Tag Archives: Inner Life

Put on New Shoes

This poem is based on Mark 3:7-15 where Jesus invited a group of people to leave the crowd, go up the mountain, and become his followers. Carl Jung said that “we all walk in shoes too small for us.” I view the story from that lens. Jesus calls us to live a larger life. The painting above is titled The Crowd-The Twelve.

Put on New Shoes

Maladies of the mangled were made whole; frail and forlorn were healed. Word spread.

Then they came in droves wearing the perfume of desperation and death. Pushing and grabbing replaced civility and grace. Demons shrieked as Hell’s hold was wrecked.” Be silent, unholy ones! You have no place at my table.”

“I choose you instead,” said He. “Follow me to a place where the air is clear. Learn from me to see the un-seeable, the hidden, the disguised. Move beyond craving, clutching, and fussing. Be with Me.

Leave at lakeside your small life. Walk with me to a place higher up and deeper in. Put on new shoes and dream my dreams for you. Wrap your bones in a new name.

For more on this topic:

Retreat Guide-Lessons from Mark #5- Leaving the Crowd

Jacob-Poster Child for InterVarsity Staff

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Wrestling 7The story of Jacob has captivated my attention since 1993. Jacob was a man who tried to be someone other than who he was. He wanted to be his brother. Esau was loved by his father Isaac. Jacob was not. Esau was outgoing and popular with the ladies. Jacob was a quiet man of the tents. Esau, as the first born son, could expect a double portion of the family estate. Jacob could expect the leftovers. Esau was a blessed man and Jacob would do anything he could to grab that blessing for himself.

What I discovered in 1993 is that both of the brothers live inside me. Like Esau, I have been given just about every cultural advantage one could ask for. I am the first born son of a respectable majority culture family. I was given a good education at an elite university. I married a beautiful wife and we have been given three wonderful children and five grandchildren. We live in a lovely neighborhood and for our age and stage of life, we have decent health. I am a blessed man.

But if Esau is my external persona, Jacob is my internal one. I learned early on that if I wanted to avoid embarrassment or rejection and win the favor of others, I should do whatever I could to meet their expectations. I should become someone else. The strategy is a bit neurotic but what makes neurosis so attractive is that it works—for a while. By 1993 the strategy of winning favor through achievement and meeting expectations was wearing me out.

In his book Hustling God, Craig Barnes puts it this way:

Jacob’s name means “striver” or “hustler.” He had so much ambition that he could have been the poster child for the American Dream.

Jacob could also be the poster child for many who join InterVarsity staff. Each week I have conversations with friends who struggle with expectations from supervisors, parents, donors, and peers. Facebook has become the venue where people post their accomplishments. Those accomplishments become expectations that others in the social network feel they must live up to. Like the patriarch we strive for a blessing that we can never take, but only receive from the God who loves us.

Pray with me that the people I serve who have the sons of Rebekah wrestling inside of them too will be able to encounter the God of Jacob in deeper and more profound ways.

Pete the Pigeon and One More Reason Why I Am Glad I Married My Wife

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pigeonTuesday 4PM

As soon as I stepped out of the car, Nancy called to me from the back yard, “Come quick! We have a problem.” I went. Pointing to the opposite end of the swimming pool she said in a voice filled with panic and revulsion, “There is a dead bird down there.”

I’m the guy who cleans the pool. Over the years I have fished out other dead things from the water—leaves, lizards, and even a baby possum. So I said in a voice filled with confidence, “Calm down, I’ll get my net and take care of this.” I walked to the end of the pool to investigate. At first glance I didn’t see anything. On closer inspection I noticed tail feathers sticking out of the filtration system skimmer. So I removed the cover, expecting to find the dead feathery fowl floating face up. To my surprise, I discovered a live perplexed pigeon staring back at me.

I jumped back three feet and immediately the Yuck Meter in my brain hit 10. Years earlier my office near Fuller Seminary became infested with mites from pigeons roosting on the roof. I remembered the exterminator calling pigeons flying rats of disease and pestilence. The pigeon was under the concrete edge of the pool deck standing on the entry way to the skimmer compartment. He looked wet and confused. With the skimmer cover off, I hoped he would just jump out and fly away. So I gave him some time and space. Periodically throughout the evening I checked on him. Each time he cocked his head to look at me but he stayed put. I didn’t know what to do.

Tuesday 10PM

Flashlight in hand I made one final check before going to bed. The bird had not budged. I thought about getting a stick to prod him off his ledge, but it was dark and I was tired so I decided to wait till the morning to take action. I figured his chances of surviving the night were slim. The neighborhood tom cat that patrolled our yard each night at 2AM marking his territory might eat him. If the tom cat was on vacation, the pigeon would surely drown when the pool pump turned on at 5AM and sucked him into the deeper waters of the skimmer.

