, was "really named Cinderella", as Heather would put it often to those visiting our home and meeting our old, now gone, brown friend. Heather named Cindy when she was four, and so, when a friend suggested the new pup's name, it stuck. A continuation of a great name. I find it fun that the Cinderella story is also quoted by Wikipedia as a "well-known classic folk tale embodying a myth-element of unjust oppression/triumphant reward."

Will Ella be our families tale of oppression and triumphant reward? Perhaps this means lots of puppy pee/poop in the early months, followed by years of honest, unselfish, lavish love.

I think that might be the story.

Olympics and Denominations

My friend Alan Roxburg has an interesting take on the spirit of the Olympics, and how we need to move forward as communities of faith.

I like the connections suggested here.

And, if you have a half-hour, and want to relive all the fun and pageantry, go here.

This Old Church

Recently, several good friends asked me to write down my thoughts about our church.

They asked me this because, over the past 10 years, I have spent a good amount of time, reading, studying, and thinking about this topic, and how our old church fits into the fabric of Hollywood and Los Angeles. After 25 years (!) of membership I feel mixed emotions about this effort. Sadness and expectation. Thanksgiving and disappointment. And yet, in the midst of it all, hope. Great hope. I must confess that writing this post has been difficult; it's like trying to describe a complex relationship with a family member. There are parts you love so much, and other parts that make you crazy.

An Amazing Place
The First Presbyterian Church of Hollywood is a remarkable place, having been founded in 1906. The founders record in the minutes of one of the first church meetings that, "having viewed several locations in the area for possible church development, of these, Hollywood seemed the least promising". And so, in many ironic ways, this sentiment has reappeared many times over the past century. Hollywood - least promising. Has a certain sarcastic ring to it, no?

The "Golden Years" of Hollywood Pres occurred in the 1950's, as Sunday attendance often exceeded 4,000. Sunday services were broadcast on local radio. Henrietta Mears began a college-age ministry that became known around the country. Actually, church attendance peaked across the country in this time period, never to be eclipsed again. Since those years, church attendance has been on a slow decline, in keeping with many mainline denominations across the country.

But, in the midst of the changes over the years, genuine Christian community still existed. In spite of a decline in overall attendance, many facets of the church's life flourished. The core of the church was vital and active; still seeking after the call and ministry of Jesus. A national media ministry began and flourished for more than 10 years, featuring former pastor Lloyd Ogilvie. A new incarnational ministry, involving young people living in, and caring for the inner city of Hollywood was begun in the 1980s. An extensive feeding and care program for the homeless began, and has continued, feeding hundreds every week. In the 1990s two Actor's Equity theater companies began, in two separate theaters on the church campus; they continue to this day. The legacy of our church has been to proclaim the Gospel, and serve the city, for Christ's sake.

Not Like It Used To Be
The dawn of a new century reveals a church working to find its way in a city that is changing around it. Commercial infill development in Hollywood has increased significantly over the past several years. New residential towers now occupy the neighborhood surrounding the church, and the demographic of the area is gentrifying.

Once thought of as a secondary commercial center of Los Angeles, Hollywood is now becoming the location of choice for both businesses and upscale residents. At the same time, the city around the church continues to struggle with issues of crime and a significant immigrant population. Hollywood Presbyterian spent much of the period of 1970 to 2000 serving as a home base "commuter church" to the larger Los Angeles, area, drawing members from as far away as Orange County. Today, that trend is reversing, and those who call the church home come from closer in, both in Hollywood and the urban core of Los Angeles.

The conclusion that we must face together as our church looks to the future is this: The old ways of thinking about how to “do church better” simply will not work. A new paradigm is needed.

Building a Team
During the past 25 years, the pastoral leadership model at Hollywood Pres has changed and evolved. During the 1950s, 60s, and 70s, the model was one of a strong pastoral leader - with a subservient staff surrounding him, a Benevolent King, if you will. During the 1990's, the model of this kind of central, autocratic leadership proved painfully distressing for the church, and a painful split in the congregation took place. Something new is needed.

