t(r)oymarbles

a voice of civility

2012-01-28T12:13:00.001-06:00

I have great respect for author Philip Yancey. His book What's So Amazing About Grace? was a game-changer for me, personally. So, when I saw the title of a post he put on his blog today, I clicked on the link immediately: "Election-Year Musings".

I strongly encourage you to read part one and visit his blog to follow up on part two when he posts it. He has some great, great thoughts and challenges for Christians this election year.

A couple of excerpts...

"Democracy requires us to recognize others’ rights even when we fundamentally disagree with them. It requires a civility in which I respect a person’s ultimate worth, and seek to persuade but not to coerce. For this reason modern democracy grew out of Christian soil. We must exercise the skill of ethical surgeons in deciding which moral principles apply to society at large."

"The more we focus on tangential issues, the less effective we will be in addressing matters of true moral significance. I hear very little from evangelicals about the impact of gun proliferation on violent crime, much less an issue like nuclear disarmament. I hear almost nothing about health care for the poor and protecting widows and orphans, both biblical mandates, and scant mention of the thirteen million children who die worldwide from malnutrition in a year. I hear talk about family values, but when an administration proposed legislation to allow mothers to take unpaid leave after childbirth, conservative religious groups opposed it."

View the entire post here. It is well-researched!

a band of contradictions

2012-01-22T15:42:00.000-06:00

Here they come. Let me see if I can describe to you what I see from where I sit.

That man there has two kids. He’s white, slender and tall, with dark hair. His kids are both boys. One is thirteen; the other, eight. He is going through a divorce. The kids wonder if Mom needs a break from them.

That woman is in her fifties, single, never married. She feels she’s the only one of her kind here. She might be right.

Here’s a young refugee boy. He knows English but his Mom and Dad do not. A young married couple pick him up every week and love on him for some hours.

A man in a wheelchair now. Four people lift him up the steps. In about 90 minutes, they’ll be lifting him down again and he’ll bless them profusely, after having snored through the sermon.

That man killed someone and spent time in prison for it. Vehicular homicide, hit-and-run.

She was a drug addict. She hit rock bottom at age 34, enrolled in a program for two years and has been clean for the past three. She lives just down the street and walks here. She especially likes the snow.

She works at Wells Fargo, human resources. She's also started a church that gives her zero pay while giving the down-and-out almost everything from the church coffers.

Here’s a shop owner. He knows a lot about the neighborhood. His store used to be a jazz club. Dizzy Gillespie played there once.

Here’s a man who just turned forty. He wrestles with depression. Thank goodness he’s on some meds now and is seeing a counselor. In a few weeks, he’s looking forward to seeing an old friend, just the two of them.

Two little girls in fine dresses. They dress up every week. I love her red hair. So bright! They’re homeschooled. Nice kids.

Here’s a homeless man, coming from the shelter. Sometimes he sleeps in the park but it’s too cold for that now. He used to be in a gang but got out when all his friends were killed. He doesn’t remember his birthday.

Here’s an Asian teenager, the victim of some racial abuse last year. A bunch of kids from his school cornered him in the alley one afternoon. They kicked him and stomped on him and punched him in the face and spit on him while the others held him steady. He managed to break free after eight long minutes and ran away, sprawling, home.

Here’s a police officer. Been on the force now thirteen years. That neighborhood was his beat but he wasn’t on duty that day. He feels responsible.

A young man, home from Afghanistan. He was on the bomb squad. He had a close brush with an IED and inventoried the second largest cache of weapons recovered last year.

Here’s a black woman in her fifties, a consultant for executive teams. She travels a lot.

Here’s a man in his forties, wishing he had trained himself for something other than ministry. He wonders if he didn’t make a mistake.

(Sorry this is so long, but you really do need to know who these folks are. Trust me.)

Here’s a dear, old saint whose husband died just a year ago. She prays just about every hour, starting early in the morning. She eats dinner at 4:30 and twitches her nose like a rabbit when she knits. She makes the best oatmeal raisin cookies. Her vice is Cap’n Crunch cereal.

Here’s a teenage girl who was raped. Her friends won’t believe her. She doesn’t know if she wants to see a counselor or not.

Now here’s an interesting dude. A renaissance man. He has a pilot’s license he never uses, has acted with Nick Nolte, is a lawyer who has sued churches before, joined a knitting group (not St. Cap’n Crunch’s, though), runs marathons and studied Hebrew in Jerusalem. He should be on Jeopardy.

This guy here likes his new snowblower a lot. His father once built a tractor from scratch that was powered by steam.

Here’s a gal who wears a Bears uniform whenever it’s game day. She’s never been to Soldier Field, though.

A boy with a speech impediment. Big-hearted guy. Studies karate and cries when he forgets the routine.

Here’s a girl in her twenties who just had a tattoo removed. A painful memory.

A guy whose humor is drier than the Sahara. A woman who describes herself as possessing "the gift of sarcasm." She lost her mom when she was still in college.

Here’s a teenager. He gets straight A’s and smokes dope. His parents don’t know. Yet.

Here’s a man who wonders how he’ll tell his friends and family he’s gay.

A musician. Man, can she play and sing! I have her CD. Talented gal.

He just had a knee operation and that boy has leukemia. Lost his hair some months ago. Met the Cubs in their locker room and spent the game in their dugout for his Make-A-Wish.

Here’s a teenage girl with a gift for art. You name it, drawing, painting, photography. She’s got quite an eye.

This guy is part of the American Legion. Knows a lot about the Civil War and collects books.

Here’s another guy that works with male prostitutes. His wife is a trainer of nurses.

Here’s a gal, middle-aged, who does sign-language translation for live theater.

Here’s a mechanic who will repair your brakes for free even though he’d rather not.

Here’s a lady who’s always late.

This guy just got demoted. That woman just got promoted.

She was just fired from her job of eight years. He was just hired as a cashier at Walgreen's.

Here’s a lady who doesn’t look like a grandma, but she is already. She has thirteen kids. Her husband fell from a roof last year and should have died. He likes to hunt with his boys and the girls grew up playing hockey.

Here’s a girl, sixteen. She just had an abortion last month. That’s her boyfriend; he’s on Student Council.

That lady there speaks five languages. She rescues abused dogs.

Here’s someone who used to major in piano performance, then changed her major to Spanish. She was told she would never be able to have children, then—SURPRISE!—“You’re pregnant.” She’s expecting her second now.

That boy has cystic fibrosis. He’s always smiling. That man has AIDS. He smiles a lot, too.

Those folks got evicted last year.

She has received more than twenty-two rejection letters from publishers. He has published more than two hundred magazine articles.

That guy there doubts his own value. His son loves Lego.

That man has ice cream every night. His daughter likes The Andy Griffith Show.

Here’s a family that just moved here. They’re having a hard time making friends. And there’s an old couple that have lived here sixty-three years. They can tell you all about how much this neighborhood has changed over the years.

Here’s a woman, thirty-four. She wonders whether there is a God. Here’s another woman, fifty-six. She’s a new convert, still aglow with that first love.

Here’s a lawyer who got broadsided while driving in a foreign country. The car ended up topside down, totaled.

That young man is an Eagle Scout. His youngest brother, a Cub Scout. Good, through and through, the both of ‘em.

All of them, varied: rich, poor, and middle class; black, white, Asian, Native American, South American. Blue collar and white collar. Young and old. Students and retirees. Married and single. Some of them are news junkies, others love sitcoms. Some of them political, others indifferent.

They are envious, stressed, greedy, charitable, cynical, outspoken, rash, risky, cautious, gossips, lonely, funny, lustful, bland, fearful, proud, self-doubting, skeptical, angry, naive, gregarious, trusting and fiercely opinionated. One of them has not cried in decades, another has cried every day for the past sixteen months. He wonders when he’ll stop missing her. There are adulterers, kidney donors, television addicts. They are both grateful and entitled, deceivers and deceived, paralyzed and paralyzing. Some of them can't carry a tune to save their life; others should be famous. They hope, pray, nap, feast and fast. There are insomniacs among them. They sometimes advocate for the helpless while other times they exploit the powerless. They are flawed, obsessive, generous and thoughtful. They are a band of contradictions.

And they are one. Like it or not, they are the body of Jesus. How the Perfect Man incorporates imperfect people into His plan I will never know but I do know that He has each one play a part, somehow.

You are in there and so am I.

We come together because of one world-changing story about a certain man who lived for others, a man who forgave and forgives, a man who conquered death. He redeems every impossible situation; He befriends every lonely person. He grieves with the bereaved and challenges the complacent. He humbles the proud and exalts the humiliated. He is never impatient, harsh, or apathetic. He welcomes the newcomer and abides with the long-termer. He has been an advisor to presidents and a healer of the sick. He scandalized the religious and legitimized the marginalized. He knows when we lie. He knows when we hide. And He loves us anyway.

See, that's the thing about Him. He knows. He knows.

He knows each one by name. He knows each story. And He cares.

This is what He sees from where He sits. He sees us all, can describe each one in detail. And He loves and calls.

So we all come together this one day each week to worship this Perfect Human, the Second Adam, the initiator of history’s greatest Do-Over. Let us learn to follow Him the other six days. God help us, God heal us.

the storm yesterday

2012-01-21T06:21:00.000-06:00

The cars on the old city street move more slowly and run more quietly tonight. The rubber on their tires do not hit the pavement as snow fills the traction. One after the other they try to cut a track in the storm but make little headway.

Here on the sidewalk the dog romps through the fresh powder in the parkway. The traffic is so quiet, silenced by the snow, I can hear the dog’s sniffing for clues of friends fresh-past. The lights of the street lamps reveal no let-up to the storm any time soon. It has been snowing since morning and looks to continue till night’s turning.

Prints of boots and shoes leave a path; I add my own mark to it, at times shuffling, at times stomping. I am alone on this path now but not without predecessors.

Then, I see another soul. One lone woman shovels a path with her dog tethered to a leash. An exercise in futility. The point where she started is already covered in another inch but she continues to labor with her pet tugging at the handle all the same.

The metal gate makes no sound as it opens. The white snow tries to bury its blackness but finds sticking difficult. Still, clumps of snow pile on its edges. It does not want to close, stopped by the pile on the ground next to it. I grant its wish and leave the gate open.

The back courtyard is a miniature Yukon. The snow sparkles. God is cutting a big diamond in heaven and these flakes are the leftover chips sent to enrich the earth—evidence of his work.

We ascend the stairs and open the door. Home. Yes, storms can make life better.

late resolutions

2012-01-20T08:15:00.000-06:00

I am late in coming to resolve this year
to callous these cutless hands—
let me dig the deepest grave for these kicking fears,
I will bury dead despair alive.

I am late, but never mind,
there is yet time—
for there is now to resolve,
now to revolve
as the earth on its axis
awakens the capacity for new praxis.

See! There she stands, Lady Now.
She is that first smiling look that seized these weary eyes.
Her breath, sweet as a beaten child’s prayer;
her skin, thin as high mountain air
under which lies God’s womb
and just above—
closer than dreams in sleep—
the heavens and déjà vu.
I have but to reach.

Listen, heart, to the yearning cry in your throat
like a yearling clinging to his mother.
Reach, hands, for the star’s bosom.
Reach.

Now.

These late resolutions are eternally just in time.

late resolutions
a poem by troy cady

after tears wear the linen thin

2012-01-15T15:19:00.003-06:00

After tears wear the linen thin
on my pillow
we dine with half-washed sticks
on chipped plates
too late to fix.
The sitting room windows—fit for the museum--
their windowglass sags
from age,
like an overused harlot--
the winter whispers slack
through unsealed cracks—
too many painters laid too-thick coats
on her unstripped back.

Thank mercy for the storm windows
in the bedroom.
As for me, I shall turn
this soul-stretched night
on a hole torn
to the sound of heart-strains.
But you will be there,
smiling asleep, knowing
the plates are unchanging sun-yellow
and the windows will
open in spring with redemption—
their singing will bringing
old memories and ancient blessings
for a renewed tomorrow.

after tears wear the linen thin
a poem by troy cady

regret is universal but redemption is stronger

2012-01-14T01:37:00.000-06:00

There will always be people who will say, “Just look what he’s done with his life! Couldn’t he have done more, been more? He’s not so smart as some people say, not so very clever. And his teaching…so…basic! Why, my four-year-old daughter could have taught me that. I don’t see what all the fuss is about. He’s not so great, after all.”

You think, “Maybe I made a mistake. Maybe I should have finished that degree. Maybe I should learn to be more like Dan. He’s so smart and people really admire him. But, wait: I’ve got it now: Darrin is great with words. What a speaker he is! Maybe I should join Toastmasters and improve my speaking abilities.”

You pass the days burdened with the feeling that nobody thinks you’re anything special. You try to remember all the positive things others have said about you over the years but you are plagued with the feeling that you’re just playing mind games with yourself. So, you think, “I’ll find a new job, that’s what I’ll do. I just know I can do it and I’ll find something I’m really good at.”

So, you look, only to discover you don’t have the right qualifications. When you find something suitable you’d like to do, it seems there are always eight better people waiting in line for the same chance.

You begin to think, “Who am I, anyway? Am I just a nameless, faceless…”

And then a face comes into view. It is the face of The One Who Sticks Closer to You Than a Brother. He lifts your head, locks eyes with you and says, “Listen. I love you. I gave my life for you and I would do it all over again. And I made you. Don’t you dare start calling ‘junk’ what I made special.”

You protest: “But Chris says—“

“What does it matter what Chris says? Who is Chris, anyway? Did Chris make you? Does Chris pray for you like I do—continually? Chris doesn’t know you. There will always be some naysayer seeking to diminish the talents I’ve given you. You just try to do the best you can with what you’ve got and don’t worry about what others think of it because I think the world of it.”

“But don’t you think I should have—“

“Of course, every human ‘should have’. It’s not a question of ‘should-haves’ and ‘should-have-nots’. Everyone has something they should have done but didn’t do. Everyone has something they should not have done but did, anyway. Regret is universal. But redemption is stronger. Redemption goes beyond titles and certificates; it goes beyond positions and promotions. It is the dignity amid humiliation, the nobility of the nobody. It is higher than the so-called ‘honor’ of human praise, which is fickle and fades more quickly than the snowflake melts in the sun. Redemption reaches farther than any other human achievement. It’s what I am always doing.

“Don’t you see? I love you because I love you. It’s not because of anything you’ve done or haven’t done. I just love you. It’s not because of how smart you are (and you are smart, by the way). It’s just that you’re my child and I love you. And because I love you, I am more than able to take care of you, no matter how many people know your name or recognize your talents--and you are talented, by the way—I know because I gave you those talents—and I’ve redeemed you. ‘Who am I?’ you ask. You’re mine.”

don't hurry, be happy

2012-01-06T07:30:00.000-06:00

It is wise to submit to Master Grace. To live under the reign of grace is to practice patience and patience has its own wisdom.

For example, I needn’t speed when I am driving if I am practicing gracious patience. I needn’t be in a hurry about anything. A few days ago I was with someone who had trouble with this. He was going a full 20 miles per hour over the speed limit in traffic that was heading towards the city, growing heavier and heavier with each half-mile. The fast lane had been his permanent driving lane for the previous hundred miles, so as we approached the city he tailgated whoever was in the fast lane in hopes of blowing through more quickly. A slower-moving van happened to impede his progress so he crammed up the van’s butt and tried flashing his lights to get the van to move over a lane. No response.

Two lanes over looked free and clear. This was the slow lane but if he could just pass this cluster of cars he could get back into his fast lane in no time. He decided to give it a try.

The stretch of road was downhill. He pushed the pedal to the floor and proceeded at 85 or 90 in a 65. I said, “Hey, now…slow down, buddy.”

And then we saw it: a police car waiting in the wings. He was marked and got a ticket for 225 dollars—money he could ill-afford to go without.

Then, he grew angry. Angry at himself for speeding, angry at the law: “You can go faster here without danger so why does the speed limit have to be so low?! It should be 75, not 65!”

But, why do we need to be in such a hurry? We did not even have a deadline to keep and still we were in a hurry.

What if we learned--really learned--to rest in grace? There would be no reason to hurry and anger would lose its legs. Entitlement would be crucified and we would be free to enjoy life at a meter fit for music.

Let us live in grace
as we practice patience
so we may live wisely.

“A patient man has great understanding, but a quick tempered man displays folly." –Proverbs 14:29

beyond hamlet in the third watch of the night

2011-12-28T04:30:00.000-06:00

Keep vigil for the ghost of a father
roaming castle walls,
moaning for justice.
Vow revenge then relent
for he bids me instead
keep vigil for the Ghost of the Father’s
murdered Son,
alive in Spirit and body,
prompting prayer this third watch
with every piece of armor—
helmet, breastplate, belt, shield, sword, shoes.
Attack comes in slumber;
I will not falter, I will yet
stand guard this stretch
before the prize of sunrise.
Listen, eyes! Do not despise
the moonlight.
I inhabit God, my tower,
as surely as he makes my praise-habit
His habitat.
Ho!—there He is!—
the Ghost, without and within.
My defender sends respite.

…………………………………….

Beyond Hamlet in the third watch of the night
a poem by Troy Cady

having a baby changes you

2011-12-26T08:05:00.004-06:00

Our lives changed when Meaghan was born. We had new priorities, we made new plans for the future and we restructured the marking of time. We developed new routines, played simpler games, spoke in softer tones and read stories that required creative voices. Delight took on a new shape. The magnitude of joy was inversely proportionate to the tiny size of our Meggie Widget. She changed our lives.

In those first weeks, I commented on this to our good friend, Pat. I told her how much I felt our lives had changed because of Meaghan’s birth. She replied, “That’s good. Having a baby should change you. If it didn’t, something would be wrong.”

So if a little child like Meaghan changes me, what should we expect when the Son of God becomes a man to rescue souls enveloped in darkness and liberate creation from its bondage to decay? If Jesus’ birth doesn’t change me, something’s wrong. His birth, more than any other, has the capacity to infuse my life with new priorities, new plans for the future. His birth should restructure how I mark time; his life would be the thread in the pattern of daily and weekly routines. He bids me play simpler games and speak in softer tones. His life has the potential to draw out creative voices that have long lay dormant. Delight takes on a new shape in Christ.

