I honestly don’t know much about Kansas, so for the most part I’m going simply reflect on the lyrics here, which I think are brilliant. I will say, though that this Kerry Livgren sounds interesting. A dabbler in various philosophies and religious experiences (including reading The Urantia papers), with a surprising conversion to Christianity—of the “born again” persuasion. I hope he didn’t renounce this song after his conversion. It is profoundly biblical.

There are two understandings about the self that the Judeo-Christian Scriptures seem to articulate. And they create an interesting tension. One is that we are everything on earth—the crown of Creation, the image-bearers of God, the ones by whom Creation is to be governed. Just lower than the heavenly beings surrounding the throne of the Creator. We are beautifully and wonderfully made. And that is a true and essential part of the biblical anthropology.

But the other side of the coin is that we are nothing special. Made from the stuff of the earth. We have but a breath in our nostrils. Take that away and we die. We aggregate into nations and empires which amount to mere dust on the scales, says the prophet Isaiah. A mere drop in the bucket. The psalmist says that even the rich and powerful are nothing, with the poor they are together only a breath. And this is also a true and essential part of the biblical anthropology. And this is what Kansas is singing about. Whether inspired by the Bible or not, it resonates with clarity.

I believe it was the Jewish philosopher Maimonides who said we must carry with us at all times these two understandings of the self, one in our left pocket, the other in our right. What a beautiful articulation. If we get to thinking too highly of ourselves, and esteeming ourselves better than others, we should fumble around in our left pocket for that bit of truth about our non-specialness and finitude. And if we are lowly and the mistreatment we have received begins to get into our psyche, and we start to believe it, we should fumble around in our right pocket, and grasp that truth that we have the breath of God in our nostrils, the Spirit’s spark of life lighting up our eyes, causing our hearts to beat. We are here in this time and in this place for a reason.

I think Maimonides, along the writer of Ecclesiastes, too, would have resonated with this Kansas song. I certainly do. For me, it counters the pop psychology b.s. that I heard so much growing up. I never got this message from Mr. Rogers, bless his heart, but I think my generation needed it. We wouldn’t bother anyone with our whining about how our world is falling apart when our internet connection goes down. Let’s get a hold of the big picture, folks. We ain’t nothing.

If at any time during Lent, this has to be an anthem of Ash Wednesday. “From dust you have come, to dust you shall return” says the Impositor of ashes. Recently some musically gifted folks in my faith community did this song during Sunday’s worship leading up to Ash Wednesday, and they did it beautifully. And strangely, I find there is something profoundly beautiful about the meditation upon our nothingness and finitude. The realization of my finitude seems to point to a transcendent one, that first mover, one who stands outside and is timeless and eternal. Which moves me to see God bound up in the very paradox we experience. God is this eternal one, and this temporal one. God is this uncreated first mover, and one born to Mary of Nazareth.

Is this not the human reality? Divinely sparked, yes, but mere dust in the wind.

Let’s watch this vid together, shall we.

Thesis: Vertigo is explicitly a song about the Christ’s temptation in the wilderness. Bam. It’s also about our 40 day journey into the wild with the Christ. When Satan takes you up to the top of the temple, or wait, better yet, up on top of a really high mountain, you’re at a place called vertigo. Success and fame gladly take us there. So there’s vertigo. But then one of the album’s running themes is this idea of kneeling. That movement counters the nausea of the great heights. Which Bono is always honest about, that little Napoleon of a man. Little Napoleon is redundant, I suppose.

But this vertigo place is ‘everything I wish I didn’t know.’ Yep, it’s that journey into the wilderness that surfaces all the ugliness within. What’s scary is that it was there all along. But in the empire (the opposite of the wilderness?) we were so addicted to the constantly titillating stimulation that the ugliness never needed to rear its head completely.

But when we’re all alone, with no to-do list, with no meds, with no drone of the tv or radio or twitter feed, Temptation starts to get into our heads. And ‘though your soul it can’t be bought / your mind can wander.’  I mean, you know you’re not gonna sell your soul or something crazy like that, but you have to entertain the idea anyway. Just for a little bit. So you can know what you’re saying ‘No’ to. You consider what the stones would taste like. You try to feel the sensation of jumping from the temple and being caught. You imagine the power trip for if you just bow down. And man, just letting the mind wander is fun. That’s vertigo right there my friend. Temptation is a trip. Bono gets it.