In the current post-modern context, the former models of leadership style also will no longer work. A new leadership model is needed for a new era. A completely new model of "doing church" must be shaped. What do we do when a church’s organization becomes cumbersome or is no longer effective? In the past the church has “reorganized” and formed more committees. Subtly, the church becomes good at church committee work, and slowly loses its ability to care for individual people; to love people for Christ. While we might find strength in our re-empowered governing and overseeing bodies, we must remember how to cultivate and nurture real and genuine personal relationships which love one another as Jesus demonstrated.

The church seeks a leader, and moreover, a leadership team that consists of "player/coaches" who participate in ministry at the grass roots levels, sharing responsibility with the congregation. This is our church together, we can no longer rely on the old model that assigned all ministry to paid staff. Each member of the church must seek out and participate in the areas of their own personal passion for service.

We believe the transforming love of Christ does, indeed, change lives, and can in turn, transform the city around us. Together, we seek to live out the abundant life of following Jesus on a daily basis. In offices and schools, living rooms and coffee shops, work and home, bringing joy, laughter, real love, and hope into the heart of this enigmatic city that surrounds us. We are here, in this city, for Christ's sake.

Could Have Left - But Stayed and Embraced the City
Our church is still here; we have not left the city, and we will not be going away anytime soon. We are tenacious, hopeful, faithful, persistent. We do not give up easily. We will stay involved in this remarkable city around us. We have not given up hope for the city.

We will stay here, in the midst of a noisy, confusing, sometimes stark and uncaring city. We will not leave, we will continue to dream, create and live out ways to care for this city, our home. We believe we are on this street corner for a purpose that is beyond and above us all. We will continue to be here for years to come.

We seek to serve this city for Christ's sake.

Glory Bound - Wailin' Jennys

When I hear that trumpet sound
I will lay my burdens down
I will lay them deep into the ground
Then I'll know that I am glory bound

I'll be travelling far from home
But I won't be looking for to roam
I'll be crossing o'er the great divide
In a better home soon I will reside

Hallelujah

When I'm in my resting place
I'll look on my mother's face
Never more will I have to know
All the loneliness that plagues me so

So I'm waiting for that train to come
And I know where she's coming from
Listen can you hear her on the track
When I board I won't be looking back

Hallelujah

Bread, Wine, and Ashes

And so it is Lent again. A time of waiting, and preparation, and, if we allow time - for introspection.

This past Wednesday was the first day of Lent, and we took a family friend visiting from Toronto to the Lenten Evening service at our church. We meet in the chapel; it is a simple setting, with singing from the children's choir, and a homily reflection on the meaning of Lent.

At the end of the service all are invited forward to receive the imposition of ashes and communion. As preparation was made for this, two women of our congregation stood and moved forward. They had been given the task of placing the sign of the cross in ash on our foreheads, as we each came forward in the chapel, before we received communion.

And suddenly it hit me. This was the perfect choice. I have known both of these women for a while, and as their friend, I also know their stories. They are both remarkable. Their lives contrast mine. They have struggled, I have had it easy; they have found God in remarkable ways, my way to God has been much more simple, and well, boring.

Tough Choices, Courageous Woman
One of these women is a single mom. We will call her Mary. When she was younger, like lots of us, she made some bad decisions in life, and has spent a number of years recovering. Some days don't feel like recovery. She has raised a daughter on her own, a girl who is now 17 or so, and is doing alright. There are still tough times, and everything has not always worked out perfectly. It has been a challenge every step of the way.

Several years ago, in near mid-life, Mary sensed that God might be calling her to a completely unusual challenge - service as a military chaplain. She is now working part time in this role, attending seminary, and plans on entering this professional full time in the near future.

Mary's journey is the story of a life redeemed.

Pastor's Daughter, Becoming a Pastor
The other woman we will call Susan. She is the daughter of a pastor. When she was 16 years old, out of a sense of emptiness and with a troubled heart, she told her father that she no longer believed in Jesus. Religion was a farce.

Since she was a great student, she did fine in high school, and went to an Ivy League college. After graduation she became involved in community organizing and politics. Very important politics. At the same time, she also developed an addiction to drugs. She dabbled in Eastern religions, and attempted rehab. It was not working well, and one night, she decided to ditch the intake rehab program she was attending. So, she called a cab to take her away.