Jesus, change my life; grant me joy in proportion to the magnificence of your hidden majesty.

why he traded heaven for earth

2011-12-25T07:16:00.001-06:00

He traded heaven for earth so we could inherit both. His intent was not that we should abandon this world but rather bless it (as he did in creation) and make a home in it (as he did in his nativity). If by sin we wounded the earth by greed and abuse of power, he would by grace redeem and heal the world by giving of his very self and emptying himself of power, becoming servant of all, the lowest of the low, the least among a nation of slaves. This is how he dignifies a world we have wasted and laid waste: by giving up his palace so we may behold him in our barn—with our own eyes. The bed of straw on which he lay became infused with divinity the morning God took on flesh in this world. Now we may see the soil as he sees it: pregnant with germinating blooms.

He was born not so we could become other-worldly but rather so we could become true citizens of the world, stewards of goodness, restorers of nobility. The wonder of Christmas is that the Son of God emptied himself of all the rights and privileges of divinity so he could become the truest human we have ever seen or will ever know. He did this so we could be trained to be human again and, in so doing, participate in his divinity.

It is a tragedy: this day there shall be fights and even murders, there will be power-plays and petty self-promotions as we play out our innumerable dramas. But he has written a new script in the stars, a third act that pulls together a cast as passionate as teenagers, as practical as carpenters…as grand as kings…as cruel as Führers…as wise as philosophers…and as coarse as shepherds. He would change the ending we would improvise so the story can pan out how the Author imagined it in the beginning. This world is destined for new life. Thank God he reminds us of this by the birth of a baby we needn’t be afraid to hold. Fear not, we tragedians have all been cast in the truest comedy.

the tree trimmers

2011-12-24T10:53:00.000-06:00

The dog was whining this morning. She needed to be walked unusually early, so I threw on some jeans and a sweatshirt. I grabbed my coat, hat, gloves and keys, and we headed out the door for a quick walk around the block.

It is not uncommon to walk down the street here and see someone working on their car by the curbside. But today Frank caught my attention because several things seemed out of whack. The sun had yet to rise; it was still dark out. And winter, cloudy. Snow was forecast. Typical for Chicago: cold.

Frank had strung a shop light out to his truck; the orange cable was plugged in to the side of his small, one-floor house and the bulb was hanging from a notch in the car’s raised hood. He was working in naught but his t-shirt and jeans. At least he had the sense to wear work boots. A few of his tools were sprawled out over the parkway and a screwdriver lay on the sidewalk where I was walking Lexi, my dog. When we got to Frank’s plot, Lexi spent some time sniffing around his tools so I picked up his screwdriver and handed it to him.

“Need a hand?”

“Na, I’m just replacing this belt here. Damn alternator went out.”

“Yeah, that’s happened to me before, too.”

“Could you hand me that socket wrench there?”

“Sure.”

As he started tightening the bolt, the new belt slipped out of its groove. He took it off the pulleys to look at it closely.

“Seriously, dude: let me give you a hand.”

“Okay, sure. Thanks, pal.”

As I tethered the dog to a tree nearby…“Uh, if you don’t mind my asking: why are you doing this now?”

“I have to get to work later.”

“What do you do?”

“Tree trimming.”

“You got a job on Christmas eve?”

“Yeah, just a small one. I guess it’s some folks who don’t celebrate Christmas. I’ll be done by noon if I can get this damn car fixed in the next half hour.”

“Well, if not, I can give you a ride over there, if you want.”

“Thanks. I’ll take you up on that if we can’t get this working.”

He ran his fingers over the belt as he looked for I-don’t-know-what.

I wondered what store would be open this time of day on Christmas eve: “Did you just get this at the store?”

“Na, I had it in my garage for awhile ‘cause I knew the belt needed replacing. I just never got ‘round to puttin’ the damn thing on and now all of a sudden my car won’t start this mornin’.”

“Awww, man, that’s a bummer.”

He started to put the belt back on its pulleys with his greasy, cold fingers. “Yeah. But it’s okay. It’s easy enough to fix.”

“Shouldn’t you be wearing a jacket?”

He glanced at me as if to say, “How do you rate, pal?” and said, “Na, I’m used to the cold.”

“Sorry to say so, but I’d hate for you to get sick.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m fine.”

He had the belt threaded provisionally so he straightened up and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket. He offered me one.

“No, thanks. I don’t smoke.”

He nodded, drew a cigarette out of the pack for himself, pulled a lighter out of his front pocket and took a long drag, squinting. His unshaven face relaxed and he let out a sigh.

“Hey, I couldn’t help but notice your tattoos. Tell me about ‘em. What’s that one there?”

“This one?”

“Yeah. ‘Emma’.”

“Oh, that’s my daughter. She died a couple years ago.”

“No. How old was she?”

“Seven.”

“Oh, man, I’m sorry to hear that. That’s rough, dude.”

He exhaled his smoke out the corner of his mouth as he said, “Tell me about it. There’s not a day goes by I don’t think about her. The doctors didn’t think she’d live beyond two. It was a miracle she lived that long.”

“How do you manage?”

“What’s that?”

“Well, you know…I mean…how do you cope, how do you keep on going?”

“Well…I just think, ‘She’s in a better place now’, ya know.”

“Yeah. That is comforting, isn’t it?”

“Sure is.”

He put his cigarette on the car frame and asked for the socket wrench. A few twists of the wrench. The belt seemed to be on properly. He climbed in the driver’s seat and tuned the ignition.

She started right up.

He came out and started cleaning up.

I walked over to where the cable was plugged in and began bundling up the cord for him.

“Thanks a lot, pal.”

“No problem.” Then, a thought: “Hey, if you want a hand with that small job today, I have some time this morning, I could help a little. You’d get done a little earlier and could spend the rest of the day with your family.”

“That’s nice of you, but no thanks. I wouldn’t want to put you out, besides: I don’t have no family. My wife and I got a divorce a year ago and there was just Emma before that.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, man. But, it’s no trouble at all, really. Seriously, let me give you a hand.”

“Really? Don’t you have family or nothin’?”

“Well, I have a family but we’re just takin’ it easy today. We were expecting my mom and brother to visit from Minnesota but that didn’t work out ‘cause she has to move by the end of the month so all of a sudden we have a pretty low-key Christmas.”

“Okay, sure. If you don’t mind.”

“Let me just go take my dog back home and I’ll be right back, okay?”

“Okay, thanks.”

We had to drive to Evanston so we had a little while to talk. The sky, though still cloud-covered, was beginning to grow brighter: the sun was rising behind a curtain. There would be enough light for our work.

As he smoked another cigarette with the window slightly open, I asked him, “So, where’d you grow up?”

“Right here in Chicago.”

“Oh, so you have family here then? Brothers? Sisters? Parents?”

“Yeah, but I won’t see them today. Long story.”

“Yeah, believe me: I know about family stuff. It’s not always easy.”

“How ‘bout you? Where are you from?”

“Minnesota, but I lived in Spain the past twelve years.”

“Spain? Why did you live there?”

“I was pastor of a few churches there.”

He did a double-take. “You’re a pastor?”

“Yeah.”

“I would not have f***ing guessed that.”

I smiled and asked, “Why do you say that?”

“Well, I’ve never known a pastor to trim trees before.”

“Well…now you do.”

We were quiet for a bit until he started humming Away in a Manger, while he continued dragging on his cigarette.

“I love that song,” I said.

He explained: “It’s Emma’s favorite.”

I asked him, “So tell me…it’s Christmas eve: what’s your favorite Christmas memory?”

“When Emma was six.”

“What was special about it?”

“Nothing in particular. It’s just that we were all together. I was still married and Emma was still here. We had presents and lots of food and it was just what Christmas should be. We played games and it snowed and we made a snowman and we just had a great time. How about you? What was your favorite?”

“Well, it sounds funny to say but I always remember the Christmas right after my grandpa died. I was just a kid at the time, sixth grade. We got my grandma outside to play a game with us and she started laughing and laughing and laughing. She laughed so hard she wet her pants. I know it sounds strange that she would be laughing like that but I guess it’s like you said: she was just glad knowing my grandpa was in a better place.”

“Yeah. Makes sense.”

There were only three trees to trim and we finished just after eleven. He offered to pay me for the trouble.

“Please, no. Consider it a Christmas gift, buddy.”

“Well, thanks.”

We got in the truck and drove off. It began snowing and gratitude filled my heart as I thought of a certain tree trimmer born in Bethlehem around 2,000 years ago who identified with guys just like Frank and me, scraping past heartache and broken-down cars, driving in the wake of disappointment.

.........................................

The Tree Trimmers

a short story by Troy Cady

clouds are veils of recollection

2011-12-21T02:36:00.001-06:00

Discouragement will come in the natural course of life. There has never been a saint at home that has never felt exiled. There has never been a saint abroad that has never felt abandoned.

“Now is the time of the color purple. Purple is a sad color; purple is a serious color.” So goes the beginning of a script we say to ourselves during advent, these weeks of waning light, abundant longing, sparse praise, alien hope and hard-fought prayer. But the script continues: “Purple is the color of kings.” So now is the time we remember: a king came, a king went…he came and went again…he will come again. But, until the will is struck we still wait stricken.

So, for now, we wait.

And pray for hints of his coming, one more minute of expanding light, sunset a sliver later, sunrise a slice earlier. But in these days of gray skies and brown yards what is an extra minute when the sun is still hidden?

Clouds are veils of recollection. They hide the sun to stimulate memory, a light that endures like the remembrance of Hanukkah miracles.

So, I awaken this day in remembrance of God, the forerunner of jailed Joseph, the rear guard of flagged David, and the consolation of deflated Elijah.

There are only a few days' span between these shorter hours of sunlight and the dawning of a new season--just as death could not hold Jonah and Jesus for long. Until then, his remembrance is sufficient for he is not slow in keeping his promise.

vaclav havel and the third horizon

2011-12-18T08:50:00.005-06:00

Vaclav Havel :: born October 5, 1936 :: died December 18, 2011

“…only someone whose very being thirsts after meaning, for whom ‘meaning’ is an integral dimension of his own existence, can experience the absence of meaning as something painful, or more precisely, can perceive it at all. In its tormenting absence, meaning may have a more urgent presence than when it is simply taken for granted, no questions asked—somewhat in the way one who is sick may better understand what it means to be well than one who is healthy.” -Vaclav Havel, Letters to Olga

Czech playwright and politician Vaclav Havel died today at the age of 75. He rebelled against the communist regime in Czechoslovakia, spent time as a dissident in prison and became the first president of Czechoslovakia on December 29, 1989 in the aftermath of the Berlin Wall’s destruction in November ’89. Communism had fallen; the Cold War was over.

As the new president, Havel was tasked with establishing a democratic system in Czechoslovakia. As one would expect, this was no easy feat. Just shy of four years into his presidency, he resigned: the country was breaking apart. In 1993 Czechoslovakia became two countries: the Czech Republic and Slovakia. In spite of that, Havel was elected new president of the Czech Republic—the people still loved him as he met with no contest.

Like all politicians, he had his faults: he was a better foreign diplomat than a domestic governor. He was unfaithful to his wife, Olga. A chain-smoker, he put his own health in jeopardy.

I remember talking with my next door neighbor here in Chicago about a year ago. He told me he was from Czechoslovakia so I brought up Havel’s book, Letters to Olga. Well…that set him off! For the next ten or fifteen minutes my neighbor went on a tirade berating Havel. He claimed that Havel was the worst possible thing that could have ever happened to Czechoslovakia. He was clearly bitter that Havel would be revered by so many as he was.

I recall thinking, “Wow, I had no idea Havel was such a controversial figure.” Later, however, I learned my neighbor was a Nazi. Yes, literally.

Havel was far from perfect but if he stumbled and fumbled on occasion he did so with dignity, flair and perseverance. I was intrigued by him because he was an artist leader.

A while ago I read Letters to Olga. It is a series of letters he wrote to his wife while in prison. Here are a few excerpts:

“Indifference and resignation, I believe, are the most serious forms of human decline into nothingness.”

“…those who wish to do things best are the first to doubt the value of what they do…”

“Art in general is a little like playing with fire; the artist deals with something without knowing precisely what it is; he creates something without knowing precisely what it will ‘mean.’”

“…if we can explain and name anything too well, we come to terms with it too quickly, our interpretation soothes us, the work ceases to tantalize and irritate us and we quickly forget it.”

“One of the essential aspects of every good mood is a sense of identification with something outside oneself…”

This last quote summarizes a central thesis of Letters to Olga. In his writing, Havel spoke of three horizons that define and give meaning to our lives. The first horizon, he says, is that physical horizon of our own immediate environment. At the time of writing Letters to Olga Havel identified this horizon as his prison cell.

The second horizon, however, is greater than the first, wrote Havel. It is the horizon of “existence” which is greater than the physical space we occupy. This horizon requires “memory and imagination”, wrote Havel. It is the horizon of a life which transcends specific locality. It includes the sum of a person’s work and substance.

But that is not the final horizon, Havel wrote. The final horizon, he says, is that horizon from which which all other horizons derive their meaning. It is the horizon that is “the most abstract, the most concealed and the most difficult of all to grasp, but at the same time, paradoxically, the most certain (it endures though everything concrete disintegrates).” It is “the most lasting. It is final and absolute (as the absolute horizon of all of life’s relativities); it is...the metaphysical vanishing point of life, defining its meaning.”

Havel says this third horizon is the horizon we refer to as God.

Havel died early this morning in his weekend home, the first horizon. His lifework--as a playwright, politician and global ambassador--scores a broad, recognizable second horizon. But today, Sunday, Havel walked across that third horizon, which seemed so long in coming while he was imprisoned but which, as for all of us, runs right through our own bedroom as we draw each labored breath, including our last--and beyond it.

“I’m beginning to understand a lot of things with a new urgency, above all that in everything he does, man—usually without being aware of it, or far more than he knows—relates to something outside himself…All his actions, in fact, take place against the background of this horizon, which defines and gives meaning to those actions somewhat in the way the heavens make the stars what they are. And even things apparently trivial, and apparently meant to fulfill personal needs, conceal somewhere in their depths this sense of ‘relating.’” --Vaclav Havel, Letters to Olga

Vaclav Havel
born October 5, 1936
died November 18, 2011

fragment blessing

2011-12-15T18:47:00.000-06:00

I bless her soft eyes
with my warm mouth
for her eyes kiss me
dead and quick.
Let these silent empty lips
touch her closed eyelids
gentle like wet snow
lost in a whispering river
on the cusp of freezing
in devotion to the only soul
with whom I’ve shared sleep
deep as a forest under winter.

fragment blessing
a poem by troy cady
for heather

i can still make heather laugh

2011-12-10T18:28:00.000-06:00

We always need lots of quarters each week because the laundry machine in our apartment building is coin-operated. Each week we have to think, "Okay, how are we going to do this? Will we be stopping by the bank? Shall I get some from work? Or, will we be by 'The Jewel's' (as Chicagoans like to call it)?"

The only thing about getting quarters from Jewel is: they are very stingy with their dole-outs. They will only give you one roll at a time, which only lasts but a day. Whenever we get quarters, we always need at least two rolls so we don't have to worry about it next time around.

Tonight the bank was closed and we needed to do laundry tomorrow. I didn't pick any rolls up from work this week so we had to resort to Jewel again.

We knew they'd likely only give one roll, so we planned on Heather getting in line first and we'd see what happened. I'd "hide out" somewhere to see if they gave her two rolls (they've been known to do that on occasion). If she didn't get two rolls, I'd get in line to get a second roll.

There was a display just to the right of the counter, so I decided to literally hide behind it, stooping down so the employees at the service desk couldn't see me.

Some employees at another counter nearby saw what I was doing and started laughing at me. Heather knew what I was doing and started laughing, too.

Finally, she stepped out of line when she knew she wouldn't be able to keep a straight face.

It's nice to know I can still make my honey laugh! Let it be noted...

boots for beloved souls

2011-12-04T10:44:00.002-06:00

I had the privilege yesterday of joining with Christian Associates' church plant in St. Paul, Minnesota as they helped deliver winter boots to some friends without homes. The church plant is called Communitas Twin Cities and it is led by Dianna McCartan. These folks are doing a fabulous job of expressing God's love in very tangible ways. Below, a photo journal of the day. Click on the images to see in a larger format.

drifters

2011-12-02T18:03:00.000-06:00

It is an early winter’s day in downtown Chicago. Just south of Union Station on Canal Street, between Jackson and Van Buren a diverse group of strangers wait for a bus to arrive. Some are college students waiting to be taken to their campus in Madison, Wisconsin. Some will make the full eight hour trip to Minneapolis. I am one of them.

I pass two dread-locked lovers who smile at me. I return their greeting and take a spot along the wall between a thirty-something man and a twenty-something woman sitting on her suitcase.

Beyond her, there is an African American man in his twenties. He has close-cut hair and friendly eyes that grab my attention. He has two jackets, layered, and he takes one of them off and lays it on top of his green duffel bag on the sidewalk. I make note of the sweat pants he’s wearing: they are a deep red velvet material.

He leaves his things on the sidewalk and crosses the street to a restaurant to get a little something to eat while we wait. While he’s gone, a young girl walks up, carrying a child who I guess is about eleven months old. The girl can’t be more than seventeen. She is laden with an overstuffed backpack strapped to her back. Her right arm is laced through a diaper bag and her right hand grasps a plastic shopping bag. It’s all she can do to hold her sleeping baby, who is bundled snuggly in pink from head to toe. Mother alternates positions for the baby, hoping to give her arms a rest by the adjustment. First, baby’s head is over Mom’s left shoulder, but then the baby’s head keeps flopping to one side, then backward, then to the side again, so Mom adjusts again. Now she’s holding the baby horizontally, face to the sky—but gravity keeps bending the baby’s neck uncomfortably. Now Mom holds her under the child’s armpits, straight out in front of her, and baby keeps sleeping vertically. Mom’s arms can’t take this for too long, so she tries position one again.

Finally, it’s too much for her to handle. She sets the baby down on the sidewalk and the child cries for being awakened. I offer too late to help and Mom thinks it strange that a 40-something goateed stranger should offer assistance out of the blue. She smiles and politely says, “That’s okay.”

Some conversation now: she’s going to Minneapolis for a short time.

I am, too. It’s supposed to snow there tomorrow.