‘All of this, all of this can be yours.’ There  goes Bono slipping into that Macphisto alter-ego again. Minus the accent. Brilliant.

Interesting how Bono pits the evil mind against the good heart… See, the mind wanders, but the heart can feel—’You give me something / I can feel your love teaching me how / How to kneel.’ I don’t know, Bono. Is it my mind, that cool rationality, that gets me in trouble, or is it my wandering heart? For me it’s a chicken or the egg thing. But Bono says ‘Your head can’t rule your heart / A feeling’s so much stronger than a thought.’ Ok, I’ll go with you on that one Bono. That’s kind of my bent anyway. I am a man who lives by the heart. But what you live by, you can also die by. Most of my sins are sins of passion. They’re not very well thought out, just reactionary from a gut feeling. My mind tends to shut down when temptation comes. But wait, is that what my mind wants me to think? That it wasn’t there? It’s not to blame? That it didn’t see what my right hand was doing? Tricky stuff.

Yep, I’m pretty sure Bono was camping out in the story of Jesus in the wild when he penned this one.

Ok, my theory on catorce. Catorce is 14. He throws those Spanish numbers in to appeal to his growing Latin audience, yes, but he’s got theological reasons for catorce. We’re still in the Gospel of Matthew, where the story of Christ tempted in the desert is best told. Read the genealogy that starts the whole thing off. 14 is the numerical value of David where D = 4, V = 6, and D = 4 again. (You do the math). It’s like A = 1, B = 2, C = 3, but only in Hebrew. If you look at the genealogy of Jesus that Matthew tweaked for blatant theological purposes, 14 is all over the place. It’s Matthew’s lucky number that ties the whole thing together. It’s Matthew’s wink to his audience, that he believes this Jesus really is the Messiah. There are three sections of 14 generations from Abraham to Jesus. 14 is also twice 7, which is like Jewish double rainbow perfection. It gets even crazier than that, but I say all that to say, “catorce” is intentional. But he slips it in, and most people are like, yeah that’s funny and cool cos it’s Bono. But there’s always something driving the nonsense. This time it was the gospel according to Saint Matthew.

So what to take away from this reflection. Probably that kneeling is a good counter-movement to the vertigo of temptation. A love that brings us to our knees is worth bowing down before. But any time we find ourselves kneeling to get something out of the deal, we’re already screwed.

Let’s take a moment to watch this together.

It’s difficult for us to live with ourselves. It’s scary to throw ourselves into the elements. If we haven’t slowly eased our way into the desert, it can be like throwing a pre-schooler into a marathon. That’s why I’ll be hanging out on the edges of the desert for Lent.

But I really only want to sit at the feet of those who have done some time in the desert. A prolonged experience of intentional silence and solitude seems to give people their voice. I mean ‘voice’ in the sense of vocation. I haven’t really had the chance to do that myself. I’m still finding my voice. In a Protestant-y work ethic context, 40 days in the desert seems unproductive at best, even for us ministers who are supposed to follow in the tradition of Jesus. But as one can see, it worked pretty well for Jésucristo, and Juan el Bautisto, and some others. Well, “worked pretty well” means they ended up getting crucified and beheaded, respectively. So I should probably rephrase that. But I don’t want to rethink it. I feel a pull to the desert.

Maybe my spell in the desert is coming. I’m turning 30 in a few months. They say 30 is the new 20. But I think 30 should be a sacramental year, kind of like 15 is for quinceñera girls. It should be something special. At 30 you are feeling joy of freedom along with the weight of responsibility, and you have a sense your own strength along with your own mortality as well. You can see the beginning and the end. And it feels like you’ve got to make a move.

The monastics—now there’s some desert experience for you. They seemed to preserve Western civilization pretty well. Outlived the Roman Empire while in the desert, that’s for dang sure. Those Fathers and Mothers were well acquainted with themselves, their god and the arid landscapes they chose to inhabit.