As it turns out, an angel was driving that cab. He was a Christ follower, listened to Susan's story, and told her God wanted her to return to that rehab program right away, and get her butt back in therapy.

To make a long story shorter, other people were praying for Susan during her struggles. She found her way home to God. Today, she also is in seminary, preparing for a life of ministry to others.

Hers is the story of a life rescued.

Bread, Wine, Ashes
Some think that God is dead, and lives of faith are merely manifestations of insecurity. But, last Wednesday, as we all stood in a line, waiting for a mark on our foreheads, and a little bit of bread dipped in wine, I thought differently.

I saw, standing before me, two lives, transformed.

Genesis 3:19:

...for dust you are
and to dust you will return.

Deus Semper Minor; The Small Way

Recently, and for the first time, I heard a friend speak the Latin words Deus semper minor. The literal translation of this is "God always smaller". I have been thinking about this. A lot.

Big American God
This little phrase seems to me to be disconnected with what we Americans like to hear. I mean, after all, we are Americans, dammit. We won the West, built the Transcontinental Railroad, conquered polio, won World War II, and put a man on the moon. Our God is not smaller, He is Bigger, and don't you forget it!

And today, we have lots of attractive televangelists telling us things like "It's Your Time" and "Become a Better You" and "Your Best Life Now". That God is not small. He is powerful. And Big. And friendly, and has good hair, no doubt. He even wants us to get rich, and He thinks poverty is for loosers.

A small God? We think not! We like him Big, and Tough, and Vindictive for our side.

Little Real God
But just look around at real life. Seems that quite often, God is actually, well, small.

Small in His seeming inability to stop poverty, unless we help Him. Small in His ability to heal all the sick, unless we fight like hell for years to find the cure. What about My Best Life Now, where is Big American God? What about that baby born with the genetic defect that will take his life before he is even three months old? Is this a little God? What about broken relationships, where is Big God in this?

But maybe the problem with God's apparent size is not really about size at all. We have distorted our expectations of both God's size, but also of what He is choosing to do in our world, and what He might want to do within, well, ......us.

Perhaps God's way is small. Small in the love we offer a friend, who is lonely, or sick, or hurting. Small, in sitting still and quietly listening to a friend share their hurt and frustration at how life does not seem fair. Small, in the form of money spent to feed others, rather than make ourselves feel comforted. Small, as we love those around us who seem to be poor in spirit. Small in the form of a hand held at a bedside in the final moments of life.

Maybe, after all, Deus Semper Minor. What do you think?

Lord Save Me From Myself

Turn this up....the sound is not so good, but the song is amazing:



My mind is dull and jaded
From these years of buy and sell
My eyes have seen the glory
Of this hollow post-modern shell

And sex is a grand production
But I'm bored with that as well
Ah, Lord save me from myself

Electric sun keep shining
Ripen daughters of the chrome
This world is where I breathe
Let it never be called home

The vultures make the money
Is where our bodies fell
Ah, Lord save me from myself.

The vultures make the money
I'm bored with that as well

Wow. Amen.

2010 Grammy Awards - No Idea What I'm Talking About

Tonight, we are pausing life at our house to watch, via slight DVR delay, the Grammy Awards. And so, in the interest of bringing my 8 readers (yes, I know, I exaggerate) the most informed coverage of the music universe, I Steve Norris, shall be your personal reviewer of the festivities.

After thorough research, it has been determined that there are only about 14 other people on the planet with less musical knowledge than myself. So, who better qualified to bring you the most pithy and astute observations of the hip and cool Grammy scene. Buckle your musical seat belts, people. Off we go.....

Opening Number - Lady Gaga. Those shoes look dangerous. Nice Orwelian backdrop. Now its Elton and Lady. They both look like they did some serious chimney sweeping. That is one serious earring that Elton is wearing. Nice "hands" on the pianos; they paid some pathetic set designer serious coin for that; I want THAT dudes job. Clearly, Elton definately cannot see out of those glasses. He needs Stevie Wonder's escort off stage.

Beyonce wins song of the year. Seems like a song about men needing to make commitments in relationships. This is good.

Green Day - 21 guns. Eh. Seems big hair (and black) is important here.