Wednesday 6AM

As soon as I woke, I ran outside in my pajamas expecting to find a dead bird in the pool. No such luck. The pigeon was perched in the same place looking alive but not so well. I decided to take action. I put on my big green rubber gloves that I use to handle toxic chemicals, grabbed a long stick and a blue bucket. My strategy was to poke the pigeon with the stick and force him into the bucket that I held in the water. I poked a couple of times but he kept eluding my efforts under the concrete edge. Suddenly he lost his footing and was sucked towards the skimmer. He then flapped his wings and hopped out of the skimmer onto the deck. He waddled across the deck to the potting bench and parked himself in the sun to dry out. I thought that once he had regained his strength, he might fly away.

Wednesday 11AM

I checked the potting bench area before I left for my appointment. To my consternation I discovered Mr. Pigeon had pooped all over the brick floor. I was starting to feel some compassion for the bird but the mess he made tested my limits. I didn’t know what to do. I went to my appointment.

Wednesday 3PM

I had returned home from my appointment and was working on my computer in the studio when I looked out the window. To my surprise, there was Mr. Pigeon staring back at me. For the first time I thought, “Did God send this bird into my life? Is there some lesson I am to learn from him?” As a religious professional, I am trained to ask other people those types of questions. When I asked the question of myself, I felt both skeptical and curious.

I had a second idea. I needed to give the bird a name. So I called him Pete the Pigeon. I then opened the window and said, “Pete, do you have anything to say to me?” Pete cocked his head and looked back at me with his quizzical eyes. But he kept silent. I then noticed that he had a wound on his chest. He probably could not fly. I didn’t know what to do.

Thursday 7:00AM

As a card carrying introvert, I tend to obsessively mull over ideas. That is what I did throughout Wednesday night and early Thursday morning. What possible lesson was I to learn from Pete the Pigeon? In the same way that Pete had been caught in the skimmer, I felt caught between feeling compassion for the bird and annoyed by him at the same time. I wondered, “Do I feel caught between those two emotions in other areas of my life?” I made a list. To my surprise, it was a long list. I also hoped Pete would fly again, but his injuries were serious. It was reasonable for me to think he could die soon. I wondered, “Are there other areas of my life where I feel stuck between hope and realism?” I made another list and recorded it in my journal.

Thursday 9:30AM

Pete had moved to the driveway and survived another night. As I backed out the car to drive to another appointment, I wished Pete the Pigeon a good day. I thought, “Maybe Pete could become a pet. The grand-kids would love him.” My second thought was that I would have to feed and clean up after him. I already have enough things I am trying to care for. I didn’t know what to do.

Thursday 1PM

I had returned home from my appointment to discover that Pete the Pigeon was no longer in the driveway. I ran to the front yard thinking maybe he found the bird feeder and was having a feast. No Pete. I ran to the back yard and looked around. No Pete. I then went into the house, found Nancy, and excitedly declared, “I think Pete finally recovered and flew away!”

Nancy looked at me with the expression that said, “You’ve got to be kidding.” She then said, “I decided that the bird was probably hungry so I fed him some bird seed and he gobbled it up. I realized he could not fly so I called the Humane Society. They sent a truck out right away. The driver picked up the bird with his bare hands and put him in the truck. Problem solved.” I then asked, “But what if they put him to sleep?” Her reply, “That’s their decision. They are the experts. Besides, there are plenty of pigeons in the world.”

Suddenly I was free—free from assuming responsibility for the fate of a random bird that became trapped in our pool; free from my preoccupation with my own thoughts and feelings. It was then that I realized what I needed to do I had already done forty-four years ago. I married the right woman. Not only is she a genius when it comes to caring for pigeons and husbands, she is beautiful too.

(Acknowledgment- I am grateful for the editorial help of Mary Lou Totten with this story)

Friday Night at the Mall

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Or The Drama of Aging

Nancy was lookiChinese Girl smallng for shoes. I was looking for someone to sketch. So while Nancy wandered through the shops, I parked myself in the middle of the mall and waited. I didn’t see her when she first arrived as I was trying to capture the image of a young man typing on his computer to my right. When I finished sketching him, I sat back, looked to the left, and there she was tucked inconspicuously in the corner. She was wearing an orange ski jacket, yellow scarf, and bright blue head phones. Her eyes were riveted to the lime green I Pad that she was pecking away on. The table in front of her held a computer that she typed on every few minutes before returning to her I Pad pecking. About every five minutes she reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out her cell phone to check for messages. She was Chinese and looked to be high school age. During the fifteen minutes that it took me to sketch her, she never once look up or around the room. She was completely ensconced in her own electronic world.

As I watched her sitting alone and invisible to the Friday night shoppers who scurried around her, something stirred inside of me. I remembered being an insecure adolescent transitioning to becoming a teenager. I too felt alone. I longed to be connected to friends who thought that my life mattered. I longed to be noticed, and I wondered apprehensively about the life that lay ahead of me. What is strange is that those same feelings have surfaced again recently, but I’m not fifteen now, I’m sixty-seven. What is happening to me? The next moment I looked to the right again and saw my answer.