But back to the song Cold Desert. You’ll either feel god-forsaken or god-taken in the desert. It seems to be a crest that sends people down one way or the other. Unfortunately Brother Followill felt the former.

The desert is the perfect training ground for spiritual masters. Harsh elements. Scarce food and water. No technology. No busyness or constant stimulation. No companions or fellow travelers. I reckon folks find out who they are pretty quickly.

For Lent, I hope we can follow Jesus into the desert. But don’t go too deep unless you know who you are and whose you are. Because there’s a tempter that will be waiting on you.

Let’s listen to the song.

And the backstory.

This year for Lent, I’m giving up beer, cigarettes (I roll my own on occasion), and cursing (mostly done to myself, in the car, and around Helen, but it’s gotten a bit out of control). Based on what I’m giving up for Lent, I am more Catholic than I’ve ever been.  Oh, and I’m also giving up trash. Yes—trash. I will attempt to follow the Three R’s even more–Reduce, Reuse, and Recycle. I can’t claim originality for this ‘Trash for Lent’ idea though. I think I first heard about it a few years ago on a Homebrewed Christianity podcast via Tripp Fuller. The idea has stuck with me, and the timing is right.

So here’s how I’m going to attempt to fast from trash. Simply put, I am not allowed to throw anything away. What I cannot recycle, compost, or reuse, I will have to carry with me in a handy bag that I picked up today at a thrift store. (This is excepting, of course, toilet paper—although I suppose I could compost that too. Hmm…). And that bag will go with me everywhere I go. It’s a sweet vintage 80′s duffel bag, so at least I’ll be carrying my trash in style.

Trash for Lent works well for me because I already reuse shopping bags, I rarely eat out, and I’m an aggressive recycler (read: I recycle #6 plastics and I’m not scared of dumpster diving). And as a (non-strict) vegetarian, I will continue to discard all my food scraps into the compost bin at the church building next to Gordon’s Garden. Yeah, it probably wouldn’t work so well if I had to carry around meat scraps and bones in my trash bag. Every dog in the neighborhood…

I’m going to stock up on handkerchiefs because I go through too many kleenexes (even though I sometimes compost those–but re-using cloth is better than consuming paper goods). And I’m going to become even more meticulous about recycling. Right now on average, Helen and I throw out a very light bag of trash once a week. With Trash for Lent, I’m going to attempt to trim that down significantly.

So yeah, I will be accruing trash starting tomorrow, Thursday. I think the only trash I had from today were a few paper towels and two Amy’s Organic Spinach Tofu packages when I broke fast this evening, so I’m off to a good start. Now, you may be thinking that I’m going to have to carry the same trash with me for 40+ days, but since Sundays are feast days, I will relieve myself of the contents of my trashed-out duffel bag, and begin again.

Why give up trash? I think my American way of life has lost touch with the amount of trash I/we create. It’s utterly mindless and the wheels have come off. Our Depression-Era grandparents and great-grandparents are likely appalled at what we carelessly use once and then throw away without second thought. Trash for Lent is a push-back against the culture of expendability. We have been slowly trained to use it once and throw it away, so that the demand for outsourced production continues to consume the limited resources of our already stressed planet as we turn forests into landfills. In giving up trash for Lent, I really hope to lessen my role in the crucifixion of Creation.

I’ll need encouragement along the way, and if you see me ducking off to secretly throw something in the garbage, call a brother out.

pax
t

It stirred me to the core.  It flipped everything inadequate that I was feeling about “ministry” up-side down.  It was a slap in the face that kids are getting it.  They are listening. They are watching.  They are understanding, knowing, and living it.  The gospel is being translated to new generations.  By the power of the Spirit.  In spite of me.

By “gospel” I don’t refer to a watered down individualized story-less cognitive belief system based on sterile metaphysics void of context that has no political implications.  By gospel, I mean a radically good, true, and beautiful message that you cannot help but believe is real, that you cannot help but be made new, that you cannot help but live in an altogether reconfigured way.  It is a violent earthquake that knocks all powers off their thrones and fundamentally alters the foundations of a culture, and generates tremors in even far away places.  And it is a gentle whisper of the goodest good and truest truth in so ordinary of terms that it just might slip past your consciousness if you’re not paying attention.

