Anointed with Syrup

There's one story told to me this past week that I have to share.  As a writer (or at least I like to think of myself as one) I like to leave these stories last in the story.  During my poetry phase, I was taught that the last image of the poem is sometimes the most crucial.  I always tried to follow suit with my short stories and attempts at chapter fiction.  Even these blogs follow a similar format.  You write what you know and in the style that comforts you.  But the story was integral to how I viewed a lot of moments this summer, and these last few weeks as well.  Sweet, syrupy and childlike.

I met a friend of mine who moved away after a divorce a few months back.  We met through coaching and because our daughters were best friends.  He was my Emmaus sponsor and a friend during the baby Christian phase of my life.  I'd go to him under the guise of listening to him tell me about his marriage and I always felt like I learned something about myself in the process.  He wasn't afraid to deliver the hard truths to me even as the world around him was crumbling.  God placed him in my life at the right time, and I have been carrying a sort of friend-guilt along the way when he moved to Georgia.

To understand the story is to understand the man.  His mother has a recent stay at the local retirement home as her battle with dementia and Alzheimer's had began to strip her of her personality.  So, moving to Georgia meant moving her again, along with his older brother who was barely able to hold a job because of his mental handicap.  My friend brought me into the story by reminding me that God always has a sense of humor (his favorite quote is upon reaching heaven, God will say, "I sure had some fun with you") and that a mind disease like dementia not only takes away memories, but robs you of sensations too.

Like the taste of syrup.  Imagine that sensation of anything sweet being gone from your memory.  The plasticy punch of a lollipop, the crumbled chocolate and flour of a cookie, the cold fruit taste of jelly.  Momma H, as I'll refer to my friends mom, didn't want syrup on her pancakes.  Her mind has no recollection of the word, much less what it felt like to taste.  So my friend takes a fork-full, dips it in syrup and holds it up for her to eat.  She bites, and a child's eyes awaken at the taste of syrup once again.  I remember my own kids sitting on their high chairs, that great time when they can start eating table food, and the messiness of their cheeks after an all-out onslaught on birthday cake.  That was probably the face on Momma H as she poured the rest of the syrup on her pancakes.  

I haven't had the misfortune of seeing a loved one unravel one memory at a time.  I am a child of divorce, but as a child you have different memories and feelings as one would a husband.  My mom had always been pretty forthcoming about her divorce, but not so much my dad or step-dad.  I imagine asking them to divulge any other details would be like pulling a scab from a wound.  Listening to this story about Momma H was another friend too, one who lost his wife to cancer a few years ago.  Divorce and death, 2 wives lost to time and disease.  Literal and figurative, the memories now flashbacks in a man's mind, or on the faces of their daughters.  

So here I am, nowhere near a divorce, or God-willing a death.  I feel like a young David in the Bible miniseries I watched this past summer.  In it, David is anointed with honey poured onto his forehead.  It drips down his face in this glorious metaphor of having God in your life.  Just blessing upon blessing poured out.  24 new kids in a classroom--honey.  One daughter in college and my other stopped crying in the morning on the way to the bus stop--more honey.  She told me no more tears because she's holding her fear inside.

And my son.  Too many pizza rolls doomed his appetite.  I nixed playing football for many reasons, one being he's going to be flattened by some man-child kid whose dad is some Al Bundy-like ex high school football star.  After telling him he doesn't have enough weight on his bones, that bottom lip of his quivers.  I know at that moment he wants nothing more that to be accepted and valued.  I bring him over after dinner and try to console him with the promise I accept each day I say "yes" to God.  In that instance it's honey on his forehead.  Anointed with the syrup.  Nothing could be sweeter.  

Marathon Man

One of the great movies my dad introduced me to as a kid was Dustin Hoffman's "Marathon Man."  It's one of the many 1970's ear thrillers that still hold up today--see The Anderson Tapes, Dog Day Afternoon, All the President's Men, The Conversation, Three Days of the Condor for more--and one of those movies that gets seared into your memory banks.  The one scene you're probably thinking about, if you've seen the movie that is, is when Laurence Olivier has Dustin Hoffman strapped in a dentist's chair.  He's ready to begin the torture scene of the decade (today's horror movies have it all wrong, using torture scenes like pornography) and utters the phrase that still gives me the willies--"Is it safe?"

I'm making a huge leap now.  Feel free if you want to stop reading, but I figure if you're reading this you've been with me on similar blogs where I rip my heart out and leave it on your feet.  But the Indiana Jones-ing of my beating heart--bonus Kali Mar points if you get that reference!--led me to this point.  It's also from some recent studies, life experiences and that tug God places on your heart from time to time.  Actually it's like he's standing next to me revving up the drill and asking me, "You want safe or you want a new life?"

Over the past few years as I lived out the life of a baby Christian, life as I knew it was "safe."  I lived in my cul-de-sac not having to really know my neighbors.  I stepped into a Life Group that doesn't really challenge me other that getting my reading completed every few weeks.  I worked alongside a teaching partner that would just as well leave the door closed than to work together and that was okay with me.  My kids go to a safe school and they ride their bikes in the neighborhood without the feeling of dread and menace my school students might have after 5pm.  I can easily espouse on life and politics and anything in between from the confines and safety of my computer on Facebook, twitter and instagram.  The most fear I have from my daily life is whether or not I'm going to eat, and if you know me in person, you'd think I need to lose a few meals as it is.

