Cookout conversation for Christians - being all things to all men with a burger in hand

Back at school there was a group of us who observed an amusing trend among new students at the college - freshmanitis, we termed it, inflammation of the personality.  It was observed that, as students join the new community context, it was frequently the tendency to take whatever they "are" and become more of that.  Musicians painted their fingernails silver (where was the rule that said you shouldn't?).  Iconoclasts began riffling through the handbook looking for rules to intentionally break.  Student leaders tried to rally the troops around the cause of creating and internet cafe ambiance in the little food counter alternative to the cafeteria.  

Aspiring theologians began heated debates about reformed theology with people who probably didn't care to listen.  The laid back types looked on from afar rejecting it all with lack of interest that bordered on anger.

It all was the usual multiplied by five - add zeros as appropriate.

All of this within the first 24 hours of arrival on campus and slowly trailing off towards the end of the freshman year.  Personally, I was all of the above - a brainiac with leadership skills, theological training, and a subtle flair for the arts run amok.  It was not pretty.

Somewhere along the line it occurred to me that we were amplifying our differences in order to create a name for ourselves as individuals.  We all felt a need to be noteworthy in some way.  So, what we were naturally, became what we were unnaturally for a year or so until things calmed down in those late teen angst ridden days.

I've been finding of late that political, artistic, theological, lifestyle, parenting, and employment opinions are getting a lot of airtime in personal conversations in the church - primarily when differences exist.  Give or take, half the time the conversations are learning experiences, the other half seem to be residual effects of freshmanitis.  Discuss, discuss, discuss, with no resolution and with much more interpretation of truth than application of truth.

Once (well several times - it took a while to sink in), I was told that an opinion offered before it was requested, a preference expressed before it was invited is often observed as arrogance - whether or not it actually is.

As cookouts proliferate this weekend, I am forced to wonder if the unbelieving souls who are in our presence look at us like a bunch of freshman trying to prove our mettle over burgers.  I wonder if it speaks well of the church, of God's saving grace, to spend time tossing opinions back and forth in (even friendly) debate with no clear purpose to resolve and no clear expression of humility.

Being all things to all men, I think, may have an element of humility involved that prefers to lower the volume of an opinion in order to amplify unity under the cross.  Context, as they say in theological circles, is king.  And I wonder, even when a patently false opinion is shared, if there might be more to be gained by holding my peace than by rebuffing the error in the presence of an unbeliever.  Laying down my preferences and being all things to all men in order that I may save some may frequently involve simply not responding.

If nothing else, holding that opinion back can be a great exercise in cultivating a realistic perspective of what my thoughts are worth.  It cultivates humility - an area where I can always use some weeding and a bit of fertilizer.

when with the ransomed...

when it's all said and done, we have very little idea what's actually going on.  

he upsets the plans, re-organizes our closets without our permission, throws out our favorite recliner, gives us pabst blue ribbon instead of samuel smith's nut brown.  

worse, he takes a child.

we look up at him, squinting a little, brows tight, the corners of our mouths upturned as if to ask, "what?  really?"

like abraham raising the knife over isaac, we turn our hearts to praise when it doesn't make a bit of sense.  but, for isaac a ram appeared.  

we break out the binoculars and scan the landscape for burning bushes.  when none are found we gather a couple hundred people and light lamps in jars hoping to break them in unison, frightening the valley full of ghouls into a frenzy.  when they don't respond, we wet our lips to blow the trumpets and tighten our sandals to march around the city seven times.  when the walls don't fall, we find a leader and we hold up his arms to keep the sun standing still.  when it moves, we send our priests into the river waiting for it to dry.  when our feet get wet, we watch and pray.  when we fall asleep, we search for someone to sweat blood.  when all that we can muster is perspiration, we gather in a room to pray, waiting for the women to burst in crying that the stone had been rolled away when they arrived.  when the silence is deafening, we turn our eyes heavenward because the last time we saw him he was rising in that direction and he promised that he'd return from there.  

but it's been an awfully long time.  it really has.

when it comes down to it we remember that he rose, that he is risen, just as he said.

on the rest we'll just have to wait for answers.

but, jesus wept and so can we.

rough tuning

like my son has been tap tap tapping against the inside of my wife, sometimes harder than others, making his presence known, my brain has been tap tap tapping on the inside of my skull, waiting patiently and not so for me to use it again.  like my son sometimes impatiently grows, very alive, very eager, my mind has been jumping to and fro.

after a while it becomes difficult to ignore that scraping on your skull.

when it becomes loud enough, painful and joyful enough, when one too many people have said they miss hearing your voice scribbled and typed, after clever essay upon clever essay has been read, once the winter has turned to spring and the evenings are a little longer and a little milder, once the true light on my pipe has taken and the blue grey smoke of an english blend fills my mouth, once the press has been pushed and the coffee poured, my fingers begin to type.

but it's been a while and i've never been one for over editing.

just enough to make it cogent.  just enough to make it clear.

i'll tune it, sure.  but it won't be fine.  it'll be rough and unshaven.  it'll be me.