Best Country Album. I can feel the Mid west starting to pay attention, and come in from making Rice Krispy Treats in the kitchen. Taylor Swift wins. My daughter is happy. Taylor is shocked she won; Ringo is sitting next to Taylor's Mom. Wow. I like Taylor's apparent humility.

Beyonce appears with black Star Wars dudes. This girl has got it going on. Star Wars guys left early in the number. They have nothing to contribute musically, it seems. There is an arrow guitar dude that has chains connecting his legs together. Bad fashion, very 70's.

Pink! I want to be referred to by a color; I choose Mauve. I would have hurled in the trapeze device. Ok...so she somehow got wet. Thats interesting. Next. Carlos Santana liked it.

Best New Artist. Zac Brown Band. They wear bad hats and beanies; and they all taulk funnahy. Never hear of them. I have heard of the Ting Tings.....I love them and will be filing a personal protest.

Its Da Black Eyed Peas, Peeps! Now this is fun music! What is with the Silver Robot Dudes? I love it. Welcome to da Futcha!

Lady Antebellum. Now this is good music. Something to clean your guns by, or perhaps oil your fly fishing reels. They reference being drunk in their music. I like these guys. Big guitar solos.

Record of the Year! Get ready......Kings of Leon. Eh. I always make my daughter change the station when they are on the radio. They said they were drunk, but they wear suits. Bad clothing. Meh. These guys will not uplift the moral complexion of our nation.

Jamie Fox. Boring. T-Pain is my man. He wears his pants way to low. Saw him on the MTV Awards last year and thought he was gonna have a pants malfunction.

Ke$ha. Needs to eat a good meal, and loose the eye makeup. I have to listen to her tunes on the way to school in the morning with my daughter. No thank you very much. From now on, call me $teve.

Taylor Swift. This is good stuff. Very American. Stevie Nicks! I all verkelmpt now. Rihanna was huge in high school for me. Taylor is getting major air time here. I want one of those short banjos.

3D glasses on, people! Its Michael Jackson tribute time. We did not go to Target, we are loosers. Pretty creepy with Michael singing from beyond the grave. Weird having the kids Prince and Paris up there. I am sorry for these kids. Forever. They need to permanently stay OUT of the public eye. Very sad.

Bon Jovi. Eh. Next.

Jay-Z got some rap award. Eh. I am too white to appreciate this.

Andrea Bocelli; singing for the people of Haiti?! What happened? Mary J. Blige. "I will ease your mind...." Wow. Worth sitting through the whole thing for this!

We have caught up to live TV. I am done. Good night peeps.

Frozen Man

What would it be like to come back to life, hundreds of years following your own death?

James Taylor was inspired to write a fictional account of this, after seeing an issue of National Geographic magazine with a portrait photograph of a man who had be uncovered after being frozen in ice for a hundred years. The man had died while on expedition in the 1860's searching for a Northwest passage to the Pacific.

What would this feel like for us?

Jonathan Winters

When I was a kid, Jonathan Winters used to make me laugh so hard, I would cry. He still does.

Really now, how much can you do with just a stick?

Too Long In The Country Club

I Used to Dream...About Who I Would Become

When I was younger, I used to dream about what my life would be like someday.

Someday. When I grew up and married, and had a family. When I lived in a big house in the suburbs. My lovely wife would be busy in another room, cooking perhaps, while I watched the Masters golf tournament in my wood-paneled den. And then maybe, after it was over, I would head out to the country club to hit a bucket of balls. I used to dream about this when I was a boy.

It would be nice there, at that country club. Everyone would know my name, and treat me with deference; perhaps a form of vague reverence, as I would be so well respected in the community, such a successful, well-groomed, nice person. That club would feel so safe, and warm, and homey, and comfortable. It would make all the trouble, pain, and confusion of the outside world seem, well, so far away. Outside those metal gates that opened only to the select; those who knew the right secret combination on the keypad.

My only worry would be my back-swing, my slice, and my handicap. The hurt of reality outside those ivied gates would be muted by the thick carpeting, the hardwood walls, the hush of the lounge, and the security fencing around the perimeter of the course. No trouble here in the clubhouse locker room. And, next to the sinks, all those men's toiletries lined up so neatly - looking like no one ever used them. Order, tradition, respectability, good grooming. So safe, so insular, never changing. Comforting.