This is gospel.  And Garrett translated it into “Hondureno” that night, and broke it down for us.  It went something like this.

Honduran Jesus

What if Jesus were here in Tegucigalpa today?

Imagine the country of Honduras. Just pretend you’re on Google Earth and you zoomed in on it. Notice all of the jagged mountains and rugged terrain. And the rivers winding through the valleys.
Now imagine a small village out in the country. Not the bustling metropolis of Tegucigalpa, but a lonely, insignificant little colony with little shacks strewn across the steep slope that lines the edge of a valley.

Nobody spectacular has ever come out of this village. No awesome soccer players, no successful businessmen, no popular politicians. Just a bunch of ordinary people, even less than ordinary, generation after generation.

Now in one house, a young boy can be heard learning the family trade, carpentry. The whole house smells like freshly cut wood and he is covered from head to toe in sawdust and his hands are sticky from sap. The boy’s name is Jesus (pronounced Hey-Seuss). Jesus, I don’t know, Martinez. The noise coming from the house is deafening as his father, Jose, teaches Jesus how to use a chainsaw.

Everything about the boy is quite average. He’s not particularly good-looking and at futbol, he’s average at best. But there IS one thing that sets him apart. Something that makes him different than any person to ever step foot in Honduras, or the world for that matter….

He knows God. Personally. He just seems to have an internal radar that senses God’s presence. Jesus talks to God like he is his best friend, but also like his Father. Somehow, God’s natures and his nature are EXACTLY the same.

As he becomes older, he realizes the incredible and divine gifts he has, and he becomes conflicted. He can’t help but wonder if he could use his abnormal abilities to gain political power and fame. An earthly kingdom. But he swiftly shoots down these temptations by relying on the truth of God’s word that he had heeded in his heart.

After he moved past Satan’s test, he began to see things in his community that bothered him. Deep down, to the point that he feels compelled to change them. Jesus sees the corruption of the way things have been done around his town. He has a keen eye that enables him to see the way things could be. If only people would understand and follow two simple principles:

1. Love the lord with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength.
2. And to love your neighbor as yourself.

Heaven could be brought to Earth. And anyone who earnestly seeks can enjoy the peace of a relationship with their Almighty Creator.

But this profound message of love, hope, and peace is a shock to many. Its good news to some, but to others it threatens everything they have based their life upon. And to embrace this message and follow this man would mean abandoning their old foundations and losing their high and mighty standing in Honduran society along with their fortune and wealth.

And so starts The Revolution. Despite heavy opposition by the government, Jesus marches on to Teguc with his growing multitude of believing followers. There he encounters countless cases of poverty and greed and injustice. He boldly calls out the perpetrators of such atrocities and swiftly comes to the aid of those who simply ask for his help.

The hungry beg for food, he tides them over with a meal. Jesus truly knows their hunger because he disciplined himself to fast for 40 straight days.

The homeless ask for shelter, he helps put roofs over their heads to protect from the torrential rain.
At the hospital, he finds children without parents and not only spends precious time with them, he lays his hands on them and comforts them with his touch. And when the sick ask for medicine, he meets their need.

At the dump, Jesus touches the untouchables and offers them hope of a life beyond the physical realm. He even walks down to the hotel district in Teguc and eats dinner with the prostitutes. When people stop to harass them, he stands up for their dignity because he sees the image of God in them. Jesus even sees the image of God in the little boys who sniff glue at the Texaco station, some of the lowliest people in the city.

And after a good day’s work, Jesus gathers his closest amigos and has an all night FIESTA! That’s right, in the midst of all this hard work, he still finds time to celebrate and sing songs, and joke around, and talk soccer. Everything he’s a part of is just…good.

Some people find Jesus’ message to be too radical, and they go back to their normal, run of the mill lifestyles, not willing to make the sacrifice that Jesus demands. Those who are still following Jesus around the streets of Teguc do not fully understand the meaning of everything he is doing or his “kingdom of Heaven.” But they know that whatever is happening is good. And whatever is good is true. And they continue to pursue truth and be a part of good wherever they go. Even after his mortal body is no more, his spirit is resurrected in those who believe and trust in him.