We are in traffic now, bumper to bumper. The sun has just disappeared below the horizon and the bus has taken on more passengers. The bus driver gets back on the highway, smack into a traffic jam and heads the wrong direction. He realizes his error after the traffic loosens, so he turns around—into another traffic jam.

We will be late to our destination.

When we arrive, I hope there will be someone there to help this young woman and her baby. I suppose I will keep an eye out when we get off to make sure she’s taken care of.

I wonder how many drifters the world has seen since a young family of three made their lonely way from Bethlehem to Egypt. If God leads his people out of a place with a pillar of fire he leads them back to that place with a displaced, anonymous infant.

cling

2011-11-30T06:29:00.000-06:00

You can say you are a branch on the vine or a child of the Father, it makes no difference. Both are marked by the act of clinging. Vines cling to walls or trees or whatever surface they can find—and branches cling to vines. Little children cling to their Father’s legs or hands or arms. They love to climb on their Father’s back and never let go, to have their Father take them surprising places.

The branch does not fear the vine nor do children fear their loving Father; he is approachable—so it is only natural to cling.

The branch does not say, “I must cling to the vine or I will die!” It just clings naturally—and bears fruit naturally.

Children of loving parents do not wake up in the morning, thinking: “Hm. Shall I trust my Father and Mother today?” Their spirit just knows that trust is the best course of action, so they just trust.

Perhaps this is why it is hard for adults to trust and cling: we second-guess and begin to doubt and sometimes think a little too much—or a lot too much, take your pick. The Father is there to cling to. If it seems like Jesus’ use of the imagery of vines and branches is less strong than the image of Father-Child it is not: perhaps Jesus uses this imagery to help us imagine what it would be like for a child to cling to his or her Father and never stop clinging. Because we cannot imagine such a scenario, Jesus needs to let us know that it is God’s will we should come to him as little children and never, ever leave his side. Like Moses, we can say to him: “Do not send me anywhere unless you go with me!”

And, he does: “For lo, I am with you always to the very end of the age.”

Amen. Cling, child. Cling to the clinging vine, branch. It is what you were meant to do.

God by the tool shed next door

2011-11-27T08:10:00.002-06:00

Hope is God’s gift to us as surely as forgiveness, provision, breath, shelter, life. The season of advent beginning today reminds us of this.

Rome was an empire of utmost power, considered the jewel of the world, a civilization of dignity, unlike any other before its time. The Romans were thought more enlightened because they did not impose foreign religion on the countries they occupied. They allowed local culture to flourish and by such a tactic won the right to rule with an appearance of kindness and moderation. To many, Rome was the hope of the world. Such “hope” surely should be spread everywhere. Their military conquests were cast in such light, supported by such logic. Roman expansion seemed warranted by the dictates of reason.

By contrast, Mary was a young woman of no account (a teenager, in fact) in a small, unimportant town situated to the north of a country that was considered marginal at best by the Roman empire. The man to whom she was engaged to be married was but a carpenter in this small town.

Caesars do not come from people like Mary and Joseph, do they? Kings do not come from Nazareth. And the child to come would not only be a king of Israel, he would be a king of all. As Simeon said: this child would be “a light for…the Gentiles and for glory to…Israel.” (Luke 1:32) But emperors do not come from places like Cañon City, Colorado. Do they?

Joseph had his hands full with plans to make a respectable life with his bride-to-be. As a worshiper of God, he no doubt knew well his dependence on God to provide food, shelter and clothing for his wife and future children. A regular blessing recited by Joseph and his people blessed God for the miracle of "fruit from the vine" and food from the earth. Such provision was seen as miraculous enough to someone like Joseph. And Mary—to be faithful to such a man and such a life was devotion enough. What more could anyone expect? Indeed, what more could God expect? Certainly they should not expect a commission by the Most High to carry, birth and nurture their heavenly Father’s very Son—the one by whom all nations and individuals on earth would rise or fall—the one by whom time would be newly reckoned in succeeding generations.

This is the way God gives hope, a lifting of heads intent on the everyday, a setting of sights on a horizon that stretches not beyond apartments and short, uncharted streets but towards them. The lost places of the world become the hiding places of God, the place deep in the sea with forgotten treasure. You would never expect to find God by your neighbor’s tool shed, but there he is. What hope!

faith is proved genuine in testing

2011-11-26T13:30:00.002-06:00

Sometimes all you have is the memory of following one step at a time. You wonder how you got here. Step by step, that’s all you know. You hope your remembrance is accurate.

You are not perfect, but after an honest look at the past you can say you were following God with each step. Nothing in your mind prickles, no stifling disobedience, no willful hubris.

So why the doubt now? Why do you wonder “what if”? You scarcely knew the cost of such a decision, the many trajectories you turned down. Though you followed God’s leading step by step, you suddenly find yourself plagued with regret, wondering what would have happened had you taken a different path. But, listen:

Faith is proved genuine in its testing. After all, what good is faith if it is never challenged? Trust that faces no threat is not trust—it is just ease—because faith is not needed where there is no tension. These doubts you have define your faith so do not think your trust negated because of a few misgivings.

We need faith because our perspective is forever limited. Faith is the engine that drives you to God’s assurances; trust in the midst of the shadow of doubt inevitably leads to a hungry search to hear the voice of God through simple prayer and Scripture. So seek His face and never give up. He will make a way and show you the next step.

smart girl

2011-11-24T20:53:00.000-06:00

We were listening to the radio in the car today when the station host said her favorite part of Thanksgiving was dish-washing time. The host explained she enjoyed it so much because it was good mother-daughter time while the men sat in the living room watching the football game.

Meaghan paused one second, then promptly said: "She's demented."

That's my girl.

we shall be together again

2011-11-15T10:54:00.002-06:00

We moved to Barcelona in 1998, over 13 years ago. I am here now, in our old neighborhood, by our old metro stop, Clot on the purple line.

At the time, we had been married seven years and we would still face one of our most difficult seasons of marriage. I remember some time in our first year of life here in Barcelona…lying awake in bed one night…existential angst…wondering if this whole “God thing” was real…really wondering…thinking to myself, “What if we’re all wrong? What if Jesus didn’t rise from the dead? What if it’s all just a big lie? A big hoax?”

I was on staff at a church at that point so, of course, these questions carried no small weight. Pastors can be atheists, too.

Because of the deep-seated nature of the questions, I felt I didn’t have anyone to turn to….I couldn’t turn to the people in our church…What would they think? I couldn’t turn to you, my love…I didn’t want to burden you with my anxiety. So, I closed off. That seemed safer.

The “closing off” was a bad idea. I see that now and I saw that back then…when you finally snapped me out of it and picked a fight with me. Thank you for fighting.

I could see then and I can see it now: God is real because I see him in your eyes, my love. Jesus is risen; he is in your smile, dear one. His arms stretched out on the cross in love will be your embrace tomorrow night. His voice in your voice, his touch in your hand, his path in your feet. Let me never stray from you again. These days we’ve been apart are as saints waiting in hope for heaven. Tomorrow: shalom when we shall be together in body again.

Christ speaks with teresa in the interior castle

2011-11-10T23:22:00.000-06:00

Christ: Why are you troubled, child? Nada te turbe. Let nothing disturb you.

Daughter: He hurt me.

Christ: That is why I died. By my wounds you are healed. Look:

Do you see that little girl over there?

Daughter: Yes.

Christ: How old do you think she is?

Daughter: I suppose four.

Christ: Yes. Now look at her.

Daughter: She is playing and singing.

Christ: Yes. She loves to sing, even though she forgets the tune at times. No matter, let nothing disturb you. And look around you:

Where are you now?

Daughter: Deep inside a castle.

Christ: Not just any castle. Your castle. I went ahead of you and prepared this place for you. It is yours.

Daughter: And yours.

Christ: That’s right. I live here with you.

Daughter: Don’t go.

Christ: Don’t worry, I won’t. I will never leave you nor forsake you. Let nothing disturb you.

(Christ walks to another room of the castle, hoping Daughter will follow him there. She does not follow Christ there because she is afraid of that room. She has never been there before, though it was her room all the time. She is afraid he is going to show her something frightening. Daughter begins crying. Christ comes near her once again.)

Christ: Why are you crying?

Daughter: You left me here.

Christ: I did not leave you. I was here all the time in your special castle. Look:

What is that you are wearing?

Daughter: Clothes. Just clothes.

Christ: Those are not “just clothes.” I made those for you. They are royal. What is that gracing your head?

Daughter: A crown.

Christ: That’s right. A mark of royalty. Do you see my crown?

Daughter: It is not very shiny.

Christ: That’s right. I traded my old crown for this one so you could be crowned with beauty instead of ashes. You were made for beauty; you are my princess, my daughter.

Daughter: But, don’t you miss your other crown?

Christ: No, never. Because by giving it away I bought you and you are more precious and dear to me than any crown.

Daughter: But then, why do you still wear your crown of thorns?

Christ: Because it reminds me that I have you and it reminds you that you have me.

(Daughter’s tears abate now.)

Christ: Si, nada te turbe. Let nothing disturb you.

(Christ sits awhile with Daughter. After some time, he sings a song of serendipity with her because she feels like playing with her Daddy for awhile. They share a meal together that he has prepared: lamb, wine, bread, bitter herbs followed by apples with nuts. He rises from the table and says, “Follow me.” She does. He takes her to a room she has never entered before. It is a beautiful place. She can barely believe such beauty could ever be real.)

Daughter: How did you do this?

Christ: Not out of nothing. When I made the world and everything in it, I used nothing. But this, this surpasses what can be made from nothing.

Daughter: I do not understand.

Christ: Do you suppose that what has been made is greater than that which has been remade?

Daughter: I suppose not. I have never thought about it before.

Christ: I have. Remakings always surpass first makings. That is the wonder of redemption.

Daughter: But, if this beauty has been remade, from what was it made?

Christ: You. Your hopes and fears have been redeemed. Your wounds have been healed. Look:

I turned your darkness into light,
Your day used to be night,
But no more.

Daughter: But how could you take such horrible things and make this?

Christ: My patient endurance attains to all things. I never gave up because I knew something beautiful can always be made from torn veils. Now, look:

Daughter: A window.

Christ: Yes. I want others to see this beauty inside you. The truth is I have shown them this beauty long before you ever came in this room. You are the last to see it but no matter:

You see this beauty now, you see me here with you now, I have you here now and

Whom God possesses in nothing is wanting,
Alone God suffices.

So, let nothing disturb you.

the best chicken in the world

2011-11-02T09:47:00.000-05:00

The best chicken in the world is served at a restaurant called Pollos de Alcala in historic Alcala de Henares, Spain. Heather and I discovered this place in Barcelona and we were delighted to hear they had opened one in the Comunidad de Madrid when we moved to Madrid in 2002.

I am staying with some friends that live just a walk away from this great restaurant so today we strolled over there for lunch and feasted to our heart's content. Here are a few pictures. (Heather, Meaghan and Nic: wish you were here with me to enjoy the food!)

marked by love

2011-10-25T19:21:00.000-05:00

We like our morning routine. Heather and I are creatures of habit and so are our kids. After breakfast, we pray and read Scripture together, then finish our preparations for the day: pack lunches, brush teeth, locate keys. Heather puts on her lipstick after brushing her teeth and then gives me a kiss on the cheek just before going out the door. Of course, this leaves her lip prints on my face.

It has happened on more than one day: I forget the red marks are there and I continue on with my day that way.

One day I showed up to work with the evidence of her kiss still lingering on my face. A colleague noticed it and said something to me about it.

Later, I wondered: Does my life exhibit the mark of God’s love so clearly? Have I become a gentler soul, more thoughtful and compassionate? When I speak do I curse or bless as if God’s kisses could be formed by my mouth? Are my eyes graced with the lenses of love?

Let it be, Lord. Let my life be marked by love.

donate boots for the needy in minnesota

2011-10-22T09:35:00.000-05:00

Winter is right around the corner. I live in the Midwest and I can feel the cold, brisk air already. I grew up in Minnesota, the state that holds the record for coldest temperatures in the United States. I remember stepping outside to go to the hockey rink down at the park when I was a kid; within seconds my boogers froze! Yes, it was THAT cold! I remember stepping into the warming house after an hour or two on the outdoor rink and I remember my feet stinging as they thawed out. The pain was so acute it would sometimes make me cry!

To prepare for the cold, this next week I'll take a box out of our closet marked "WINTER CLOTHES". It's a big box. It's stuffed with sweaters and coats. And, in the bottom of this box, I have a pair of nice boots to keep my feet warm and dry as I trudge through the snow. For most Midwesterners, coping with the bitter temperatures simply involves unpacking a box like this or rearranging their closets or making a trip up to the attic or down to the basement.

But put yourself in someone else's shoes now, literally. What if you happen to be a Minnesotan and you don't have a life like this? What if you are, literally, homeless. That's right: no closet, no attic, no basement, no storage space. And no box labelled "WINTER CLOTHES" and, of course, no boots to wear.

What if, instead, all you have are a pair of beaten up, old tennis shoes? Or worse: a pair of slippers? I have literally seen this, by the way. An old homeless man trudging through the snow (yes, snow!) in slippers because he didn't have any boots to put on his feet--until a group of people took it upon themselves to wash someone else's feet by donning them with some nice boots.

Early December last year the church I serve as a coach for called Communitas Twin Cities supported an initiative spearheaded by Jesus Delivers (now called Mobile Action Ministries) to provide boots for some friends without homes just outside the Dorothy Day center in downtown St. Paul.

Here's how it works: people like you and me donate money to Mobile Action Ministries so they can buy truckloads of boots to give away the beginning of December, before winter gets extremely harsh. (By the way, when I say "truckloads" I mean it. Last year at least 240 people were given a pair of boots.)

By mid-November they need to place the order. Homeless folks are signing up for free boots now and Mobile Action Ministries is taking down their boot size so they are sure to have the right size on handout day. But they need to know how many they can order, so this is where your generosity comes in:

The boots are 42 dollars each. If you'd like to donate a pair of boots (or two or three pair!) simply mail a check to...

Communitas Twin Cities
749 Bellwood Ave
Maplewood, MN 55117

make checks payable to: Mobile Action Ministries

All gifts are tax deductible.

To see some pictures from last year's event, click here.

To read more about last year's event, click on these links.

Boots for the needy
Loaves and fishes and boots

defacing god

2011-10-20T06:31:00.000-05:00

Let’s deface God, shall we?
Airbrush him nice n white;
make his words terse and his lips tight.
Parse his poetry in numbered verse,
change his colt to a dry bone hearse.
Hold the freckles, please.
No, he doesn’t sneeze.
Put him on a throne in some distant clouds.
Wrap him in a shroud then shout loud
Hosannas to a god who
exchanges burlap for lace
and trades justice for grace.
Erase his race and run
at your own pace.
Call him a rat,
reduce him to a gnat.
Say he is but Force
or Energy,
Source or Synergy.
Use him to serve your own end.
Call him anything but what
he calls you: Friend.

defacing god
by troy cady

go for broke

2011-10-19T16:25:00.000-05:00

We cannot maintain the status quo and expect to live more fully under God’s reign at the same time. Jesus upset the status quo in his day and if he would be Lord of our lives today he would still have us change direction.

We cannot expect to remain comfortable and follow Jesus. Yes, he comforts us--but that does not mean he makes us comfortable. In truth, there is no real comfort in mere “comfortable.” Excess of ease kills the spirit of adventure intrinsic in the Way of Jesus.

To make “organized religion” our desired goal is to live something other than the life Jesus proclaimed and embodied. We would have our spirituality packed neat and tidy in a box so as to keep it maintained to a “reasonable” commitment each week. We would have our church services timed to between 67 and 74 minutes. We would have our bulletin error-free and our times of communion well-run. In such an instance there is, in fact, very little true communion. We would also minimize silence in our services so as to keep everyone on our carefully constructed tracks. Goodness knows if we leave time for people to think for themselves they just may hear something wild from God’s goose and take it into their heads to follow the leader away from our roost.

Do we want “religion within reason”? If so, we cannot want the way of Jesus for his road is far from reasonable. He says, “Take up your cross and follow me.” If we can make sense of such a command there must be something askew in our brain. What he asks us to do (and what he himself leads us towards) is the least sane alternative presented us. All other options are more comfortable by comparison for one cannot risk more than one’s very life. It is to unreserved abandon Jesus calls us.

Let’s face it, our tidy church games are attempts to control make-believe. They are far from the role plays of children who invest themselves in their parts fully and willingly. Let us stop “playing church” as grownups do and let us begin to “play for keeps” as young ones do. Go for broke; all in.

coverall Jesus could fix my car

2011-10-16T14:43:00.002-05:00

To think Jesus’ messianic career commenced when he became an adult is a mistake. Too often I think of Jesus’ primary ministry in terms of those actions and sayings with which we are most familiar when he was all grown up: his baptism, temptation in the wilderness, teachings and miracles, death and resurrection.

But we mustn’t forget his childhood and maturing years. If we understand this rightly, we come to realize his messianic career was activated in obscurity. Before he ever announced at synagogue the fulfillment of Isaiah 61, he had already announced through the secrecy of everyday life the in-breaking of God’s reign. This has profound implications.

I have a theory concerning why we often overlook Jesus’ “secret years”. It is partly because there is so little written about these “secret years” but I am convinced it is mainly because we have a harder time accepting the humanity of Jesus than his divinity.

When the Bible tells us “Jesus grew” we often miss the scandal of such a statement because we too quickly use such a notion as an object lesson for our own children in spurring them on in their maturation. But, if we say that Jesus is God and then in the same breath say “…and God grew” it should rightly warp our pea-sized brains.

Each day I write a prayer and post it online in hopes that others will join me in my prayer. There have been one or two occasions when, believe it or not, someone has taken issue with the content of a prayer I have written. In every instance, the so-called “offending prayer” had its origins in the humanity of Jesus.

Some time ago, I wrote a piece on my own struggles with this. And, just today, I clicked on a link for a popular Christian blogger (who I will not dignify with a link in this post) that sounded off on this issue through a “book review” (of sorts). The book review was aimed at poking fun of a recently-published title by another Christian author. The blogger simply cited a passage from the book and noted that the passage itself was “parody” enough.

And then I read the comments—all 146 of them. Discounting a handful of comments on a separate matter introduced into the thread, almost all of the comments echoed the mockery of this book that was being "reviewed".