But I don't think God is calling me to be "safe."  Looking at the Bible and studying it like I have, there's nothing safe about being a Christian.  Abraham was called to sacrifice his son?  Safe?  David, chain mail hanging from his smaller frame and all, slayed Goliath.  Was that safe?  Moses in the desert for 40 years and never once stepping into the promised land himself.  Not safe.  On and on and on, God's call for our very best doesn't have anything to do with safety and comfort.  This doesn't mean he wants you to be homeless and swatting away lions as you walk the streets. But God calls for us to be awkward.

So this summer has been bearing the fruit of stepping out of that comfort zone.  Oklahoma mission trip.  Junior high work camp.  Emmaus walk.  Even my daughter's boot camp commitment was not safe whatsoever.  While she was sweating in 90 degree heat in South Carolina and "getting smoked" her friends were taking pictures of their trips to Europe, Hawaii and the beach, taking those annoying belly-n-feet POV shots on Instagram.  Hashtag your life sucks cause you aren't poolside with me.  That's safe.

Last Sunday I slept in and did not go to church.  This is safe for me.  No having to get up, no getting the kids ready or worrying if they ran ahead of us before checking them in.  No going to junior high table talk to sit with my young men.  No nothing.  I didn't even watch on-line.  So then this Sunday rolled around and the topic of discussion is Presence.  Are we simply church consumers?  We purchase God on Sunday and check the boxes.  We go through the motions, pick up a cookie and punch for the kids.  We smile, we wave at a friend and that's the culmination of our response to God's greatest sacrifice.  Consumers want that safety.  Consumers don't want to commit to anything.  They don't serve, they don't study, but every Sunday they sure look good filling up the seat.

There are also the social contract Christians.  Their commitment is umbilical only to those people who can advance them.  They like the events and the social aspect of church.  They will only study with their click.  They won't serve without their friends.  If affections or attitudes change, this type of person moves on to the next group.  It's all for show.

I'd like to think I'm in this next group--those seeking a covenant.   We go to the very edge of ourselves to seek the living God.  We don't have to be asked to volunteer because we don't see any other way.  We love to study because we know it's essential ton our growth.  We join mission teams because we want to live and reveal the kingdom.  If it wasn't for someone taking a chance on me, I would not be where I am.  The standard I have for myself has placed me among this group.  I can't say that I have "arrived" simply because my standards are high.  The consumer standard is the lowest.  "At least I'm here (at church)" is basing your life to a pagan.  Don't you want your standard to be Moses?  A disciple?  Jesus?  That's what we strive to be, isn't it?

The men's study I'm being challenged to lead starts September 4.  I have 3 guys signed up.  3 out of a congregation of more than a thousand.  3 guys.  Seriously?  The safe way to handle this situation is to cancel the class.  Not even starting one in the first place would be even safer.  Satan knows that part of my pride is on display here.  Saying no to a study is akin to saying no to me.  And my fellow men love to give me excuses.

I'm having changes in my job.  It's the night I work out.  I'll look into it.  

There's some men I can't even ask because they aren't ever around.  Yeah, her husband doesn't come to church much is something I hear quite often.  That's the safe husband.  Others stand in the lobby, posturing like they do when they watch their kids' sporting events, arms crossed, sunglasses on their head, looking at their watches as if they have so many appointments to attend to.  They have that, I-don't-read-much look.  As if opening the Bible somehow reminds them of Mrs. Rottencrotch in 4th grade, asking to popcorn read aloud as the class made fun of them.  Of course, not asking them is also safe, isn't it?

Reading through scriptures I get the sense that there was nothing safe about being a first century christian.  We get a sense reading through the epistles Paul wrote to Timothy.  Timothy served the church in Ephesus, and from what I gather, leading converted Jews and gentiles to Christ was in itself a daunting task.  There were those that used the law for their own advantage.  Women were assuming control without the study needed to live the life of a pastor (for those reading this that feel Paul is some chauvinist I have plenty more for you to read to dispute those claims).  And amid these words I find my standard.

Temperate.  Self-controlled.  Respectable.  Hospitable.  Able to teach.  Not prone to drunkenness, not violent or quarrelsome.  A manager of his family and with a good reputation.

I'm going through this list and seeing two things--failure and future.  Failure of the standard, because I'm a sinner and will continue to sin.  But the future is the one that God's calling me to.  Failure is safety while the future is unmistakably heart wrenching.  Which one do I want?

This week too is not without its surprises.  Our youth pastor is returning home to their roots in Louisiana.  Hearing the news I was not saddened.  Selfishly I want to be witness to their talent and energy, the wisdom and their presence.  But this is our temporary home.  We aren't designed to live among this broken world just as our youth pastor was meant to be here in Reynoldsburg.  He didn't "fit" at times among some of the safe.  His family, beautiful and talented and God-loving, aren't meant for this world.  They are God's people.  They go where He wants to send them.  They sat in the dentist chair as God went to drilling.  Hell no, it isn't safe.  I wonder if God is trying to tell me the same thing.  Does he want me to seek men outside the church?  Does he want me to seek them elsewhere?  If God's appointment cleaning was tomorrow would I answer with a thumbs up?  Safe or unsafe.

I think when we cry we cry tears of selfishness.  We cry because we want others to see we are in pain.  I used to eye roll the girls in school who cried at the drop of a hat because the only thing tears did was bring them more people to hold them.  We cry because we want to hold onto what we once had, a loved one, a parent, a child.  Believe me, I cry like a baby.  I cry for those reasons I just listed and more.  I'm sure I'll cry when I say bye too.  But God is not sitting around giving us the Kleenex.  He's in the no-tears business.  He's in the kingdom building business.  Count me in.