Wayside Pulpit

Follow Me

“After this he went out and saw a tax collector named Levi, sitting at the tax booth; and he said to him, ‘Follow me.’” -- Luke 5:27

Follow me.

What if those two words are the core of the message of Christ? I mean, really, what if? What would it mean to look to the life of Jesus as a guide for living, instead of looking to his resurrection as a guide for salvation? What would it mean to follow?

Give up your money to those who need it
Change your livelihood to one that focuses on the oppressed
Sit in silence with god
Heal those in need of healing
Share meals with those who are very much unlike you
Preach about injustice
Walk in unfamiliar areas
Read the Hebrew Bible
Leave organized religion
Never whine about being a victim
Be involved in an intentional community working for change
Press against the prevailing social/political/religious system so hard you are executed for it . . .

This is so different than simply believing that one is to live by faith alone, isn’t it? How many Christians, if they were told tomorrow morning at church that THIS is Christianity, would keep being Christian?

I aspire to follow.

Stagnant

I distract myself from things that I really want to do. If I was avoiding doing things I didn’t want to do, well, it would make more sense. But, these are things that I want to do, but seem to continually find reasons for not doing them.

I turn my attention, instead, to the internet, reading the newspaper, napping, going for walks, cooking elaborate recipes and doing “busy work.” These are tasks that are not moving me in the direction I wish to go, rather they are things, the minutiae that keep me in place. Still, I can’t seem to remove myself from their grasp, their hold on my life is stronger than I would like to admit. This all reminds me of Paul’s writing in Romans, “I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate.”

What is it that runs much of what I do? I’m not exactly sure but I do know that when I start to push against “it,” with ideas of creativity and moving my life beyond the status quo, it pushes back. It makes dreams and desires seem unimportant, while the nap is the best I can do. It takes the fun out of most activities and labels them a waste of time. I sense it will do whatever it can to make sure that I do not carry out my creative ideas or even enjoy the life I am living.

What to do about all of this? I think, as in most things spiritual, the first step is awareness, knowing that this is how I have been conditioned to operate. I’ve been formed by society, by my upbringing and the structures in which I exist, to meet the norm, to stick with the way things “ought” to be, rather than moving toward a new kind of “could.” Seeing this is the first step to moving beyond it. Because it is hard to turn onto the road less traveled when all you see are the old sidewalk cracks beneath your feet.

The second step is walking beyond the conditioning. It is hearing the pleas for the naps, the extended surfing times, the myriad of distractions and simply letting them be. It is giving them no energy, no opposition, but also no agreement.

Paul asks, “Who will rescue me from this body of death?” The answer for him was simply, “Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!” Center to Paul was Christ. Center for me is the breath. Center for some is god. Whatever you call it, it is your divinity that has the ability to transcend the limits that imprison you.

Past Three O'clock

I sung a song, as part of St. Olaf’s Manitou Singers, titled, “Past Three O’clock.” The song, an old English carole, is a Christmas piece about the birth of the christ child. Though I sung it nearly eighteen years ago, I still remember the melody and the strange winter magic that the composer captured in that particular arrangement. The song plays loud in my head this early morning as I look at the clock on my cell phone and see that it is just past three A.M..

Just past three A.M.. An hour when thieves seem to run my neighborhood streets stealing cars and breaking into homes. An hour that isn’t quite night, but isn’t quite morning. An hour that stretches long enough for murders to be undertaken, for cars to crash and babies to need feeding. An hour where the moon has set but the sun is far from rising. An hour, just like any hour, some would say. But it is for me, an hour that always seems to catch me off guard with how it holds my fears, my concerns and my deep desire to leave this life.

Am I talking about suicide? Not really. I am talking about the desire to leave the life I am living, Am I talking about packing up and changing towns, houses, jobs? Not really. I am talking about the quest for my soul, and how, somehow, I just can’t find it in this life. There is something tangible missing inside of me. This isn’t something I’ve lost, rather it is something that I have never had. This magical conglomeration of beauty, contentment, peace, groundedness has never been mine, rather it has been the grail that haunts my dreams.

My mind turns to, “Three O’clock Blues,” by B.B. King. It is nice to know that I am not alone in this hour. In fact, I am comforted to realize, through a quick search on iTunes, that the hour of three A.M. holds unlimited grief and longing within the hands of sixty minutes.

well now its three o' clock in the mornin’
and I can't even close my eyes
three o' clock in the mornin’
and I can't even close my eyes
can't find my baby
and I can't be satisfied

I think of the magi and their archetypal quest for the christ child. The myrrh, the incense, the golden nugget; everything is brought on the search. It all has to come because there is no other search like it and it takes everything to survive the journey. This isn’t the pursuit for just a swaddling clothed mewing human child. Rather, it is the all out expedition for the divinity within, the flash of creativity that started the world and the desire to know why your heart keeps beating.