What I Have Become Instead
I never joined a country club. Too expensive, and a waste of money, if I just want to feel comfortable and insulated.

But recently, I have been wondering if, subtly and over a very long time, like slow growing vines, I have not become a part of something similar to the country club. Entrenched and insulated, apart from the world. Warm and cozy. Safe, non-threatening. A refuge from reality. An escape.

That something is my church. And really its not the church itself, but more, its me, and the way I approach what my faith means to me. And, as I think of it, that thought is sad. Very sad.

How do we get like this, we "church people"? How do we, in middle age, turn into those things we most disliked about the older generation when we were in our twenties? What has happened?

Maybe its just too much time inside. Inside the country club, with the warm wood tones, and people who make us feel good, valued, important. We form our little committees, and move on with our little agendas. There will be a potluck. Cookies will be served. There is that painting of a smiling Jesus on the wall over there. He always smiles.

But outside those warm church walls, outside the carpeted committee rooms and Sunday school classrooms there is a real world. Its noisy, and in a hurry. It is hurting, and there is seems to be no soothing that pain. It doesn't really care much at all what we church people do. Because much of the time, what we church folk do is irrelevant to that real world. Men sleep on cold and rainy streets, children are born without families that will really love them, couples fight and separate and never come back to each other. Lives are fractured. Sometimes it feels hard to take in a deep breath, out there in that real world. Your chest hurts too much, you can't really take it all in.

And so, we church folk, turn around and head back inside. Inside the Country Club.

'Ring Out, Wild Bells'

By Alfred Tennyson - circa 1850

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light:
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

One Solitary Life

When I was a boy, my parents had a record album of a Christmas concert / dinner party that they played every year. The original event was some sort of Christmas charity event in Beverly Hills, recorded during the late 1940s or 1950s. There was some sort of relationship with this event to my extended family, as my Aunt was one of the party organizers. Beyond this, I can't tell you anything about that record.

I was short sighted enough to let it go as part of the estate sale of my parents home, several years ago. Alas, I wish I had that record back now.....

Along with the requisite Christmas Carols and songs, there was a short speech entitled "One Solitary Life", that I used to enjoy listening to. As I sat on the living room couch, 40-plus years ago, I think God used that little piece to begin a conversation with me about who He really was.

To this day, I find this one of the most convincing apologetic pieces I have ever run across. I found a great version of this on YouTube, recited by Bing Crosby. Sorry for the odd roller coaster burst at the beginning of this.....

Happy Boxing Day!

All is Well

Christmas is in just four short days. What happened to the time?!

Today, for the first time, I heard this Christmas Carol. Its perfect for the need in our troubled world.

All is well all is well
Angels and men rejoice
For tonight darkness fell
Into the dawn of love's light

Sing A-le
Sing Alleluia
All is well all is well
Let there be peace on earth
Christ is come go and tell
That He is in the manger

Sing A-le
Sing Alleluia

All is well all is well
Lift up your voices and sing
Born is now Emmanuel
Born is our Lord and Savior
Sing Alleluia
Sing Alleluia
All is well

But, as I listened, I wondered to myself - in the midst of a world brimming with hunger and suffering, war and loneliness, pain and suffering - does it really feel like "All is Well"?

Does it, now really?

And yet, more than 2000 years ago, into a similarly troubled world, a tiny defenseless little baby came. He seemed so much like every other baby. And what about those baffled parent to whom he was born. And those mysterious people who came to visit him soon after his birth.

It's a mystery to me, that birth. And, strangely, it's a mystery to me how, in the midst of all the struggle and pain the world, we might be comforted by the ideas behind this song, and still believe there is hope for our world.

And yet, for countless ages, we have been comforted.

All is Well. Merry Christmas!

Goodbye to Cindy

This one will be a bit long, so be patient with me.

The Lag in Writing
I have not been writing here for over a month. I am not really sure why, but now, between Thanksgiving and Christmas, in the midst of Advent, I have a reason to write, and perhaps the muse to share things here will return. Also, sometimes, its just good to take a break from my relationship with my laptop.