Man smallSeated on the couch thirty feet away was an older man wearing a dapper red cap. He too was alone on a Friday night and I imagined that he had come to the mall just to be around other people. (Then again maybe he was waiting for his shoe shopping wife as I was, though I didn’t see a wedding ring.) I assumed that he was retired and when I did so, some feeling fluttered inside. Twice this past month I was asked if I was retired (No) and when I was going to retire (I don’t know). On both occasions I was irked by the question and felt defensive but didn’t know why. When I looked left and then right, at the teen and at the old man, it came to me. I was in a life stage transition again and the passage towards old age feels very similar to the teenage journey.

Life Transitions

For many of us as teenagers, the road ahead seemed foreboding. Unanswered questions related to college, career, and community loomed. Would we be able to find our role and place in the competitive, chaotic world of adults? Would someone notice us? Would we be able to find love? By the grace of God, I can answer “Yes!” to all of those questions.

But now a new set of questions loom. As old roles and responsibilities that created a sense of place in the world slowly slip away, as close friends struggle with cancer, as my creaky joints creak more and I imagine that my longevity on the planet could be predicated by a random lab test, I wonder, “Who sees me now? What gives me hope as losses increase around me? Where is my new place in the world?”

Christopher Bryant puts it this way, “Ideally the succession of little deaths which meet us from cradle to the grave, which we must undergo if we are to find fulfillment; can be met cheerfully in hope of what lies ahead and without backward glances. But owing to our condition of estrangement, we tend to cling tenaciously to the old and to face the new with reluctance and misgiving. We dread the loss of old security and of finding ourselves vulnerable. To overcome our dread our Author has come among us as a man among men, and as a man endured that dread at its extreme worst in order to break its power and rescue from its tyranny all who will trust themselves to him.”

Trust

It all comes down to a five letter word. Fifty years ago as a seventeen year old I heard the line, “God loves you and has a wonderful plan for your life. Trust Him!” I did and I am so grateful for what he has done. At age sixty-seven, the invitation is repeated, “Trust Him.” Not only is the word my source of hope, it is the source of hope for the girl in the orange jacket and the man in the red cap sitting at the mall on a Friday night.

Living with a Tiger

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TigerA young artist recently asked me, “How do I manage this creative spirit within me?” The more I thought the more I wondered if manage is the wrong word. I experience creative energy as if it was a tiger that prowls the neighborhood at three in the morning. When it silently appears out of the shadows at unexpected moments, my job is not to manage it because no one can manage a wild animal.

Rule One: Notice the Tiger

My first job is to notice it. For example, this past month I have worked on a series of five paintings based upon Luke 4. I have learned that my best insights come at 3am when I get up to go to the bathroom. So I keep a journal close at hand and quickly jot down what I see so that I can remember it in the light of day. Those 3am sightings have lead to breakthroughs in my art. It has also left me a bit bleary-eyed but that is a small price to pay. For others, the creative insight might come while at a stop light, while watching a movie or reading a book. By paying attention to the creative spark, the tiger, for some unexplained reason, tends to show up more often.

Rule Two: Feed the Tiger

Those creative parts of us, like a tiger, are hungry and wander to places where they might find food. My creative self makes itself known more frequently when I make space for an intellectual diet of reading, visiting art galleries, listening to pod-casts or watching U-tube videos of other creative people. There is never a one to one correlation between providing food and calculating the tiger’s appearance. Tigers are too unpredictable for that. But I have noticed that if I don’t make space to feed creativity, the river of new ideas starts to dry up.

Rule Three: Wander in the Jungle

When it comes to my two artistic pursuits, painting and writing, rarely do I start with a fully formed outline of what I want to do. If I am painting, I usually begin with a few concept sketches in my notebook. Then I might stretch the canvas, paint a background and try one of the concepts. Often while I am painting, a new insight will emerge and I will either paint over or start a new canvas. Eventually a more complete idea will begin to emerge. The writing process is similar. I might start with one phrase, slowly add words, and then develop a more complete outline as I write, edit, and rewrite. I often feel like I am aimlessly wandering in the jungle in the early stages of a composition. Insight usually comes but not before I have gotten lost a few times and endured the cacophony of fear-inducing voices telling me I am a poor excuse for an artist.

Rule Four: Sleep with One Eye Open

On rare occasions tigers, who are wild, powerful animals, have been known to eat people. Therefore it pays to be cautious in their presence. Creative energy is also powerful. Like all energy, it is imperialistic and given the right circumstances it can take over the life of its host. I have experienced times when the creative ideas started to flow and suddenly I found myself unable to turn them off. My mind would race and I found it difficult to eat or sleep. I am not bipolar but after a couple of these episodes, I have a greater appreciation for the manic experience of that condition. The biographies of artists such as Van Gogh or Michelangelo testify that such experiences are common for creative types. I have found that exercise, music, and prayer all help to sooth the beast when it is agitated. Eventually it will calm down. If the manic creative episode persists, it can wreck the health and marriage of a person. So seek the help of a doctor or counselor who can help determine if there are underlining physiological factors at work.

Tigers are beautiful creatures with the capacity to reveal to us a transcendent world where lion and lamb lie down together. We can’t manage them but we can learn to live in harmony with them.