To be sure, the writing sample referenced in the book was pretty cheesy, but the level and tone of mockery in the comments quite alarmed me. (“Is this the Spirit of Christ?” I wondered. “Would Jesus mock this poor author in such acidic terms?” Many of the comments opined that publication of books like the one in question were why Christianity was so poorly regarded by many—but I couldn’t help but think that such unmitigated mockery and pathetically shriveled spirits were to blame. How petty!)

Because the comments were so forceful and sarcastic, I wondered why there would be such a strong reaction. Surely, mediocre writing technique should not elicit such intense responses. A yawn would have been more appropriate. But, such biting mockery? Really?

And then it hit me: most of the comments took issue with the portrayal of Jesus as someone who identifies with us. Yes, the passage cited seemed pretty hokey, but we must realize that if Jesus is only a God who lives in unapproachable splendor, light and (so-called) glory, he cannot be our Savior nor our Lord.

The saving grace of Jesus lies precisely in his identification with us, his solidarity with the nobodies of this world. His grit and grime humanity shows the lengths to which he went to bring us back into a relationship with him.

We prefer contemplating Jesus on his throne, seated at the right hand of the Father, poised to come on the clouds of heaven, riding a white horse with a trumpet whose blast has enough power to peel our eyelids back. Even our portrayals of a crucified Christ seem sanctified: I have never seen him pictured with his penis showing—as it most certainly was after that final garment was divided. How humiliating! What’s more, the Jesus of our crucifixions almost always has a look of platonic metaphysical serenity on his white face. This is perhaps the largest sacrilege.

Even portrayals of his birth are unnecessarily other-worldly. To say that the star guided the wise men to Jesus’ place of birth is not to say it shone down on his cradle in the same way a spotlight shines on a stage celebrity. The wise men presented him with costly gifts--one of which underscored that one day this Messiah King would die. Costly, indeed.

After his resurrection, Jesus continued to identify with us yet. Why else would two disciples spend the entire day with him, walking on the road to Emmaus, talking with him about (unbeknownst to them!) himself (!)? How else could they miss the God in him? Well, he identified with them. This is the good news.

Yes, God plays hide and seek to draw us close to him. The glory of God cannot be found apart from the humanity of Jesus. To say that God became human is to make a statement of his incredible, surprising glory. It is a glory that is hidden. In fact, the glory of God is the love of God. What’s more, the glory of God is not found in some distant, sitting-on-a-throne-of-gold, coming-on-the-clouds-of-heaven Unmoved Mover. He is not primarily a hypostatic union but we prefer our God sterilized and sanitized. As long as he remains distant, he can’t smell our bad breath and bear our stammers and befriend us all the same.

The good news of the kingdom of God is that God dwelt among us. It is that God dwelt among us. It is that God dwelt among us. It is that God dwelt among us.

We read over the words “we beheld his glory” as if we’ve just read the side notes on a milk carton. We fail to realize the wonder of such a phrase for God’s glory is not something we humans can “behold” and expect to continue breathing. But, in Jesus, the glory of God is revealed to us in the form of a man who may have had stubby fingers and knobby knees. He grew tired, just like us. When he was a child, he likely played in the mud. Were he a resident of Chicago, he might wear a Cubs cap and nibble on some popcorn or devour a ballpark frank. Instead of a carpenter, I could run into him at the car repair shop. He might have grease under his fingernails and wear coveralls. He’d know how to replace the tie rods on my car. It is this Jesus of Nazareth that scandalized the Pharisees and it is this same Jesus that scandalizes us today, apparently. “Who is he? Just the son of a carpenter. The bastard child of a teenager. And he says he’s God? God does not wear a pirate hat, especially as a joke.” Uh, Pharisee, don't look now but Jesus has sweaty pits. Sorry if that makes you blush and runs counter to your ideas of God--but not too sorry. Get over it. If you do, you'll be saved.

That's because the advent of Jesus tells us that what makes God God is his ability to become something he isn’t--whereas what makes us human is our insistence that God stay where he is: high in the sky by and by.

Let’s get real about God. After all, he got real for us in Jesus.

The kingdom is at-hand, immediately accessible. If Jesus is not Lord of the bowl of cereal I just ate, he is not Lord of anything. God is in the details and “Christ plays in 10,000 places”. He blessed each place and called it good.

how God breaks his own commandment

2011-10-15T07:26:00.001-05:00

The scandal of the Christian faith becomes apparent to us when we realize God breaks his own commandments.

He first tells us that we are forbidden to shape him in any man-made image or form--and then turns around and does precisely that in the person of Joshua.

Yes, “Joshua” is a better translation of Jesus’ name (literally, Yeshua) than our word “Jesus” because the word Jesus now suggests to us the idea of “divinity” whereas in Jesus’ day his name rather suggested that he was just a carpenter from the backwater town of Nazareth—the name Jesus was as common as George and Joshua and Ron and Bill are to us today. So, I use the name Joshua instead here to emphasize the gobsmacking truth that God became a person, a human! If that truth doesn’t cause our mouths to open in wonder, we either have a broken jaw or we simply do not understand the surprise of such a truth.

And here’s another scandal: this same Joshua breathes on his imperfect followers in imitation of the creation story where God breathes on the first human, animating the dust from which Adam had been formed. Just as Adam and Eve were made in the image of God by such breath so Joshua remakes in us the image of God that had become broken through disobedience and indifference. He does this by his breath. And after breathing on his followers and commissioning them, Joshua leaves the task of embodying God to us. Again, let us not forget, it is this same God who has commanded us not to make him into a human form. (Does this sound confusing? Well, I shall leave it that way because it should addle our brains—and hearts.)

The scandal of the Christian faith is that this breaking of God’s commandment forms the very essence of such faith. It is not just another sidebar. If we fail in this, we cannot call ourselves Christian, for to be a Christian is to be a “little Christ.” Joshua who is God invites Tammy, Kevin, Kim, Jessica, Vivian, Carole, Theresa and Earl to embody God in a world that would content itself with no god.

Because of the magnitude of such an honor, let us do so with utmost humility.

he knows how to ride this wave

2011-10-03T08:01:00.000-05:00

--for Scott, my friend

He had a certain feeling some weeks ago. Call it a spiritual nudge.

“Do what you love.”

…………………………………….

On Sunday he began complaining of headaches. They persisted on Monday and Tuesday.

On Wednesday he began losing balance and forgetting familiar names.

They took him to the emergency room.

…………………………………..

He had grown up athletic: surfing, tennis, sailing, biking, running.

He is a gifted musician, writing original songs, playing the guitar and piano.

He is a born leader: when he walks into the room, people pay attention--a truly large man in body and soul.

Once, in southern France, I had the privilege of being on a retreat with him. We worshipped God together and laughed till we cried. He cleaned my clock in spades or some game I’m trying to forget. It must have been hearts.

He is a pioneer and made a habit of thinking “yes” when too many others defaulted to “no”.

He grew up a Christian Scientist, till one day God sent a piece of paper fluttering across his path on the beach.

You can call it a coincidence but he knew it was God speaking to him, calling him out of faith in shadows to trust in substance. Ever since then, he grew accustomed to catching wind. Grabbing hold of the sky changes the way you walk on the earth.

……………………………………………………………..

In Italy, he kept worshipping a God who denied him residency. Confusion.

“Didn’t you call us here, God?”

Silence.

“Why don’t you answer?”

Eventually, he had to leave. Sometimes, goodbye feels like dying.

………………………………………………………….

Goodbye to Italy meant hello to Portugal. Soon after, a daughter with her husband moved in down the road. Grandkids! What joy!

While there, seeds that had been planted in Italy began to take root. Promise emerges when ploughs cut deep.

After a season of adventure in Portugal, he returned to the States with his wife while daughter and family moved elsewhere. Another goodbye.

One day, a few weeks ago, another breeze blew by. His sails, as usual, were hoisted and turned the right way.

“Do what you love.”

There’s a wave coming and you can’t outrun it. It’s a big one, but you know how to ride it.

…………………………………………………….

The CAT scan Wednesday revealed a subdural hematoma. Bleeding beneath the skull.

An operation on Thursday, followed by a ninety-second seizure and a ventilator; the surfer confined to bed, the singer short of breath.

……………………………………………………

Eventually, he gave a thumbs-up and could breathe on his own again.

And he’s finding his voice.

First, some humming. Then, some tears.

He’s walking again and playing the piano.

And he remembers what God told him not long before these hospital days: “Do what you love.”

Indeed. Yes and amen. I believe he will.

With God in his legs and under his feet, he knows how to ride this wave.

the night sky's history

2011-10-01T07:31:00.000-05:00

This poet went packing in
thin-souled shoes
looking for mere fair news,
paperchasing
frightened tigers
as if reading
were knowing.

Hence fled this skinned lamb
meant for The Lion’s hand.
Gone, his color,
long paled;
failed his own Hailed Mother.

Whence spring crisp hopes
like children skipping ropes?
Yet laugh as starlight
delights wide eyes
and bid goodbye to past sighs
for the night sky’s history
and the pregnant sunrise is
tomorrow freed.

the night sky's history
by troy cady

why i number things

2011-09-30T06:32:00.003-05:00

I was a member of the debate team in high school. Among other habits I picked up through that experience, one that endures today is the practice of numbering. Let me explain:

1. I find that numbering helps keep someone’s attention because they feel the thought-process is going somewhere.

2. Numbering helps me stay organized.

3. Numbering helps me and others remember things.

And, last but not least…

4. Numbering makes my wife’s eyes roll and I do love seeing her eyes roll, especially when I’ve managed to infect her with the habit of numbering.

Yesterday morning my 11-year-old son did it; numbered in a sentence.

“First of all…Secondly…”

My wife laughed and pointed out I had successfully infected him now, too.

My daughter rolled her eyes and asked in a respectful tone, “Why do you always number?”

I replied: “Number 1: I don’t. Number 2: it’s fun.”

Number 3: the end.

a near-heretic raises eyebrows again

2011-09-29T17:05:00.001-05:00

We started a church in Madrid called Oasis some years ago. In 2006, we completed a document that formed the basis of the church. Among other things, this document aimed to give those interested in joining the church a sense of "who we are" and a good idea of the convictions that make Oasis unique.

One of the themes presented in the document dealt with convictions about the Bible and our view of the authority of the Scriptures. Part of that statement reads like so:

"...the Scriptures possess a depth characterized by God’s infinite nature. Therefore, we need not say that each text of Scripture carries one meaning and only one meaning. We believe much can be gained through the application of different interpretive techniques, wrestling with the different “senses” of Scripture (its historical, literal, typological, allegorical, spiritual and moral/ethical sense). We believe each of these are valid, but should be used in humility, knowing that, though Scripture may carry many meanings, some interpretive viewpoints clearly lie outside the domain of orthodox belief. Once again, the community of Christian believers (both present and past) can guide us in ascertaining those interpretations which build true faith and those which contribute to the destruction of faith."

Well...I knew that portions of that would raise a few eyebrows, particularly the sentence which states that certain Scripture verses may carry more than one meaning at the same time. (Someone once told me: "You're the most orthodox heretic I've ever met!" Thanks, Victoria.)

Sure enough: someone asked about it just today. Here was my email response:

"Perhaps it's easiest to begin with an example:

Psalm 22 is both a psalm that meant one thing when David wrote it and another thing in reference to Jesus (when he quoted from it on the cross). Both meanings are equally true.

In fact, most of the psalms serve not only as prayers that apply directly to the situation from which they sprang but also as prophecies regarding the Christ who was to come. I encourage you to read Psalm 23 as a prophetic psalm referencing Jesus. It changes the way you view it. What's more, you discover that both meanings (non-prophetic and prophetic) can be equally true. So we needn't choose between one meaning and the other.

Christian historians talk about the various meanings of Scripture in these terms:

1. Its historic sense: what the Scripture meant to those it first addressed.

2. Its ethical sense: what we may derive from the text regarding how we should live.

3. Its theological sense: what we may derive from the text about God, his nature and work.

4. Its spiritual sense: what does this Scripture mean to me, spiritually speaking? For example, the story of David and Bathsheba warns me against the dangers of being idle (David should have been at war) but it also reminds me of what lust does to me if left unchecked. See how this one Scripture carries multiple meanings? And I haven't even yet got into the "theological meaning" concerning what the text says about God! All those meanings are equally true.

Some historic Christians also included an "allegorical" sense in Scripture. For example, Augustine looked at Scriptures that referenced an "ox" or "oxen" as allegories of Jesus, since one of the images of Christ as the Suffering Servant is the image of an ox--see Revelation 4:6-7. Here we see four living creatures:

-Lion = King of the Jews = Matthew's gospel.
-Ox = Suffering Servant = Mark's gospel.
-Man = Son of Man = Luke's gospel.
-Eagle = Son of God = John's gospel.

The point is: many times a literal piece of Scripture also has an allegorical meaning. Another example:

The Song of Solomon may be taken literally as a love poem between two human lovers or it may be taken allegorically as referring to Christ's relationship to the Church. Both meanings can be equally true. We needn't pick between one or the other.

Another example: if I say "apples are red" and you say "apples are green" both statements are true in that they complement one another. Some scriptures are like that: you can say one thing about a verse and another thing about that same verse and both things will be equally true.

(Not all things, mind you, are this way. For example, I couldn’t say: "This verse says 'Jesus is God'" and at the same time say, "This verse says 'Jesus is not God.'" Clearly one of those statements would have to be false according to the law of non-contradiction.)

In order to determine when a Scripture may have more than one meaning, the law of non-contradiction is a good law to employ. Beyond that, however, a good guide should be rules of faith (for example, the Apostle's Creed). The testimony of the historic body of believers keeps one from stepping into interpretations that are outside the bounds of orthodoxy. See below for some more guidelines.

That said:

When Jesus preaches the parable of the sower is it possible for both the seed and the sower to represent Jesus? Yes, it's possible.

When Jesus preaches the parable of the mustard seed, is it possible that he is both the tree that grows and the seed that was buried? Yes, it's possible. And we needn't quibble about which one is "right" or "wrong".

Most Scriptures have "layers" of meaning that can be explored year after year after year. This is why reading the Bible never gets boring. It is a book that reflects the very wisdom of God which, of course, is without limit. So we should never merely remain content with saying, "This is what that means and nothing else." We should, on the contrary, be studying Scripture such that we discover meanings we never saw before. If we say the Scriptures are "rich" we cannot also say we know that each verse means one thing and only one thing.

As a guide to keep one from error:

-All suggested meanings should be explored by the community of faith and, in particular, those with gifts of discernment. It is the body of believers (both historic and present) under the guidance of the Holy Spirit, that speak into possible "new" meanings and determine if such a meaning is orthodox or not. We see this modeled for us in the book of Acts when the apostles met to discern whether the gospel was for Gentiles or for Jews only.

-Scripture should be interpreted in light of other Scripture. For example, when Jesus says "Do not judge" how may we understand the judgment he pronounces on the Pharisees? Is he contradicting himself? Of course not! We do well, therefore, to ask "How may 'thus and such' be true while also 'this-over-here' may be true? In what way may we understand this rightly?"

-No teaching may contradict the summary of Christian faith as contained in the Apostle's Creed and call itself Christian. Use the creed as a guide.

-Augustine suggests also using "faith, hope and love" as a guide in determining the meaning of Scripture. If an interpretation contradicts the rule of faith, hope or love, it is not a Christian interpretation.

That said, I can interpret a verse one way and interpret it another way and still uphold the Apostle's Creed, the rules of faith, hope and love--and edify the church.

If you want to dig in further take a look at the packet I wrote called "Feeding on God's Word".

Hope this helps.

Let me know if you have any other questions, okay?

Sorry if the vision doc gets you all into trouble every once in a while. But not too sorry. :-) Honestly, it was written hoping that it would stir up discussion and raise a few eyebrows. If it ever stops doing that, rewrite it so as to prompt deeper thinking. :-)

Grace and peace,
Troy

corn maze

2011-09-28T19:24:00.000-05:00

Our landlady lives upstairs from us and she is the nicest owner we've ever rented from. The other day she saw a coupon for an outing to a corn maze just outside the city so she bought five tickets and treated us! She drove us out there and even bought us ice cream at Culver's on the way home. Thanks, Judy, for your kindness!

Here are some pictures from the outing. It was a beautiful day...

cubbies!

2011-09-18T21:02:00.000-05:00

We got free tickets to see the Cubbies play today so I went with Nic and his best friend from the school he went to last year. Following, a small photo journal:

Wrigley Field is truly a sight to see, nothing like it.

Nic was so happy his best friend from school last year could join us.

At one point we spotted some Star Wars characters on a balcony across the way. We moved to get closer to them and as we were walking over there, Darth Vader and his Stormtroopers walked right by us! Nic was so happy!

Wrigley Field is also known as "The Friendly Confines." A shout-out to its classic historic character...

It began raining, but we were true Cubbies fans and stuck it out!

At the bottom of the eighth with two outs, Carlos Peña steps up to the plate. The Cubs are down 3 to 2. We need just one run to tie and we already have a man on first. It's raining pretty hard at this point, but Peña knocks one into deep left field. It hits the yellow bar on the fencing that juts out from the back wall not too far from where we were sitting (see the "Friendly Confines" picture above...). The third base umpire rules Peña's hit a home run. HOORAY! The Cubbies are now up 4-3!

Some moments pass and the two runs are taken off the scoreboard. Apparently, a video review was called on the play and the homerun call was overruled. The Cubs manager argues with the umpire over the miscall and gets himself thrown out of the game. So, now the Cubbies are left with a man on second and a man on third--still one run down. The next player up pops one into shallow right and the inning is over.

After that, the umpire called for a rain delay. The infield is covered to keep it from turning to mud.

About an hour later, play resumed and the Cubbies lost. :-(

We had a blast, all the same. Today, I'm thankful I could take my son and his friend to a time-honored tradition: baseball in America.

predawn sunset

2011-09-16T08:04:00.000-05:00

You don’t hear live jazz in Bronzeville much these days, though at one point in history Bronzeville was the place to go.

The old Sunset Café is now an Ace Hardware on 35th Street. Today, a desk sits where jazz greats of old like Louis Armstrong once played. The wall mural that served as a backdrop to the likes of Dizzy Gillespie, Charlie Parker, and Nat “King” Cole is still there but the only music that accompanies the visual motif now comes through the radio.