Garrett Fox
(All rights reserved)

I give you that brief sketch to say that the best marriage counseling I received came from Bobby Jackson in the form of a document that he authored (in the spirt of the RSB, I think). A couple of weeks out from the wedding, he sat down with Helen and I and read it, giving commentary as needed. (To truly understand this document, it helps to know Bobby, as everyone is more nuanced in person.)

At the time, some of it caused me to blush and squirm in my seat. Some of it made me laugh. Some of it was depressing. Some of it inspired me.  Some of it caused me to feel guilty.  All of it made me hopeful.  It continues to guide me today—even the parts of the rule with which we have yet to settle or agree with.

This document resurfaced the other day, and as Helen and I approach a year and a half of marriage this month, I post it here. It’s more as a way for myself to re-engage and wrestle with this rule and assess myself, but perhaps other married folk will find it helpful.

With gratitude for spiritual fathering, I share Bobby J’s “Tips for a Good Marriage.”

+++

Tips for a Good Marriage — Ex Mea Sententia  b.

One reason marriage is a sacrament is that it allows those called to it to practice ascetic selflessness and sacrifice. Men and women are NOT compatible. You must be transformed by your marriage.

Get to know each other, learn specifically how you can please/serve your spouse. Know their “love language” and indulge them specifically in that language. Be a gift to your spouse.

Your time belongs to the other. Always let the other know where you are, at all times. Do not give your time to outsiders without permission. Your spouse cannot intrude on you.

Never share secrets with others that you will not tell your spouse. Do not tell other people things that you will not tell your spouse.(unless you are getting counseling or something)

Never complain to anyone else about your spouse. EVER! Especially to parents or siblings.

Never spend time alone with a person of the opposite sex. No lunches, no car trips, etc.

Try to be the first to apologize, even if the other started it. Let yourself be taken advantage of.

Indulge each other’s selfishness. You cannot make the other change, indulge the other until they do change, and know they may not ever change to suit you.

Share ALL possessions. No separate bank accounts. No secret assets.

Macro ideals apply to the micro of marriage. You cannot feel genuine pity and love for others/the poor/your neighbor if you do not pity and love your spouse first. Do not expect more from your spouse than you are willing to give, be aware that you are not giving enough.

Be aware of the things that bother you about the other that the other does unconsciously or unthinkingly or is unaware of. Be certain that you effect the other in the same way, they just may not be telling you or complaining.

There will be times when you are tired of one another. Never act tired of one another. Be and act appreciative even if you are not feeling it. You will feel it tomorrow.

Sex-

• Sex is prayer. Do it with dignity and respect for each other. Be aware that God is a participant.
• Do not deny sex to each other. Your appetites will rarely coincide perfectly, and who is the needy partner wil change over time. Develop good sharing habits. Indulge each other.
• Talk about sex very openly with each other and not at all with other people. Tell each other what you like and what you do not. Practice being frank and open. Sex is for each other and not for others. Be modest in dress and avoid porn, etc.
• Research birth control very carefully. Be very careful/deliberate with this. Do not be afraid to find things you do not want to know. (I’m convinced that artificial birth control is not for the good but I’m unwilling to make it an axiom) Make babies if you can! It is better to be than not to be, help others to be. Marriage is best if there are more than two!
• Sex is not the definition of the relationship keep it in perspective. The day may come where it is no longer a part of the relationship. It cannot define the relationship.

Most important! Marriage is hard. Never quit. Work to make it work. It is a life sentence and there is NO legitimate escape.

Jesus then pulled a Bible out of his knapsack and approached the ring.  The singing quickly died out and crowd grew quiet.  He then opened the sacred text to the end of the book of Deuteronomy and the beginning of  the book of Joshua.  Everyone was anticipating what passage he would read aloud.  Perhaps it would be a story of Canaanite conquest meant to incite the crowd against the Islamic faith.