Older Daughter is now home for the Holidays, (this actually started before Thanksgiving) after a quite successful first quarter away at college. She returned Saturday from a road trip to Santa Barbara to pick up high school buds from college (in heavy rain), and is home safe. We are thankful for these graces.

Thanksgiving this year at our home was simple and warm, with a crowd of only seven; good friends and family together. Again, thankfulness is offered for these things. Today, Younger Daughter is in the midst of heavy studying; sophomore year first finals are next week.

Goodbye to a Dear Friend
I just lit the fireplace before I sat down to write, and the warmth of the fire is slowly filling the room. But now, something is quite different in our home. For the past 12 years, we have shared our everyday life with a wonderful, mellow, and very loving friend. Someone who never got mad at any of us; a chocolate Labrador, named Cinderella. Cindy for short.

And tonight, its different here. There is no one laying against the couch by my side, in her usual spot. I miss that rhythmic breathing, often snoring, and Cindy's interest in anyone new who came in the room; that tapping of her tail on the floor.......this is hard.

Cindy came to live with us in 1997, when Kelly was 7, and her sister was just 4. She was just weened as a puppy, and a big responsibility for our family. She spent lots of time in a crate on our old back porch, before we remodeled, keeping the washer and dryer company. The rest of her time she spent in our back yard, before we had a pool. She was one rowdy puppy, and had the skill to somehow completely destroy (with her puppy and adolescent dog teeth) a 4' high Bird of Paradise plant, and a 10' high climbing rose.

What I have just learned is that we take the little things in life so for granted. And Cindy, with her constant love and affection, was a gift to us. Each day, a dog who just loved us all, that thought that we did no wrong.

She was the source of much joy and laughter. When the girls were younger, and our back yard was just grass, each summer she would join us in the car, for a 15 minute ride to my parents home, for a long game of Frisbee-catch in their swimming pool. As a Lab, she just loved the water - it really was her second home. And then, when our pool was finished five years ago, it became her real second home during warmer months.

I recall that very soon after we finished the pool, I noticed that something was acting up with the pool filter - the pressure was way above normal, a sign that the filter was somehow beginning to clog up. I thought we had a defective filter, I mean, the darned thing was brand new! I even called the manufacturer on their 800 number - and asked lots of questions. Half way through the phone conversation, I thought I should disclose the twice daily swimming habits of our dog. The fellow on the other end of the phone burst out laughing, and said something to the effect of "there's your problem with your pool filter bud - DOG FUR!"

I confessed to a good friend the other day that I felt terrible, as I was more saddened by the loss of this dog than I had been by the loss of my parents in the recent past. This good friend, who has known me for 20+ years, surprisingly disagreed (maybe its because he loves dogs), and pointed out that Cindy was such an intimate part of our lives for 12 years. Nancy and I were still in our 30s. I mean, really now, that sweet old dog literally grew up with us. In our home. Every day. She watched us love each other, fight with each other, struggle with life, fight back and let loose with tears, laugh loudly together, and she was such a fixture of each day. She helped us stay ordered, with her twice daily feeding, the walks through the neighborhood. Taking the time to stop and pet her, and tell her what a lovely girl she was.

As the years progressed, the bouncy young dog became quite regal, as she slowed .

And so, last Friday afternoon it was 55 outside and gray and raining, when we said goodbye to our dear brown friend. Appropriate weather. At left is a photo taken moments before Cindy left us....she gave me lots of kisses before she left. What a sweet way to say goodbye. It still feels a little gray in my heart.

Cindy taught us lots of stuff. Live simply. Love generously. Care deeply. Be very sad when everyone excludes you, and makes you sit outside. When loved ones come home, always run to greet them. Never pass up the opportunity, and delight in the simple joy of a walk, or a run. Allow the experience of fresh air and the wind in your face to be pure ecstasy.

Take naps. Play daily. Don't ever take yourself too seriously. Let people touch you. When you're happy, dance around and wag your entire body. Eat with gusto and enthusiasm. Be loyal. Protect your family. Never pretend to be something you're not. When someone is having a bad day, be silent, just sit or lie close by.

But for all the sadness, its worth it; for all the piles of love that sweet dog gave us. Sweet Cindy, you will be dearly missed. There will never be another dog quite like you.