Nearby, the old standbys White Castle, KFC, Popeye’s and McDonald’s wrangle for fast-food supremacy in the depressed neighborhood. Just down the street stands a strip mall. There’s talk it will be leveled and a better shopping center put in its place but that has been promised for some time now and the powers-that-be have yet to make good. Kitty corner to the Ace stands BP, an oil-spill company in the midst of an oil-spill community trying to reclaim the land.

Walk a half block east from Ace and you come to a broad street; there are three lanes in each direction divided by a wide, grassy median. The street is not as busy as one would expect for such a large boulevard. It is Martin Luther King Jr. Drive (or simply “King Drive” as the locals call it). Running a north-south trajectory, it spans the entire length of Bronzeville and then some. Like its namesake, King Drive dominates the grid in a grand yet gracious and dignified way—you can’t miss it. King Drive orients Bronzeville’s people like Dr. King oriented many so long ago. The sidewalks on either side of King Drive contain plaques embedded in the pavement intermittently. The plaques are testament to many African-American giants that are connected to Bronzeville’s past: poets, novelists, activists and musicians.

Just north of the library on King Drive’s west side sits a building with a café in the lowest level: Noah’s Ark café. Take a few steps down off the street into this café and you would swear you’d just entered the real Noah’s ark at the end of her voyage: the place is a shambles, as if a world full of wild animals had just had run of the place. It is dark and there are huge holes in the walls; electrical wires dangle beside old black cast-iron pipes; insulation peeks through the ceiling, as if a surgeon has opened up a patient and we can now see the patient’s insides. The coffee tables would make good firewood but little else. The curved coffee bar is tired, like a diseased elephant on her side, ready to die.

But here in this limping place a jazz band plays, smooth and live. They are anything but near-death. Here we have a grinning drummer, a keyboard player, a swaying bassist and a young man in love with his saxophone. And they are smiling, improvising. Just when you think the song is over, they surprise you with another round of the cadence—much like the neighborhood.

My friend Ronnie has brought us here to share a dream with us. He meets us out on the sidewalk and, as we are chatting there, we meet a homeless man named George. I was unsure how to look George in the eyes, since both of them seemed akimbo, if fixed. One eye focused straight and up while the other looked to the right. As George approached, he was holding a White Castle cup in his left hand and his right hand contained four or five onion rings with his thumb through the middle of them all. He wore a necklace with a crucifix on the end and he told us in the course of our conversation of John 3:16, the bread and wine as symbols of Jesus’ body and blood--and of his belief “in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.”

Every so often, George would get stuck on a consonant but push his way through the rest of the sentence as if determined to make himself understood: he just wanted a sandwich, something to eat, no money. He wasn’t like “those other guys” who “only take money.”

“All I want is a sandwich, somm-mmmething to eat.”

Another homeless man named Mark came out of the café around this point and Ronnie explained that the new owner of the café was allowing Mark to stay there while work was being done. As Mark rode off on his bike, he reminded us of the time but we would only be there till eight so Mark would have his temporary home back for the evening.

After a while, we entered the café. Ronnie instructed each of us to watch our heads as the threshold of the door was a bit low.

As we toured the small space Ronnie explained his dream: imagine a café by day that transforms itself into a jazz club at night. Bronzeville’s residents always have to go to other neighborhoods for something like that. It’s time this sort of thing came home again.

The new owner is a Vietnamese man. He is overseeing the remodeling of the café, hoping to resurrect it as a viable place of business. Construction supplies are lined up along the walls of the space: drywall, mud, metal corner strips, screws. The prospect of a remodeled café is a welcome addition to the community as it will provide jobs and a comfortable hang-out space, both of which are in short supply in Bronzeville.

Ronnie has been speaking with the new owner about some dreams for the space. Because of this, the new owner has invited Ronnie to be a partner in the café’s reopening for business. Ronnie has a heart for racial reconciliation and, because of a significant Asian presence in Bronzeville, has always desired to reach out in friendship to his Asian neighbors in the midst of a predominantly black neighborhood.

Discussing the remodeling of the café with the owner, Ronnie shared an idea on an element of design: change the space’s square columns into round shapes. At that, the owner perked up: he told Ronnie that in his culture square corners are considered aggressive—much better to round them off.

That got them both to thinking: what if they reopened Noah’s Ark café as a venue that featured an Asian-African fusion through various facets? They could knock out some blocks in the exterior wall, put windows in place and create an Asian garden which patrons could appreciate while sipping coffee indoors. And, they could feature jazz music as a cultural testament to Ronnie’s African-American heritage. In fact, since the old Sunset Café was now no longer in existence, they could call the remodeled café “Sunset” in hopes of restoring that which has been lost to this still-loved community. Even the kind of food offered could point towards reconciliation and restoration. And they both agreed that a good business gives back to the community, literally giving away at least ten percent of its income in charity. This café would truly be a place of blessing.

I believe the Sunset and these two will sow shalom—which, to this community (and to any neighborhood this side of eternity), makes present a piece of not-yet heaven. Far from the end of its day, this café is getting ready to rise above the horizon, a renewed light in a dimmed place. The sunset shall become a new sunrise in this tiny ark that can shelter drowning souls from the rain.

small ends

2011-09-13T06:35:00.000-05:00

We had a few empty flower pots, so Heather used two of them to plant some basil. I love the simplicity of it: a small clay pot, some black dirt, tiny seeds, water, sunshine. We have a nice ledge with a large double window above our kitchen sink, the perfect spot for morning light.

Once she decided to grow something, it was a simple matter to begin: get your hands dirty and wait. She knew such a small gesture would work, but I had my doubts. See: we’ve never been good at keeping plants. They tend to die on us so we’ve never had many in our home. But Heather believed.

We have kept the soil moist and have simply waited, letting the sun God do his work.

Some days ago, some tiny green shoots sprang from the dirt, bright green standing hopeful against the rich, dark soil, life raised upward as if in free, young praise.

We worship a great God, a God who would make tiny seeds, buried in earth, break and grow.

So, why do we despise small beginnings when even a small ending is miraculous?

only God

2011-09-12T06:40:00.003-05:00

Only God,
maker and source of light,
sends his Son,
Very Light of Very Light,
lightly into the sneering darkness,
hides himself crouching under a
used basket
three decades
in that still small place
most have never been to.

Only God,
whole and deathless,
sends his Son,
Very Life of Very Life,
to be broken and killed.
Imagine—if it could be—
a humble Goliath
slain by a selfish Saul
or David’s anointed head chopped off
with a mere pointed curse.

Only His Royal Highness
could ever stoop so low
for his descent
stands in proportion to his height--
he became the lowest
because there is none higher.

Only God,
the perfect, spotless one,
would become sin for me,
this hollow cave,
yet dirty and dark,
cold and lonely.

I am that deformed leper
naked and diseased;
He is that hand that believes
enough to love
even me,
enough to touch
even me.

Why would he do this?
Because only he is God
who is love.

only God
a poem by troy cady

why nonsense makes sense

2011-09-10T18:43:00.000-05:00

We so often get life backwards. What we deem essential, God deems peripheral; and what we consider foolishness, God sees as central.

Why else does God anoint David king and then make him wait 20 years? It runs counter to everything we think. When we elect new presidents their transition to office takes weeks, not years.

Nonsense has meaning and tomfoolery is no foolishness. Goofing off has as much place in the kingdom of Jesus as prayer.

Playfulness and humor remind us: don’t take yourselves so seriously! There is a God whose very nature is joy and knowing him draws full-bodied laughter.

Clowns are saints with painted red lips. They remind us we are human and teach us to delight in such. We know they are sent from God because God wants us to be human—otherwise why would he have become human himself?

Joking is no waste of time. Underneath the punch line is a message that says, “You and I are free to enjoy life.” Laughter is a release, truly. If the devil would deceive us, he would do it by training us to take ourselves too seriously.

Enter into the joy of the Lord.

autumn remembrance

2011-09-05T21:33:00.002-05:00

It is Labor Day, the end of summer. We have had our long-time friend Lucy visiting us these past few days. It has been a true blessing to see her again. She has known Heather since Heather was just a kid and I got to know her when we lived in Colorado Springs, before we moved to Europe.

We put up some blinds in Nic’s bedroom on Saturday, so Heather decided to put up some curtains in his room to accent the blinds. While we were at it, she also decided to put up some curtains in her office nook. She and Lucy went to the fabric store and picked up some nice pattern for Nic’s curtains and a pattern for her office. She got enough material to re-upholster her desk chair and cover her bulletin board so her entire nook is filled with polka dots now.

Lucy did the sewing for all the curtains and today she showed Meaghan how to make chocolate chip cookies.

When I came home from work today, the house was decorated for autumn. We have some nice candles in our nonfunctional fireplace now and the sideboard in the dining room is decked out in earth tones, while an autumnal runner graces our dining table.

Lucy has been storing some memorabilia for us at her house in Colorado Springs ever since we moved to Europe. She brought a lot of it with her on the plane so we wouldn’t have to pay shipping costs. Among the items were a couple boxes of old photographs along with the wedding album of Heather’s mom and dad. I had a look through one of the photograph boxes on Saturday. In it were pictures I had taken in high school and some others Heather and I had taken in college.

The kids start school tomorrow and I have butterflies in my stomach for them. I remember those days when I was a student, that feeling in my gut the day before school starts. It’s a sense of anticipation, a stirring, a restlessness on the cusp of rest.

Heather and I took a nap this afternoon, relishing this last day before school, this last day with our friend Lucy, the crisp weather, the blue sky, our old windows in our cozy living room. When we awoke we had some nice fresh-baked cookies and a cup of coffee.

As I’ve grown older, autumn has become my season of memory: long walks by the lake among fallen leaves with the woman I have known for more than half my life, my only love. These days I also remember beginning high school, since Meaghan is in that same place now. I was a new-changed soul those days. These days I shall pray for renewal, an abiding fervor for the God of remembrance.

laughing and vacuuming

2011-09-01T17:33:00.000-05:00

We were cleaning the house today in preparation for a special visitor from out of town and I enlisted the ~~slaves~~ kids to help.

As I was mopping one room, Nicolas vacuumed another but he didn’t complain one bit. In fact, quite the opposite: as he vacuumed he told jokes to himself and sang various happy songs. Every once in a while, I’d hear him bust a gut with laughter. When the laughter subsided, he’d continue talking to himself or singing.

In parenting our children, we don’t always get our job right but in times like this I just had to smile knowing my 11-year old son had learned to find joy in his work. Truth be told, many adults would do well to learn that lesson, myself included. Thanks, Nic, for being such a good example.

meeting new friends

2011-08-28T20:14:00.000-05:00

There shall be days when
meeting new friends
will feel like
putting on soft, plain cotton
fresh out of the dryer,
when laughter comes
as easy as
sky to an eagle
and sadness comes
as hard as
flight to an ostrich.

There shall be days when
the breeze kisses your cheek
like a smiling bride,
when God meets you
at your bare foot in the cool grass,
healing those sharp cuts from
that dark road.

The world shall be home,
the quiet your bed,
the joy out of your head
and into your heart,
the science transformed into art.

The acting shall be playing not hiding,
the playing shall be loving not fighting.
No fright shall overtake you,
no ghost shall wake you
sweating at night
for there shall be no threat to light,
leastways no fret nor flight,
for the might of Christ
is greater than the spite of men.

There shall be tune and lyric
no one knows
but you and Jesus and these new friends,
though the song is unsung.
That day was and is and is to come today.

meeting new friends
a poem by troy cady

the silk underwear trauma

2011-08-27T15:14:00.002-05:00

A little while ago, I wrote about a humorous experience I had in a grocery store.

Well, it happened to me again just a couple days ago in that same store.

I was standing in line and happened to be looking at someone's butt. "It" caught my attention because I noticed the person in front of me was wearing his pants (that's "trousers" for you Brits out there) so low on his waist that you could see his underwear (that's "pants" for you Brits out there). Ahem. Anyway...

I had seen that before, but what caught my attention was the print pattern on his underwear. They were made of silk and they had pictures of pigs on them. With Santa hats.

Yes, the naked, pink pigs were wearing Santa hats and they were standing uniform against a black backdrop. I determined to make an extra appointment to see my therapist and...

That's when the weirdness started.

I looked up to give the person a look as if to say, "Pull your pants up, boy!" when I realized this was no "boy." It was, ahem, an old man with 7.8 tufts of long gray hair growing out his greasy, wrinkled skull.

I hope when I get old I'm hip like that.

I said a prayer for him and hiked up my shorts.

napping

2011-08-21T18:56:00.000-05:00

“Hello,” she said, “my name is Heather. Who are you and what have you done with my husband?”

It was five in the afternoon and I had just awakened from a 2-hour nap.

I hardly ever take naps, let alone for two hours. Is it any wonder my wife wondered what had happened to me?

Later, we were sitting down for a light supper and I said to her, “I think I napped like that today because I feel I can relax now.”

After twelve years of “Go! Go! Go!” in ministry, it has taken me a full year to give myself permission to let up. I feel God saying to me these days: “Stop. Just be still. You don’t have to do, do, do anymore. You can rest.”

It feels nice for a change.

laundry by quarters and dishes by hand

2011-08-17T08:31:00.000-05:00

In our early years we did laundry by quarters and dishes by hand, together. Yes, together. We have been together almost twenty-three years now, married for twenty to the day.

Two days ago I arose at 5 to pray. You were on my heart and lips. Though I knelt alone, I was not alone. Our Father was with us and you were asleep in our room. I lifted you up to God and prayed joy over you for you have given me joy. After praying, I opened the curtains to greet the light. We have old windows now and through the unbroken panes I saw the moon at dawn, full and pale, right in view. It took my breath away. I did not expect to see your face in the sky.

I turned, walked over the creaky floors to our room and kissed you gently awake, thankful.

Some time ago, a young co-worker leered at a woman passing by. He asked me: if I could have any woman at our store, which one would I have.

I replied that I was married.

He said that didn’t matter.

I said it did.

He asked me how many women had I had in my life…

You are the only one for me, darling. I would not have it any other way.

A little over a month ago we moved in to a new apartment. We do laundry by quarters and dishes by hand again. And I would not have it any other way--because it means we’re together still, like our new old windows, unbroken.

lilacs

2011-08-13T11:52:00.002-05:00

Let us go on, then, leaving these lilacs unclipped
for we shall return to this place
where the world is fragrant,
this space where your face
drapes my languid soul
like these violet flowers
cover those gray leaves,
where you and I whisper alone low
and I touch your hand
as a gardener regards a blooming bud--
gentle, silent, hopeful.

Take my tears, love, as a bouquet
given by nature for joy.
Extract some medicine from these petals
hanging heavy in spring.

Must we now leave the birds and breeze to rehearse their song together?
Why must we go? Their practice needn’t be closed. It is ours to enjoy.
If we must go, we shall take the percussion with us
for our hearts will never stop beating for the purple vision of the lilacs
left unclipped in God’s room where heaven is eternally fragrant--
and I believe one day
we shall return to stay.

Lilacs
a poem by Troy Cady

and my heart will grow strong by laughter

2011-08-10T13:00:00.000-05:00

We can play out the day different ways today. We choose to play.

He packs his bag: Frisbee, gloves, baseball, football.

I will take one picture.

We head out the door, making our way to a new park. It is bigger and better than our previous park, more trails to follow, more open spaces to play in, wooded.

He teaches me about bluejays and squirrels. One squirrel can bury 300 acorns a day.

He teaches me about oak trees. He asks me what type of bird that is—over there!

Speaking of birds, he knows a lot about pigeons and falcons. He delights in living things.

We claim a patch of land in the park and I teach him how to throw the football like a pro. The breeze is gentle and refreshing. The sun sighs. There is laughter across the large green field, little children playing soccer.

An airplane flies overhead, filled with many people traveling to make a deal, busy and worried with work.

We are throwing the baseball now. He likes the smack of the ball on his leather glove and remarks on it. He hopes he can learn to throw a curve ball someday but this straight on simple game of catch is just fine by me.

Later, he laughs as I take his picture. I say a prayer of thanks for this day with my son.

trust and words

2011-08-08T08:43:00.001-05:00

If God’s Word grows in me, my words invariably become fewer.

Do I feel the need to comment on everything I read in God’s Word? Too often, I do. Save me, dear Lord, from such self-centered compulsions. Let your Word grab hold of me before I presume to grab hold of it.

We all speak many needless words. I know this by personal experience. I am struck not by how much Jesus said, but rather by how little he said--and how simply he said it. How is it? The God of all truth speaks, at times, in obscurity—packaging the truth in simple stories and metaphors. Why is this? He could have explained many things to us by more direct means but it is only the Gnostic Jesus who writes a philosophy textbook.

Can I trust that the simple Word of God can seed an entire field? Yes, I can. But, will I? Will I play the part of common farmer, casting seeds without the need for speech, letting the seeds do their own work in each unique field? Will I let the fruit be His or will I insist foolishly that I made the seed?

admit limit

2011-08-07T22:52:00.001-05:00

“The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom,” says Solomon, a man known for wisdom.

I have never bothered to ask myself, “Why should this be? How is it that ‘fearing God’ leads to wisdom?”

I have read these words many times before, but it was not until today that I sensed the beautiful strangeness inherent in them. And I wondered what connects the premise with the conclusion.

To fear God is to admit limit. He alone knows when the sun's light strikes a certain crater’s west bank each day. He alone knows the second every new life is conceived. He alone can explain déjà vu. He implants dreams that come true and sends wind to disperse seeds in fields we’ve not seen. Next year, scientists will discover new species; he already knows they are there.

We are limited; he is not. The first step to 'knowing' is the realization that we do not know. To fear the Lord, therefore, is to begin walking with wisdom. Bowing and learning go hand-in-hand; humble prayer and liberating insight are close friends.

God speaks to us

2011-08-06T09:37:00.000-05:00

Yes, God speaks to us. If he does not, we would not be wise to follow him. It is true that sometimes it is hard for us to hear him, but maybe that is just evidence that we are not accustomed to listening. The truth is: we were made to commune with God. And he does speak to us. He may be speaking these very words to you right now:

“My precious child, I have given you so many wonderful gifts and abilities. I made you special and I delight in you. I know that you are not perfect. Do not be troubled by that. I love you just the same. And I am making all things new, including you.