But Jesus spoke words of his own.  “You have heard it said, ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.’  But I say to you today, that you are doing to yourself the very thing you are about to do to your enemies.  For in burning the Koran, you are in fact burning the Torah within its pages, the very story upon which the Old and New Testaments are built. Be careful that you do not saw off the limb upon which you are perched.”

Jesus then ripped the first five books of the Bible from the rest of the holy book, and threw those pages into the fire ring.  And he said, “He that does not honor our common father Abraham, let him strike the first match.”

But when they heard it, they went away one by one.

Gladys Mae Novosad Priest Gardner, a lifelong resident of Williamson County, died Friday the 16^th of April 2010 at Seton Medical Center.  She was 89 years of age.  Born in 1920 in Bartlett, Texas, Gladys was number 13 of 14 children born to Czech immigrants Josef and Rosa Novosad.

In addition to her 3 last names Novosad, Priest, and Gardner, Gladys was known by many first names throughout her life—Clara was her original named called by her sisters and parents, she was called “Mom” by her 4 boys, “Mamaw” by her 7 grand children, and most recently “GG” called by her many friends at Park Place.

Gladys also played many roles throughout her life, a few of which were as a teacher’s aide, as a waitress, and as a librarian’s aide.  And the role she most prided herself by was that of homemaker.

Gladys’ stories of her early years include playing softball in green satin uniforms, attending dances at the Moravian Hall, and hiding with sisters underneath the house from their strict father.  She married during World War II, and when her first husband Elton Priest tragically passed away, Gladys became a widow at just 39 years of age.  She then went to extreme lengths to keep her family together, raising her four boys on the salary of a teacher’s aide and refusing relatives’ offers to take the boys.  She would not tolerate the idea of splitting them up.  And yet, she never pitied herself or complained.  Gladys’ one maternal pleasure was getting a pair of new shoes.  She would scrimp and save her money, but in the end her love for her boys eclipsed her love of shoes—the money would instead go to fund a new pair of little boys’ shoes.

Without question or complaint she faithfully faced the losses life presented, including the tragic death of a 3-year-old daughter and the deaths of her two husbands.  And Mamaw was no stranger to suffering.  She endured many other hardships with her strong resolve and deep Christian faith.

Words like “determined,” “spunky,” and “joyful” accurately described Gladys.

At family gatherings it didn’t matter how much you protested that you were full, Mamaw would fill your plate again.  Anytime her grandchildren came to visit they would leave loaded down with treats and leftovers.  Being a mother to so many boys, Gladys was a sports expert and made sure to watch all the University of Texas, Dallas Cowboys and Houston Astros ballgames.

She was a longtime member of the Georgetown Church of Christ—a member who was involved in World Bible School studies, the prison ministry, and numerous hospitality efforts.  Gladys wholly embodied the Proverbs 31 woman: charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting; but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.

Gladys was preceded in death by her parents, all thirteen siblings, Deborah Lynn—daughter, Elton Priest—husband, and James Foy Gardner—husband.  She is survived by her four sons and their wives, Terry and Theresa, Kirby and Dana, Sam and Pam, and Steve Priest as well as her grandchildren Kyle, Kedra, Darby, Tyler and his wife Helen, Jill, Paige and Will.

And now, a few memories.  I remember most vividly Mamaw’s hands.  Her hands bore the marks of love.  They were strong and weathered, gnarled from her tireless labor of cooking, cleaning, loving and serving.  The character of her hands told so many stories.  Mamaw’s hands were strong, scarred from cuts and accidents, but delicate and gentle and full of love.

Mamaw was quite frugal.  As one who lived through the Great Depression, Mamaw learned how to squeeze every cent out of a dime.  I recall Mamaw washing plastic ziplock bags and even aluminum foil, and reusing it all.  And she could save money.  As Mamaw’s room at Park Place was being cleaned out just this past Saturday, her modest 25 cent piece winnings from Bingo games continued to be found lining the bottoms of her wardrobe drawers and stashed away in all kinds of nooks and crannies throughout her small room.  The number of quarters found totaled to $185, a testimony not only to Mamaw’s mastery of Bingo, but also of her frugal and thrifty nature.  Her Bingo winnings have been distributed into trust funds for her grandchildren.