“Each and every day, you have my grace. It attends you every step of your way. When you wake up, before your mind is aware of me, I am mindful of you. When you feel no one cares or sees you, I care; I see you. And I love you. How could I do anything but love you? I made you and I have redeemed you. You are no island.

“The world may not see your talents, but I see talents in you that you do not even recognize in yourself. Besides, I am greater than the world.

“If you do not know which direction to take, do not be in a hurry to decide. There is no reason to hurry. I am the beginning and the end. If you are in me, time is of no consequence. Just wait on me. One day, soon enough, your deliverance will come; you will know the way to go and you will walk in it, strong, because my Spirit will give you the strength to step.

“Right now, just love me because I love you and I gave my life for you.

"Just be silent now and stay with me.”

death of a 13 year old in bronzeville this week

2011-08-05T12:57:00.001-05:00

My friend Ronnie has just joined our mission, hoping to be a redemptive presence in his south Chicago neighborhood, Bronzeville. He and I are dreaming together what a vibrant community of faith would be about there. I'm privileged to walk alongside him in this. He's a truly insightful leader.

My home page on my internet browser is set to the Chicago Tribune. A few moments ago, the headline read: "$9,000 reward offered in boy's shooting." The place? Bronzeville, in a park not far from Ronnie's home.

Darius Brown, 13, was playing basketball on Wednesday with a group of friends in the park. A car drove by and shot into the group. Darius was hit in the neck and died, after stumbling around a bit.

On Tuesday, I drove through Bronzeville briefly with Ronnie, while we were on our way to another part of Chicago. We saw some police lights flashing and a scene that was hard to make sense of. I asked Ronnie his thoughts on the situation and he had some very enlightening perspectives on it, since Bronzeville is a place he's lived in for years and years.

How can the people of Jesus make a difference here? This is what I'm asking now.

The link to the article is here, along with these video reflections from some of Darius' friends.

the blessing of long-time friends

2011-08-03T20:58:00.000-05:00

Tonight we had the privilege of having dinner with a dear friend from our days in Madrid. Christine came to Madrid intending to stay only a short while but God had different plans in store for her. We had the privilege of baptizing her in the summer of 2008 and for almost the last two years she has served as an elder for Oasis, the last church we planted in Europe.

This past year has been, at times, disorienting for me. I am still trying to find my legs (I know, I know, that story is getting old, isn’t it?). A big part of transition for me has to do with finding my “fit”, my role. I am no longer a pastor, I am a former missionary, I have no formal role as a teacher anymore—at least in a week-in, week-out kind of way.

There is something encouraging in sitting down with someone who knows me in all of those roles. It did my heart good to have a relational reminder tonight of the gifts God has given me. Thank you, God, for the blessing of well-known friends.

learning from finches

2011-08-02T07:18:00.003-05:00

It is not wise to keep producing, producing, producing as if we have no limits and need no rest.

It is a pity that both the world-system and the religious systems we have constructed reinforce this practice of incessant output: Retail has turned into a 24/7 enterprise. The book title “Always On” speaks for itself. If you require further explanation, consider its subtitle: “How the iPhone Unlocked the Anything-Anytime-Anywhere Future--and Locked Us In.”

A prominent religious leader has published a book recently: “Your Best Life Now.” Before and after reading this “can-do” book we do well to contemplate what we cannot do. God’s grace always picks up where we leave off so let us let go of our reluctance to let go. Let us see the value of rest.

Our souls cannot bear the weight of “Do! Do! Do!” God even wishes the land on which we live a sabbath rest. He designed a Sabbath of Sabbaths. It is fitting that slaves are liberated on such an occasion. Let us see in our compulsion to perform-without-letup a form of slavery. If we have eyes to see this, why do we not lay hold of God’s proclaimed liberation as a true and lasting jubilee? Busyness is a disease that kills. If the enemy would destroy us, he need only keep us working.

We in the business of religion like our meetings in which we like to discuss (what we feel are) “pressing issues”. Lately, I have discovered that I ask myself afterwards: “To what end? Why do we concern ourselves with half these matters? Would it not be wiser to leave off our talking overmuch and turn these discussions into occasion for simple prayer, which is a way to rest in God? And why do I become anxious when we are discussing ‘burning issues’ when very little of what we discuss is truly ‘burning’? Learning to love God and love others, learning to make disciples, growing in our attachment to God—these are the things that really matter. How much busy discussion should this require? Why do churches and church leaders too often quibble over words and strategies? Is this not what the world system does in its tautological marketing?”

We become anxious because we must keep producing and we must keep producing otherwise we may become plagued with anxiety. In this way, anxiety and production go hand-in-hand. They are parasitic, co-dependent. We feel people demand some kind of production, that they need some kind of tangible product from us—but people do not need our ministries, they need God--and many of our ministries (let’s face it) try to serve as a substitute for God.

Let us give these games a rest. The only way out of the cycle of work-anxiety is the practice of rest, which requires the exercise of trust. So, let us trust that we can rest and the world will not disappear. Let us remember that we were designed to work, rest and play in proportion even as birds know how to gather, sleep and sing by nature. Let us recollect these instincts that enable us to truly fly free.

walk now according to the yearning you feel for Then

2011-08-01T06:36:00.001-05:00

You were made to see the promise sun rise.
Since it is doubt cloudy,
you may weep.

You were born to be hill filled.
As long as you are flat hungry,
you should cry.

It is good to mourn the lack
of a kingdom to come
as long as the great regent tarries.
All is not right.
This fallshort life is not yet
the fulljoy next.

You are not yet yourself.
Of course you feel ill-at-ease,
like you have yet to grow into your own knees.

Resolution requires dissonance.
These days are passing notes,
scaled to fit
and fade to C and see.
Until that chord, let the heart grieve as a requiem.

Will the world around resist this?
Is it unpermitted or unpopular?
That is just proof that you were made for another world.
Pay the world no mind
and know that He has you in mind
and He bids you incline
your heart to His fine time.
To do so
is to walk now
according to the yearning you feel
for Then.
Amen.

walk now according to the yearning you feel for Then
a poem by troy cady

a few things i'm trying to take to heart

2011-07-31T15:37:00.000-05:00

These past few weeks we’ve had the privilege of catching up with a few old friends on a few different occasions. As I shared with them about our transition back to the States, they shared with me some words of wisdom.

1. You need a sabbatical.
2. You need to rest.
3. Put your wife and kids first. Do what you do for their sake.
4. It is okay to have a stretch of time in your life when you are not on your “A” game.

So…this is me, trying to take these things to heart.

strange fire

2011-07-30T23:39:00.000-05:00

He is the only flame I know that both consumes and creates. Normally, sparks become fires but with him it is the other way around: he is the blaze that became a spark. Small Jesus lights a fire in those touched by him, and those fires, in turn, emit more sparks. He animates these sparks, imbuing them with properties they never had before. These little fireflies scatter, some near, some far, testament to a place of warmth in the wilderness, carrying the fire with them wherever they go. Some die young, others endure longer, some stay near, others are sent over mountains—but the fire is for everyone, they say, until they circle back to their source.

life in the big city

2011-07-29T06:47:00.000-05:00

A couple days ago, I had an "interesting" day in which I saw a couple "interesting" people doing some "interesting" things.

First, I saw an old woman buying a mess of duct tape; she was wearing a tshirt that stated proudly: “Happiness is yelling BINGO!!!”

Then, something even stranger happened.

I was standing in line at the supermarket and the woman in front of me was speaking on her phone—except she didn’t have a phone. Not a regular cell phone nor a hands-free dealie. Nothing. Yet, she went on talking and listening and talking some more as if she were talking with a real person on a real phone.

“Well, that’s what I was saying.”

(pause)

“No, I don’t think he deserved that. I don’t think he deserved that at all.”

(pause)

“I disagree. No, he didn’t. Okay, you’re right.”

(pause)

“That gum is sweet. A little too sweet for me, if you know what I’m sayin’.”

(It was around here I noticed she didn't have a phone in her hand)

“Thaaaaat’s the way to do it. Yes.”

(I thought: "What the heck???!!")

“I have plenty of coins. Enough with that goop!”

(The cashier noticed the lady did not have a phone.)

“It has been hot, but I have some good jeans so it’s okay.”

(The cashier gave me a look.)

“Well, I’m not sittin’ on the toilet, if you know what I’m sayin’.”

The cashier looked at me and smiled. We were both happy for the woman talking with her imaginary friend. This is, after all, life in the big city. Ahem. Something tells me the heat and humidity have knocked a few screws loose.

The woman paid for her things and exited the store calmly, still talking with her imaginary friend.

As she left, I thought to myself: “I should totally try that some time just to see how people look at me.” If I ever do, I’ll be sure to bring one of my kids with me and dress up like this:

why he tears you apart

2011-07-28T06:35:00.001-05:00

These are the days
when no one seems to notice
this heart poured out
only God sees
at times
melted as wax—
a little cooling
and you shall be hard again
in moments.
At times,
a frozen candle,
brittle and easily broken

and broken, shattered.

These are the days
when scripture is a phrase on the mind,
like a butterfly
fluttering,
elusive beauty,
gone but glimpsed.
A prayer whispered:
“Alight on this chrysalis,
monarch,
and remain a while
for I
think I
will never be free of this cocoon.”

So many dreams of
too many colors
but no coat of promise given--
just a canvas stretched
waiting in the corner,
torn and dusty.

Yet he takes tears,
tears you through
and through clean
and paints you
in fragments
and sews those pieces
anew into
wings.

But that is for another day.
Today, he has you wait and
sing,

low, unknown.

why he tears you apart
a poem by troy cady

john stott and our need today

2011-07-27T17:50:00.000-05:00

I just heard that John Stott died this morning. I don’t know why I should feel teary right now. It is not as though I knew him personally. I think it is because I lament the passing of a man who was, from what I could tell, a true model of grace and humility in Christian leadership. His passing has made me realize: “Men like him are too few these days. Too few, indeed.”

I wracked my brain, trying to think of those leaders today who could hold a candle to Stott’s class. Sadly, I could think of very few.

Too often our writers and teachers use sarcasm harmfully. Too often we employ excessive wit and incision, taking pot-shots at one another with unmitigated hubris. Too often our writers and teachers create unhelpful polemic in hopes of fostering “dialogue”. But how much “dialogue” really happens? Stott’s passing has made me realize that too often our Superstar Christians rely on charisma and style, leveraging clever forms of communication and wordsmithing (and publishing ploys) to propogate messages that are, by comparison…

…less-than-helpful,
…less-than-loving,
…baldly self-serving,
…far-from-thoughtful and lacking in humility.

I pray Stott’s life speaks loudly to us in these days. I pray that reflecting on his example imbues us with new-found dignity in our discussions and debates. I pray his spirit infects ours. We could sure use a dose of grace.

Lord, let us learn to follow in John Stott’s example, even as he followed the example of Jesus.

why brokenness and joy go hand in hand

2011-07-27T08:14:00.002-05:00

When we rightly understand the love God has for us, it is most fitting either to weep in joy or weep over our own brokenness. Either way, the love of God softens our hearts and a soft heart elicits a tearful eye.

Mere intellectual reflection on the love of God falls short of a right understanding of the love of God. To understand is to know first-hand, by experience. It is the kind of knowing that transcends language.

Theologian: begin your work with prayer and let devotion permeate every word you read or write. When you are finished, kneel in worship. Do not work out of anger and judgment; a bride does not become cross when she describes her groom. Your office is a privilege--do not taint it with a preoccupation to be clever, incisive or admired. Remember: the fingers that tap your keyboard were fashioned by an Artist-Father that drew your prints in his mind long before they were ever impressed on your skin.

Let all we do be for the love of God, as if he is right beside you—for he is there and he wants you to be his friend. He will always offer us his friendship, even when we ignore him. That is why we should be broken over our indifference and that is why we should be joyful always in praise.

the explorer's virtue

2011-07-24T09:06:00.000-05:00

Humility coincides with courage. It is the explorer’s virtue, calling you out of yourself into the wild mystery of another. It is a leap into an unknown world, decisive and selfless.

The Son of God leapt into our world to identify with us. (If the incarnation did not take courage, I don’t know what would!) This "leaping" is the essence of humility. The text in Paul’s letter to the church in Philippi says that such an act required Jesus to “empty himself.” If we are to practice humility, we must do likewise. Since humility is the practice of self-emptiness, it is not for the faint of heart. Indeed, it is the very power of God. Humility, therefore, coincides with courage.

the paradox of friendship

2011-07-23T08:15:00.001-05:00

True friendship presents us with an interesting paradox: it cannot exist without the marriage of trust and forgiveness. I cite this as a paradox because forgiveness implies the betrayal of trust. If I would never violate another’s trust, I would have no need for forgiveness; yet I know I have never shared a real friendship with anyone in which I never sinned against them. I am not flawless. I say or do things from time to time that injure even close friends.

When we practice full trust, we let down our guard. But doing as such is risky, for no human is perfect. They will hurt you from time to time. Yes, when your guard is down--when you are trusting--they will harm you.

And they will need your forgiveness. To grant forgiveness is to begin to trust again. To trust is to remain in friendship. Friendship diminishes in direct proportion to the raising of defenses.

Hopefully you will have noticed that the capacity to forgive and trust must come from a power that is higher than human. Since none of us are perfect, we do not possess the perfect power to forgive and trust. Such power can only come from someone who has never sinned. Of course, there is only one who has this power. His name is Jesus.

Read his story in the Bible and you will see that he was not only trustworthy (he never sinned) but he also granted trust to his friends as he invited them into his kind of friendship. He himself could do this because he trusted first in his Father. Notice: the trust he granted his followers (which, in turn, gave rise to their friendship) was of a second order—it came after his trust in his Father whom he knew would never betray him.

This is how Jesus could forgive and let down his defenses as he gave up his life on the cross. With his Father as defender, Jesus had nothing to lose—including his life. The resurrection proclaims this.

Trust in God, therefore, bolsters human friendship--for in God we have both a friend that never fails and a friend that always forgives.

Let us learn to trust. Let us be ready to forgive. Let us be friends.

forgive without limit

2011-07-22T08:23:00.000-05:00

“But why should I forgive them after what they did to me? Again.”

The Christian seeks to forgive without limit because that is what their master Jesus did. And does.

To withhold forgiveness is to judge—and to judge another is to judge oneself for all human judges have failed to follow God’s perfect way perfectly. And we continue to fail.

How can I judge another when I myself fail others through injury or indifference? If I would ask the Master to forgive me without limit, I should also practice forgiving others without limit.

This is the hardest thing to do.

Call to mind that person yesterday. They greeted you with a mere emotional yawn. You can hold a grudge and return their rejection, mark for mark. Or you can exchange rejection for unconditional acceptance. Suddenly, you are free. And so are they. The Good King reigns, truly. And the Fruitful Country becomes present here and now—there is no waiting for joy anymore.

When Jesus came announcing the immanence of the Kingdom of God he came announcing forgiveness at the same time. This is no coincidence. Where forgiveness is withheld the life of God is rejected. Where forgiveness is practiced the life of God pulsates, granting life to those whom such forgiveness flows from and to. Forgiveness is the heart of the Christian body.

What a radical departure from the world system of walls and retaliation! As soon as I read the words “forgive without limit” a flood of caveats invade my heart. “Yes, but…” I begin to think. “And we should keep in mind that if…”

“If…then” is a perfectly acceptable line of reasoning if the condition is no condition--for that is the kind of “if” God extends to us. “If you have rejected me, I have accepted you,” he says.

Let us do the same and we will see the end of this toxic strife.

grace is its own perfection

2011-07-20T08:21:00.000-05:00

One cannot improve upon perfection. So, why do we try to improve upon grace? Grace is its own perfection. It cannot be made more perfect; yet now I discover in me the constant compulsion to make it so by trying to earn God’s love. Why?

Listen: grace sets us free from guessing whether we are accepted by the God who gives grace. If we are freed by grace, we are free indeed. To strive for the freedom of grace is to place oneself in bondage all over again. Striving is less than freedom; we need but abide for he surely gives grace sufficient for the moment and more.

The excellence and perfection of God is the excellence of a master artist: it only occurs as the fruit of desire and pleasure—which is to say it stems from grace. Let us improvise and imagine—grace bids it. Let us not be afraid. Let us laugh in freedom. The order of perfection may look more like disorder than we imagine. The perfection of grace will not stand in rows unless such lines oscillate freely with music.

he takes after his mother, dontchyaknow

2011-07-18T16:23:00.000-05:00

Today was Silly Hat Day for Nic's day camp. I hope this makes you smile. I know it did me!

wonder, rest and love

2011-07-17T08:22:00.000-05:00

As we put on our pajamas and prepared for rest, the night sky flashed with lightning. At first I thought it was just a car with its headlights rolling by our room, but then another flash caught my eye and another and another.

I remarked on the coming storm to my son. His eyes lit up with delight.

He pulled the sheets and curled up, contented. He looked out the window silently, joyfully, his face rapt in wonder.

Gradually, he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

I awoke some hours later. The storm had worsened.

The boy was still asleep.

The long bus ride home the following day provided hours to think about what we were looking forward to most.

Nic said: “I just can’t wait to see Mom and hold her in my arms for a long, long time.”

Those who love well, rest well.

the backpack or "hmmm, this is an interesting situation"

2011-07-16T08:20:00.001-05:00

Nicolas has been enjoying a special treat this summer: a day camp that’s run by the Chicago Parks Department. Each weekday they have lots of fun activities planned. Nic has had the chance to go bowling (for the first time in his life!), swimming (three times a week!), and he’s gone on some other field trips, too. They’ve done art projects together, made tie-dyed t-shirts, and played lots of active games. Every day he has an absolute blast.

One activity they had planned involved a gift exchange. If someone wanted to participate, they simply bought an inexpensive gift for another boy their age and put it in a grab bag for another camper to draw randomly.

Nic bought a small Nerf gun to put in the exchange and he came away with a Slip ‘n Slide water game. He was happy.

When he was telling me what the other gifts were, however, he said in his “I’m-an-eleven-year-old-boy-and-I’m-incredulous” kind of way:

“And, Dad: guess what?”

“What?”

“Someone brought something that wasn’t even a toy! Can you believe that?”

“What was it?”

“It was a backpack! Can you believe it?”

I wondered if he thought that was a good thing or a bad thing, so I just said: “Huh.” Then, I figured out what he thought about it as he spoke his next words.

“Yeah. We were all, like, ‘a backpack’? Really? Wow.”

Oh, the trials of prê-teen gift-giving. I felt sorry for that poor boy who brought a backpack. What a schmuck.

*roll eyes back in head now and sigh heavily*

God will kiss you two thousand times

2011-07-14T23:14:00.000-05:00

This grief you feel is not equal to the grace that is God’s. If you weep a thousand tears, he will kiss you two thousand times for he has made the journey to sorrow twice over, by body and by spirit.

You may take your time for he has an eternity to love you, to wait in silent solidarity with you for final deliverance.

Do you wonder if you are forgotten? Listen: can a mother forget a crying child? Yes, you are hungry but just wait a little and you will see he is faithful, always faithful to fill your hunger. Cry out with faith.

the God of flowers that no one needs

2011-07-10T13:14:00.000-05:00

You are the God of all stuff
from fluff to tough skin,
from fins to swimming,
drooling kids.
You are the God of skid row,
flowing river,
forever running but never running out.
You are my house,
my spouse.
You swoon with the moon’s wane,
You created the horse’s mane,
You sow the forgotten field
that no one sees
with flowers that no one needs.
No tower stands but by your hand,
no king rules without your land.
You are woven in strings too small to see,
You are the tapestry inside of me.
I magnify you, Lord, but not really.

the God of flowers that no one needs
a poem by troy cady

these are my invisible tears

2011-07-08T22:33:00.000-05:00

These are my invisible tears;
none but myself, nor seer, nor peer
sees
these lost petals
in this deep field
of wild poppies
too numerous to count--
when such small slivers have fallen,
like dead peonies in the Amazon,
of no account in so great, so thick a jungle.
I’d sooner count the dew drops.

These are my hidden tears
bidding farewell to clear sight,
the eyes from which they drop
cannot see their number nor fountainhead.

Let me pretend to be someone else in front of others
so I may cry openly
with no awkward questions.

Lament shall be my secret hobby
until I find myself transplanted,
surrounded by that eternal garden,
a planting for the display of Your beauty.

Until then, do not count the hairs on my head
but the tears from my eyes
for they are as sparrows
and I am stripped in secret sorrow,
toe to crown.

these are my invisible tears
a poem by troy cady

cherry picking

2011-07-03T16:13:00.001-05:00

Yesterday we drove to Michigan to go cherry picking with some good friends. Afterwards, some of the kids enjoyed a pony ride and we all had a picnic. It was a fun day! Here are some pictures.

the eternal optimist

2011-07-02T06:53:00.000-05:00

One of the things we’ve given up in our move to a new apartment is a dishwasher. In our old apartment, I showed the kids how to load the dishwasher so they could help me out a bit with the dishes. Knowing that our new apartment would not afford us the luxury of a dishwasher, I decided to teach the kids how to do the dishes old-school.

When I got done showing them, Nic said: “I like doing it this way better, Dad!”

He explained: “With a dishwasher, you have to wash the dishes and then wash them again and then wait to put them away. This way, you just wash ‘em and put ‘em away right away. Done! Just like that. Easy!”

Ladies and gentlemen, meet my son, the eternal optimist.

Thanks, Nic, for teaching me how to count my blessings!

let me loose in a smack of color

2011-06-29T18:25:00.001-05:00

We bought a kite in Spain and have packed and moved it three times now. It is still unopened. You’d think I would have gotten rid of it by now, but I can’t find it in my heart to throw it out; the thought of such feels like killing hope. I hold on to it because it represents youth, joy, freedom.

So, why haven’t I opened it?

I don’t know. But here’s to hoping gifts from previous places are discovered, taken out and used. Here’s to a trip on the wind.

Tether me to God’s hand, and let me loose in a smack of color that draws our eyes upward, childlike.

put your name in this story

2011-06-28T08:27:00.000-05:00

He is my new neighbor. His name is Jim. He has lived here for about 12 years now and he takes care of the building. He speaks with a slight Chicago-city accent.

He notices we had a good amount of people for moving day. As we speak, he shares his story.

He worked for the city for 35 years. He has been "retired" now for the past two years and considers himself fortunate to receive a full pension for his many years of service. Just out of high school he worked as a laborer at the airport for seven years. After that, for the city's sanitation department for twenty-eight years. He worked in deep sewage piping. He had a team of five people and a truck that would go from site to site around the city, making sure Chicago's sanitation needs were met. Week-in, week-out, for twenty-eight years.

"I would've rather done something with my life like win an Academy Award or a Grammy Award but I have to say I do get satisfaction out of knowing I worked honest and hard for thirty-five years."

"And well you should feel satisfied. That's rare these days," I comment. "Good for you."

God knows and loves every name in this world, be it Barack, Sting, Madonna, Nelson, Gaga, Jim or Troy. Put your name in this story.

the day after boxing day

2011-06-27T08:19:00.000-05:00

It is the first Monday in our new apartment. The boy is taking his allergy pill now, I just dropped Heather at work and Meaghan is attending her first day as a high schooler. The school year will officially begin in September, but she is taking part in a program called Freshman Connection which is designed to prepare young people during the summer for high school in the autumn. As I looked in the back seat to bid her farewell for the day, she wore an apprehensive smile. I locked eyes with her, gently put my hand on her knee and wished her a good day.

"I'm proud of you, sweetie."

She smiled back more confidently, opened the door, put her light jacket on and lifted her hood.

It is raining lightly outside. I awoke before the alarm clock to pray. As the sound of traffic passed by below, I thanked God for simple blessings. New neighbors to love in Jesus' name. Scattered friendships, some old, some new, that helped on Saturday with the incident-free move. Financial provision. Friends that bring over food though they are dog-tired themselves. A son and daughter that unpack dishes. A wife that rearranges the living room and lifts couches though every muscle in her body is aching. A family whose belief in God and love for others remains unshakable. A wife to pray with in the morning.

"Christ, be a light, illumine and guide me."

"May he guide you through the wilderness."

I can borrow some of that belief for the day. After work, we will return to the old apartment to clean. We lived there for this first year back in the States. It has been a strange year in which we experienced the joy of feeling on our feet again mixed with the confusion of wondering just who God is shaping us to be. As I take in the still-unopened boxes around me in our new flat, I wonder just where everything will find a home. And I feel likewise, like Christmas in June--the day after Boxing Day.

i am still in transition

2011-06-18T08:27:00.000-05:00

One year ago today, I was still saying some long goodbyes to our friends and church family in Madrid. We had spent twelve years in Europe and now it was all coming to a close. It seemed hard to believe that in just eleven days I would get on a plane bound for Chicago. In itself, that was nothing remarkable; but this plane was different: it would not take me to a mere two-month furlough but rather to a whole new life.

Today, I am still adjusting.

I am so proud of our kids…They stepped in to a brand new school this year with dignity, confidence, grace and good humor. They made good friends there and were loved by all their teachers. Yesterday, as I picked up Nic from his classroom, I got a lump in my throat as he hugged his teacher and said goodbye to his friends. They all smiled and shouted enthusiastically, “Goodbye, Nicolas! We’ll miss you!”

Next year, both Nic and Meaghan will go to a new school, starting the process of adjusting to a new environment all over again.

I am proud of my wife…She, too, started a new job this year. She tackled the challenge of putting herself out there to look for a new job and she did it with joy and nary a worry nor complaint. She has taken well to her new work and has really clicked with her co-workers: they love her!

Now, we are getting ready to move house and, as usual, Heather faces the future with confidence and laughter.

This time last year, I never would have said: “The future? Hm, let me think: I suppose I’ll be working part time at Kmart this time next year.” Yes, I’m still adjusting. And I never would have planned that we would just now be settling in to a church we feel we can call home. And I never would have planned that our home would be filled with moving boxes once again. I am still in transition.

Here’s to singing on the move.
Here’s to prayer while walking.
Here’s to a Shepherd-God.
You can fleece me, Lord, if you will just assure me that you’ll always be with me and that one day, one day my coat will grow in again and I will be warm, warm, warm…with you.

dionysius and apollo

2011-06-12T08:32:00.000-05:00

I’ll be the dust
if you’ll be the light;
I’ll be wrong
if you will be right.

I am but cut grass,
you are the scent, last
when I would be first,
worse
when I would be better,
fetter
when I would be free.
I would be you
but you would have me be me.

I’ll either be light or heat;
these two never meet
in me.
You are the fire,
Dionysius and Apollo,
heart and mind,
diamonds unmined.
I am but feeling or thought
fractured, fined,
a peeled orange rind,
color but no bite,
seeing with no sight,
sea but no flight.
Be my thick and thin,
be my loss when I would win.
When I would laze, be my wind;
be my praise when I would sin.
Whisper grace—coax me out when I am in.

Dionysius and Apollo
a poem by Troy Cady

off the charts

2011-06-11T08:27:00.001-05:00

There is a pattern that becomes evident in a series of questions posed to Jesus the week before his crucifixion. It is recorded that different people approached Jesus to ask him questions that they supposed would set him up to misspeak.

“Should we pay taxes to Caesar?” The person who asked the question no doubt wanted a yes or no answer and, in that desire, hoped Jesus would give the wrong answer—and so they would have grounds to condemn him. But Jesus answers the question in a rather unexpected way.

“Whose wife will this woman be in the resurrection?” A man posed a scenario in which a woman had had several husbands in her life but no children. The specific scenario was a set-up, however, designed to distract Jesus on incidentals while trapping him in the question’s presupposition: that there is, in fact, such a thing as “a resurrection.” The question-asker did not believe in any kind of resurrection. Jesus answers him in a rather unexpected way.

“What is the greatest commandment?” This question does not seem like a “trap” to us, but it is. The religious leaders of Jesus’ day had inherited, in fact, a catalogue that encompassed more than the now-famous Ten Commandments. They had articulated no fewer than 248 affirmative precepts and 365 negative precepts--for a grand total of 613 precepts they were expected to carry out.

The affirmative precepts were commandments in which they were expected to “do” something. For example, “honor your father and mother” is an affirmative precept. It is something that, if omitted, harms self and others.

The negative precepts were commandments in which they were expected to “refrain” from something. For example, “do not murder.” It is something that, if committed, harms self and others.

These two types of “sin” have also been called "sins of omission” and "sins of commission.”

The numbers of each type of sin in this catalogue are equally encompassing. The number 248 was significant to the religious leaders of Jesus’ day because, it was believed, the same number was used to enumerate the parts of the human body.

The number 365, in a similar fashion, was used to enumerate the number of days in the calendar year.

The two numbers totaled together made the sum of 613. This number was significant because it was the same number of letters in the great Ten Commandments.

The hidden message? “You better make sure you obey every letter of every law with every fiber of your body every day of every year. If not, look out!”

Is it any wonder such a question as “which commandment is the greatest” appeared to those present as a trap? How does one go about answering such a question in such an environment?

“Perhaps,” we may surmise, “it would be logical to at least narrow the answer down to the great list of Ten Commandments. And, perhaps, if that is wise, it would be logical to narrow it down to the commandment that was regarded as first in that list: ‘You shall have no other gods before me.’”

The question that may be asked then is: “How does one distinguish between the first and second commandment which instructs, ‘You shall not make for yourself an idol.’?” Indeed, such a commandment seems to represent the practical side of the first commandment. As such, it too may be regarded as most important--for the commandments are intended to be practiced and followed.

And why not choose the third commandment? For if we keep the very name of YHWH holy we worship him according to the honor due him.

Or, how about the fourth commandment? “Remember the Sabbath day by keeping it holy.” Even this commandment alone set the Jewish people apart from all other people. This unique observance literally made them holy, it was believed.

I submit that, likely, most listeners that heard the question that was publicly posed to Jesus fixated on the first four commandments. Likely, they thought themselves wise and discerning, narrowing such an answer down to four possibilities out of a list of 613 possibilities.

And Jesus astounds them by going “off the charts”—literally.

The question I ask myself now is: “Why do I content myself with going back to the charts, if Jesus, whom I call my Lord, leads me off the charts into freedom, real freedom, audacious freedom—freedom that even death cannot master.”

“Love,” he says. “Just love.”

Beautiful.

Let us cease our penchant for straining gnats, for YHWH himself broke the third commandment by taking a name common to a small nation ruled by the Romans. And YHWH, the God who rested on the seventh day, later worked on the seventh day, breaking the fourth commandment. In taking on human flesh, he risked causing his followers to break the second commandment and he knew that, without love, it is impossible to keep the first commandment.

But, in love, it is impossible to break it.

Let us keep the new commandment: to love, just love. Let us keep it every day of every year with every fiber of our being. And let us keep it as if it is the only commandment we need remember. For, indeed, it is.

trifles

2011-06-08T18:38:00.000-05:00

We cannot seek God’s kingdom and our kingdom at the same time. When we seek our kingdom we serve only self. When we seek God’s kingdom we serve him by serving others.

Do I spend most of my time scheming how I may build career, reputation and notoriety? Shouldn’t I rather pour my heart into proclaiming God’s intrinsic fame? He alone deserves all praise. He alone created all things from nothing. He is the source of all good gifts. He holds all things together and grants breath for each moment. So why do I live out the better part of my days acting as if my life is merely mine?

Let us not trouble ourselves with trifles such as image, fame and credit. After all, these are passing fancies whose rewards fade quickly. Like a drug we then demand newer and greater doses. Before long, we have become addicted, “slave and master at the same damn time”. (I hope that word does not cause you offense; I use it in the classical sense).

There is only one way out of this predicament for either we are living for self or we are living for God. Lest you think there is a third option by way of “living for others” keep in mind that to live for others puts your feet on the path of living for God for such a road is God’s way.

Either we serve or we are served. May the reception of the latter flow out continuously towards the former. “Seek first the kingdom of God” and God will take care of the rest.

there is no reason to give up

2011-06-07T19:38:00.000-05:00

Don’t stop believing. Inspiration may come and go but that is no reason to give up forever. Inspiration will come back some day if it is absent today. Just wait for it and continue on like a pianist practicing scales. Keep yourself limber and ready for surely the shining moment will come.

Can you believe though you see no pathway to the peak? Yes, you can. This kind of belief is best known as hope.

Will you need to strip some things away from time to time on the way? Yes, you will. But, remember: you only need to let go of what you don’t need.

Will the way seem easy at times and then unexpectedly become hard? Yes, it will. But, remember: God will not allow you to be overwhelmed; he will not leave you alone in the midst of difficulty. It may seem more than you can bear but just when you need it he will be there by your side--cheering you on, helping you walk, entreating you to rest if rest is needed, carrying you when you can’t even stand.

Will you be overlooked by others? Will it seem at times you offer only those things others don’t want? Never mind, God wants you to keep giving others what he’s given you--even if others don’t see the value of it. He does, he does.

Don’t stop believing. There is no reason to give up forever.

six senses

2011-06-05T07:18:00.002-05:00

Our God chooses to make himself known through the sixth sense of hope these days. If we must have more concrete means of knowing whether he is both good and strong, he provides as such. The bread and wine taste like forgiveness; faith comes by hearing and hearing by the Word of God; abiding with Christ emits a fragrance as sweet and refreshing as fresh-cut grass. A joy-filled life is its own earthy, delightful incense. His Body gives more than a holy kiss—it offers a loving hug and a helping hand. This is not only touch, it is touching. Such are the paths of light by which a soul surrounded by darkness may see. And such is the sense of hope, by which a soul may breathe and dream.

keep dreaming

2011-06-04T07:56:00.001-05:00

There are so many things in perpetual flux these days.

Good friends are saying goodbye to Spain after many, many years of ministry there. The movers came, packed their boxes, emptied their apartment. Today, they have cleaned their apartment so they are ready to hand the keys back to their landlord tomorrow. Soon, they will fly away. A major chapter has closed and I find myself feeling teary with them--tears of joy and gratitude alongside tears of sadness.

A mother celebrates with her son who has just graduated from high school. He will head off to college on another continent soon. She went to bed late and was awakened early with thoughts on her mind and stirrings in her heart. How does one adjust? Like her, I find my mind these days whirling, because...

We, too, are still adjusting. For the record:

-We just moved here last summer after twelve years of living in Europe.
-We are planning to move house at the end of this month.

-Our kids started a new school last August.
-They will both start other new schools this September. My daughter: high school. My son: middle school.

-I started a new job in July; Heather started a new job in November and I started a second new job in April. I think it is safe to say we are still trying to find our legs.

-After years of serving in pastoral leadership, we have spent the past seven or eight months simply looking for a church to attend regularly. This feels strange to me. We have found a church, finally, but it still feels strange to not wear the hat of "Preacher" anymore.

In the midst of all this flux, my imagination stirs--but sometimes I feel I have too many ideas, too many possibilities to try out. Believe it or not, this sometimes causes me to doubt myself, thinking: “Yeah, right. Like that could ever happen!”

There is one anchor in the midst of all this: the goodness of God. When I feel invigorated and excited, filled with hope and bursting with imagination, he is there. When I feel hopeless, he is still there. When I am in a hurry to get to where I want to go, he is patient, reminding me, “My timing is perfect.”

Following dreams sometimes feels foolhardy. (I’m beginning to see that, perhaps, it always feels crazy to follow a dream!)

Are you, like me, in flux? If so, hold on, hold on. God is there. His nature does not change with our feelings. He is good, always good. Don’t doubt, don’t fear. Neither doubt God nor the self God has made you to be. He is well-pleased with your dreaming, even if it will take some time to see those dreams become a reality. Keep dreaming, keep trusting.

a few one-liners

2011-05-28T08:03:00.001-05:00

Here are a few one-liners you can use when the moment calls for it. Which one is your favorite? Do you have any to add? Enjoy...

- I only use deodorant under one arm, so I know what I would have smelled like.

- Crime doesn't pay; does that mean my job is a crime?

- Do you ever notice that when you're driving, anyone going slower than you is an idiot and everyone driving faster than you is a maniac?

- I've used up all my sick days, so I'm calling in dead.

- I'm not into working out. My philosophy: No pain. No pain.

- Never forget that you're unique, just like everyone else.

- He's so dumb he took an IQ test and his results came back negative.

- I don't have an attitude problem. You have a perception problem.

- If practice makes perfect, and nobody's perfect, why practice?

mr. rapture pulls his signews

2011-05-22T11:40:00.000-05:00

Mr. Rapture Pulls His Signews
by Troy Cady

It was Sunday, the Lord’s day. Before church, Mr. Rapture did some yard work.