Another story of Mamaw’s frugality.  After Foy Gardner’s passing, Mamaw asked only for a new car—the first new car of her life, and one of the few wishes she ever dared to ask for.  Mamaw had had her eye on a white Toyota Camry, and she had her two oldest sons accompany her to the dealership, asking them to do all the negotiating and bidding for her so the dealership wouldn’t take advantage of a little old lady. But as soon as Mamaw was able to finally flag down a salesman, the first words out of her mouth: “Hey, how much are you gonna budge off the sticker price?”

Lastly, and there are so many good stories that should be told here today, I remember as a little boy heading down to the San Gabriel River with Mamaw and my aunts and uncles and cousins.  I was only 5 or 6, and this was before Jill, Paige and Will were a part of the family.  But we had gone down to the river to swim.  The uncles and cousins ones went off into the deep end near one of the man-made waterfall, leaving behind the timid me, and also Mamaw.  Scared of the river as I was, it took the steady and gentle coaxing of Mamaw to get me in.  In a picture that captured Mamaw’s life-embracing spirit of spontanaeity, fun, and motherly love, she entered the water in her every-day clothes, took me by the hands, lead me into the river, and began to spin me around.  We danced about in circles, my fears of the water overcome.  I will never forget that beautiful dance with Mamaw.

In all these stories, and many better told by others, we can be sure that there was only one Gladys Mae Novosad Priest Gardner.  She is gone, but she is not lost.  She is sorely missed, but she has been found.  She is departed, but she has arrived.  Amen.

I thought surrender would be a small fender bender
But it was a head on collision
In the midst of an arduous decision
Such is the mission when the goal is to create fission
Of the human and divine…

I thought surrender would have a once and for all ender
But I’ve since learned it’s daily
Now I’m always shedding off that scaly
Cracking outer serpent flaky skin that fails me
Even devils need remaking…

Now I know surrender is the ultimate mind bender
Cos my mind tells me I am right
And all my doubts are out of sight
Don’t fight with this thief in the night
Please wait til morning

Cos in the morning lies the hope of fresh surrender
Waking up is like resurrection
Beginning the daily insurrection
Against the forces of my own predilection
Oh come wreck me, Lord Jesus.

Cos I thought surrender would be a small fender bender
But woe, I need a head on collision
So before I lose the mind to make decision
I need another theo-nuclear fission
Of the human with divine…

Amen.

But it is the Empire that has seduced me.  I’ve been thoroughly had.  In moments of honest reflection and clarity of thought, I realize that the Empire has sunk it’s fangs into my neck, and is sucking my veins dry of life in order to feed itself.  And the Empire’s hands are greedily clutching my slowing, shrinking heart.  The Empire has seduced me.

But Lent is coming.  And soon I will be escaping this death grip on my journey to the Desert.

I never think of the Desert as a seductress. But what if such a vision of the Desert began to seduce me with the freedom and truth that I know the Empire cannot offer?  What if such a vision began the unraveling of the lies, the deceit, the vanity, the futility, and the emptiness of Empire in my life?  I feel like my life over the past few years has been a balancing act of attempting to live between the Desert and the Empire.  Most of the time I end up living in the thick of the city of the Empire.  I think of U2’s song New York.  Even as one who celebrates the beauty of NYC, Here I believe Bono is articulating the psychological effects of Empire in the first lines of the song’s three verses:

In New York freedom looks like too many choices.

In New York you can forget, forget how to sit still.

In New York I lost it all to you and your vices.

But in the desert, I have the space and the freedom to rethink my life.  What off-beat rhythms have I been participating in that should I reject?   What holy rhythms have I neglected that I should embrace? In the Desert there is quiet space in which to sort through the competing voices that have won out over the still small whisper of the Spirit.  We can listen again in the desert.  We can know again in the desert.  We can be again in the desert.  And this is what I love about the journey of Lent.  Bono ends the song like this:

In the stillness of the evening
When the sun has had its day
I heard your voice a-whispering
Come away child

Come away.  This is the invitation of Lent.  Come away to the Desert.  It is a comforting invitation into the wilderness.  But what scares me about going to the Desert is that the Empire might have given up its place for me upon my return.