As he removed the sign dated May 21, 2011 from the roadside, a long-haired man named Manny drove by. Mr. Rapture saw the faceless man’s black and white bumper sticker as he passed.

It read “Coexist”.

Mr. Rapture set his jaw and steeled his soul, while Manny continued mourning the loss of his two-year-old daughter. Her picture had been on a milk carton a couple months ago but Mr. Rapture never saw it. He had been too intent on studying his Bible, parsing verbs and manipulating sevens, to notice milk carton pictures.

Yesterday, they found her body in the garbage dump. Her name was Amanda but Mr. Rapture had never heard of her and, therefore, he had never prayed for her or went out looking for her.

…………………………………..

Wichita looked grey
this morning for
Mr. Rapture,
hoping to capture
heaven at the wrong time
in the wrong place.

“Deliver me from these sinnerssss, holey Gawd.”

He strode, stiff-backed
and stiff-necked, ignoring cracks
in the front steps,
approaching the curbside parkway,
littered with signs of the times,
some dated,
some pronouncing timeless judgment
on ill-loved neighbors lacking solidarity.

Anonymous souls passed by in scarred cars,
traveling east and west,
as Mr. Rapture pulled expired pickets
from the brown crabgrass,
leaving every odd red-letter verse
that quoted words Jesus never said
on peeling yellow-painted plywood,
sickly approximating heaven’s gold.

He stubbed his toe on a brimstone,
and replaced an errant tuft of hair.
(Everything must be in its place.)

Undated boards of repentance tarried roadside
as Mr. Rapture carried eight dated signs
to his garage.
(Tomorrow, he will commence replacing elevens with twelves.)

Meanwhile, Jesus tarried next door
with Mr. Rapture’s neighbors
who love the world well.
Yesterday, as Mr. Rapture watched the sky,
Jesus enjoyed a back yard barbecue
baptizing himself in the kiddie pool.
A bird flew near his shoulder
while the sun shone, well-pleased.
And Mr. Rapture missed Jesus’ coming and staying.

As the coals were lit in the Weber grill yesterday,
its incense rose to heaven.
And the Spirit interceded: asking the Father
to burn Mr. Rapture’s plot of judgment,
because nature is renewed
after a forest fire.

Today, both Mr. Rapture and his neighbor
will keep their eye on the weather,
one, hoping to leave soon,
the other, hoping to live long.

The latter will live soon
while the former will leave long,
never living.

pluto

2011-05-19T06:39:00.002-05:00

There is a distant disc
by a giant fire,
too far to be warm,
but too near to stray.

Let’s call the fire sun
and the circle Pluto
or, if you please,
God and me.

I would rather be the Earth,
jagged but lush,
living but ever half-hushed.
Make me a churning torrent
or a yearning plain,
a vicious desert or the pelting rain.
Make me anything but a vacant satellite
that’s crestfallen from grace.
Make me a place
of contradictions,
mercy’s sad and glad face,
always turning
yet further from straying—
warmer and praying,
warming and staying.

Pluto
by Troy Cady

how God atones

2011-05-18T06:33:00.000-05:00

How are we reconciled to God and to one another? This is a multipart essay that takes a look at three historical motifs of the atonement. I hope it helps you in some way.

--Troy

How God Atones by Troy Cady

nature comes of age

2011-05-17T06:31:00.002-05:00

Nature comes of age
these springing days.
She fills out
and shouts,
glad and flowered.
She makes a daisy chain,
young still,
while wildflower splashes are her lashes,
and river-lined poppies her garland.
She sighs
these nights
for there will be
warm rest on her
soft breast—
and the air is fragrant
for she breathes—
this light breeze
that blows through
these now unseen blooms.

Nature Comes of Age
by Troy Cady

mountain

2011-05-16T06:28:00.000-05:00

Who placed your feet
on stones we’ve not seen,
O mountain?
The underground, hidden road
was surely laid
by a hidden God--
as surely as your legs
yet stand strong
through nature’s long
night,
as if the might
of comets pose no
threat to the range
of your rock’s reach.
Stand guard, O mountain
while tender newborns
sleep or weep
in your valley--
yet let the moon
light the night
for wakeful elders,
pining for passage to the other side.

Who made and makes
your living face,
O mountain?
At night your skin glistens deeper than the black sky,
your hair darker still,
as if space borrows its color from you
for a time, as if you command the sky’s veil.
You are the rock-hewn grave and the dark of night
is the open, empty tomb before the sun rises.

When light first shines your crown is the first to feel her,
your green eyes the first to see her,
your rivers the first to weep for joy,
your mouth the first to laugh lively longing
singing birdsong
cheeks blushing with the pink dawn,
red rocks your lips,
white snow your headpiece
as if you are a bride
prepared.
You have waited the night,
kept vigil with the moonlamp.
Your Maker is your Groom
The Wedding is each new day.
Celebrate and be glad,
O mountain!

Mountain
by Troy Cady

why we should kneel more

2011-05-15T07:20:00.001-05:00

Christians are not required to kneel when they pray but suddenly this morning I feel like we too seldom do so. What is signified when we kneel in prayer? Is it to acknowledge a God higher than the heavens, a Maker more powerful than the largest of suns, vaster than the galaxies, stronger than the hurricane? Are we compelled to kneel by piercing holiness, unspoiled perfection?

These may be valid reasons, for they are true, but I suggest they needn’t be the Christian’s primary reason to kneel for in the preceding we have surely described a God but not the christian god. The christian god stooped lower than any of his creations, the christian god became a person just like you and me and then he became the lowest person, a foot-washer, a lover of lepers, prostitutes, adulterers; a friend to tax collectors, a pre-born to an unwed woman; he washed our feet to show us his love; his love, in turn, draws us to himself; yes, he draws us to himself—this is what he would do: draw us to himself.

To pray is to be drawn to our eternal friend’s side. But you cannot be drawn to his side without kneeling for he himself kneels. Kneeling is the Christian’s way of trying to make their prayers fall, not rise, for the high God has a name now and comes from that remote little town up north—he is the one down on the floor now with that basin of water and a towel. It may not have been recorded, but I am sure he wept at our feet before we ever did so. He knelt because he would have us kneel with him and find in such a posture true life. This is why we should kneel more.

barrel out your chest, birds

2011-05-14T07:29:00.000-05:00

I am more than 14,981 days old. I guess that in all those days I have only seen the sun rise no more than fifty times—and that’s a generous estimate. Regardless, these things I know:

Though I yet sleep while the sun rises, my God is already at work. On those days when I am reluctant to get out of bed—

--maybe I’m afraid of something,
maybe the previous day has given me a sound beating,
maybe I don’t know how I am going to make some wrong I’ve committed right
but need to face it nonetheless,
maybe someone I love has passed through the veil of death,
maybe the cupboard has been empty,
maybe I am facing death myself—

on those days…my God neither slumbers nor sleeps. My Father has always found a way out, he still commands dawn to break, clockwork mercy. He still grants strength—each new day—and hears each desperate plea, spoken or otherwise.

Does he smile to the point of laughter as the first rays of sunlight hit each unique shore, city, ocean, village, farm, mountain, river, tree, rock and valley? I suppose he does. After all, how could lovingkindness fail to laugh? Though we wept last night, he has enough joy to spare each new day.

And hope. Barrel out your chest, birds. He sees the sparrow and numbers every feather laced with morning dew. He knows every crystal drop on every blade of grass, twinkling at first light. He is bigger than the sun yet smaller than the photon. How could he not infuse your cells with new life?

I am less than 16,000 days old. He is the Ancient of Days.

how meg and nic made me smile again

2011-05-11T19:06:00.000-05:00

It does my daddy heart good to see Meaghan and Nicolas being generous with their money. They are already learning not to hold on to it too tightly for their own needs; to use it in a way that takes into account the larger family's needs.

Nicolas decided yesterday that he'd use his allowance from this month to pay for a special Play Day hosted by a group in his school. He had planned on saving this money but when he heard that the budget would be tight for us this month if Mom and Dad had to pay for it, he volunteered to pay for it himself. I am amazed at how generous he always is.

Meaghan finishes 8th grade just one month from now and the school is hosting a graduation ceremony. That part sounded exciting when we heard about it but what didn't thrill us so much was the price tag that came with it: 45 dollars. Last night Heather and I were discussing some budget items when Meaghan chimed in: "I'll have another 15 dollars at the end of this week for my dog-walking job. That means I'll have 30 dollars total. We can use that to help pay for graduation."

This morning, as Heather and I paused for prayer before heading out the door, I said a little prayer of thanks to God that both Meg and Nic are learning to be generous from the start. I'm so proud of you both, Meaghan and Nic! Thanks for making me smile.

the alternate account

2011-05-10T19:54:00.001-05:00

I have had two conversations fairly recently in which The DaVinci Code by Dan Brown was cited as a viable source in forming opinions regarding the historical Jesus. Some years ago I wrote a multi-part essay that served as part response to The DaVinci Code and part teaching on Gnosticism and so-called Christian Gnosticism. I offer it here in hopes that these thoughts might help others.

-Troy

The Alternate Account by Troy Cady

magnolia

2011-05-08T07:18:00.000-05:00

I do not think I have ever seen a magnolia tree in my entire life till this year. If I have, it has not left an impression on my heart quite like it has these weeks. Some trees stand out on our drive, in our neighborhood. Last autumn there was the bright red tree near our home—you know the one. In the spring, it has been the magnolia tree that has deserved remark.

It is a curious tree. The magnolias we have seen have not been large in stature but their petals seem to make big statements, unforgettable impressions. They make me want to sit under them for a while, especially when the sun is out. The blue sky would suddenly seem bluer, I suppose, under the large pink petals of the magnolia. These weeks, even these insistent cloudy skies seem more cheerful when I see a magnolia. These past few days, this is the biggest reason I like to take the same route to work each day—to see the magnolia on Kimball. It is a highlight of my day, bidding good morning to God with you by greeting that magnolia each morning.

I would risk idolatry
for something as beautiful
as that,
as you…

I am ever glad I married you. On this Mother’s Day, I am grateful to God that you are the mother of our children.

You are our magnolia,
cheering our hearts each day,
each dawn,
each rainfall.

When we settle down,
let’s plant a magnolia
in honor of you,
beautiful branches
and deep roots.

Keep flowering—
for you are the reason
I drive this way.

one seed d(r)own(ed)

2011-05-02T16:31:00.002-05:00

he was killed yesterday;

these fields i pass
on this black oil pavement
are yet unplanted
though it is late in the season already—
the rain win(d)s these days,
forbidding the sowing.

This has been a peculiar spring;
soldiers lying in wait for death
like autumn waiting for winter—
it snowed both May Day and today.
While we witnessed
God’s solidarity with the poor,
Seals hunted and killed in Pakistan.
They buried his body at sea
like farmers knowing full well
that seeds planted in flooded fields
drown.

Have yet more of the same seeds
gathered out there,
scattered out there?
Will we find each one
to cast them like
wise
(and stupefied by hate)
into the sea
one by one?
How long will this take,
this collecting and destroying of seeds?
Are there enough farmers or Seals
to plow this field and clear those weeds?
Shall I rejoice that a man was killed yesterday?

Let me boast in The Other Man
who was killed,
like Jonah,
cast as a seed in the ocean,
swallowed up.
On the third day he rose to the surface
and conquered the sea,
swimming its length
(in unending breast strokes)
so we can plumb its depths.
i’m sure we celebrated
this new world record
nine days ago.
i’m sure i rejoiced.
Shall i rejoice now in death
when i know there are firstfruits
for the reaping
and rich wine for the drinking?

i was told once that Easter is so wonderful
its celebration spills over for six more weeks.
(Of course eternal life can’t be contained all in one day.)
Shall i celebrate death
in this season of infinite possibility
when the New Time
is neither military nor common?
No, let me celebrate the seed that blooms in the desert—
Adam Farmer, who plowed and tamed the unforgiving ocean of death.

one seed d(r)own(ed)
a poem by troy cady
after osama bin laden was killed

snapshots of a life-giving church

2011-05-01T17:07:00.000-05:00

Christian Associates has a project in St. Paul called Communitas. I had the privilege of joining with them yesterday in an event aimed at blessing some friends without homes in downtown St. Paul. This month's event featured free brown bag lunches and hygiene products. A photo journal of our time together:

First, we collected lots of supplies: food, drink, shampoo, soap, and other hygiene products.

Then, we made the sandwiches, created 124 brown bag lunches and made baggies with assorted hygiene products in them.

After those preparations, we spent some time talking about why we do this. We prayed and watched a video of past Communitas events. It was astounding to see all that had been accomplished through these wonderful people!

We went downtown on a rainy afternoon and served all 124 brown bag lunches. We handed out all the hygiene gift packs to many friends without homes. It is hard to say why, but being with these folks blessed my heart no end. Their spirit lifted mine.

Thanks to all those who made this possible! It was a great example of good teamwork (which makes my heart go pitter-patter).

if i pray

2011-04-30T07:48:00.000-05:00

If I pray
let me pray longing
as if my solitary lover
kissed me singing
in a dream
and I awakened with wings—
breathless--
to find her awakened,
winged,
smiling,
deathless.

Disrobe modesty
in favor of honesty.
Let my prayer be your
blest caress,
my mess
wrested from my
wretched fingers.
Let me rest in peace—
to dream
undressed,
abed,
aflight
with you.

If I pray
let me sway
unafraid,
as if I am made to play.
Let me fade this way.

If I Pray
a poem by Troy Cady

this lifeless man shall find his deathless hope

2011-04-24T08:11:00.003-05:00

This town
had beaten us down
wearing our previous crown

There were too many one way streets
so we circled too many times
searching for home.

Why did we return?
For the wind?

Those former days
have been lying to these latter days
as if there were no ladder days—
had never been a night
with dreams in and from nowhere
about God loving cheaters.

Had I lied here before?
Did those lies move with us from Troy street
to some new ridge?
As I lie wrestling with an angel
will I fall,
may i fall?

Is this why I am afraid to make friends?
I’d rather not talk about theology,
truth be told.
I’d rather play Willy Loman
or King Lear
so I can just be myself.

………………………………………

Let me read City of God
as if I wrote it,
for this city shall be a windy city,
a Spirit city,
a Pentecost city.
This restless heart
shall find its rest in Thee.
This lifeless man
shall find his deathless hope
in a resurrected man named Joshua
who is more real than an invisible deity named Jesus.
His name means ‘God saves’—
ghosts do not save
but this man that wipes my tears
and lifts my head...

Let me borrow confessions
from Augustine for I already have
borrowed his words without credit.
Let me be converted again.

May there be no robes at church today.
Please no pretense.
Next year, may your church be outside.
If they are inside, let them be inside the bars
where it is noisy
and the floorboards are filthy
and footwashing is more than a quiet ritual
with presoaked towelettes
and precleaned toes.

May the songs of praise
be more than recitative
chanted by a cleric.
Let the cigarette be incense.
May the art present
be the tattoo on the arm
of my new friend
who lost his sister and best friend
when she was only eleven.
May the music come from his car
for his sub-woofer makes the ground shake—
and my heart—
as it must have that dawn you arose.
Yes, the ground should literally shake each Easter.
May it be so.
We will exult together when we remember
you walked away from the car crash that killed you
and totaled our lives.

this lifeless man shall find his deathless hope
a poem by troy cady
written on easter sunday 2011

find God by the way of desire

2011-04-23T06:15:00.002-05:00

“Let me seek you by desiring you, and desire you by seeking you; let me find you by loving you, and love you in finding you.”

I would leave you with this: his way is a way of the heart. His desires for you go far beyond any logic he has. Because he desires you, his eye is always fixed on you. It may be more accurate for us to say “He sees us” than “He seeks us”; in a sense, he needn’t seek us since he is already with us. If he seeks us, he simply seeks our seeking him, which is to say he desires that we would desire him.

We do not find God any other way than by the way of desire. If you have no desire to find God you will not find him. If you do, you will. It really is that simple. We needn’t add books nor magazine subscriptions to the equation.

We have been returning to this theme over and over again, but that is only because we have yet to really learn to rest in it: there is only God and his love for us. That is all that matters. Therefore, we can only find him by loving him and once we find him all he wants us to do is go on loving him.

We want to add to that because it somehow seems more exciting to us, but what is more boring: talking about how to love God or just loving God?

Just love God; he just loves you. Just give him your heart; he has given you his. I risk boring you with the simplicity of this because I want to risk the chance that you’ll actually lay hold of the offer. You don’t need to complicate this further.

Either way, we needn’t worry, because tomorrow we’ll remember he defeated death. This means he’ll go on loving you, whether you love him or not. And that is never boring.

God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us. -Romans 5:8

light, redemption and purity

2011-04-22T08:34:00.002-05:00

In my darkness, I ask for light; in my sins, redemption; impure, I ask for purity.

Sin creates utter darkness. Jesus is the light. He can lighten your darkness. Here’s how…

When we sinned, we sold ourselves to the devil. But Jesus defeated the devil. He bought us back; he redeemed us. Jesus is the only one I know who buys back what was his in the first place. Either way, since he bought us, we are his; we belong to him. Technically, this makes us his slaves. Fortunately, we have a good Master; he’s the kind of Master that sets us free and calls us friends and family and Bride. With Jesus, the situation just gets better and better.

Now he would purify his Bride. Purity is restored dignity. Where once we were harlots, he now regards us as chaste. Where once we were scoundrels, he now regards us as honest. Where once we were ashamed, he now lifts our head so we can lock eyes with God-who-is-Love. There is only love there, love which brings hope, new hope. This hope is hope for a new life, a liberated life. It is the dawn of a new day. This new hope holds promise for many, many more new days, an eternity of new days. The night has passed and a sun is eternally rising. This is a new life, because it is a life in which you will become closer and closer to One who is your friend, your guide, your teacher, your Physician, your spouse, your brother and your sister. With such a companion, purity becomes a new possibility. It is found in no other place than in close relation to your abiding Lord. Should you try to produce this purity on your own, you would fail. But, don’t worry: when you do, he will be there forgiving, playing the part of defender, putting the devil in his place and dignifying the blush and scandal within. With Him there will never be anything but fresh hope.

Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her to make her holy, to present her to himself as a radiant church, without stain or wrinkle or any other blemish, but holy and blameless. -Ephesians 5:25-27