Immanuel

God with us

He made himself nothing, taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men. Mary gave birth to him, her firstborn son, in a stable. She laid him in a feed trough, because there was no place for them in the inn. He is a man like us in every way save one. He was without sin. Look and wonder at the babe in a manger. How does the fullness of God dwell with the fullness of man?

My Story (part one)

This lovely post by a dear friend has prompted me to put in writing the story of my conversion. I set out to do it in a night, but was only able to cover background. The next set of nights didn't get me any closer to the conclusion because relevant eddies waylaid my journey down the river. Understandably, I love this story. After all, it is mine. And there are delicious details I could NEVER cover in the 5-10 minutes they give you to share your testimony in a church service. Our testimonies get boiled down to elevator pitch speeches. There is a crisp efficiency in that, but what about a more baroque beauty? What of a naturalists walking pace encounter? A testimony of His handiwork is carved in these rocks too. Yet, what friend or acquaintance wants to sit down and hear a detailed documentary of some one's life?

You do?

Well then... for history! For my children! This is my witness. rough draft, part one! ;)

Enjoy!

-----

Average is not awful
We are not made for excellence
It comes at a price

Do I pour all I am
Into space, form and light?
or trade it away
for for 2.4 and a wife?

Design taking all of me,
no time to match my socks
How glorious that would be!

Yet "C" is not a crime
that disappointing balanced middle
that possible better!
given real limits.

All in one "A" basket,
and the rest to @#!*%
or spread it around
for a cumulative "C"?

Maybe I can push a high B!
I still want it all.

------

I remember riding shotgun in my friend Mark's rusty Toyota pickup with my grandmother's old couch bungeed in the bed. We were heading back to Lawrence Tech's student apartments, prize in tow for my dorm room which was something like $20 a month less expensive for being unfurnished. This was the same couch that left impressive black streaks on the concrete with a shower of sparks as the casters were ground to nubs in the 1st annual couch luge some years later. Mark and I were talking about girlfriends.

"There's no denying it." I said, "I'm an @#!*% ." My arm hung out the passenger window and cool September air started to whistle past the seat belt as we pulled out of Grandma's subdivision and onto south bound Van @#!*% . I rolled up the window.

"No, you're not." He offered, annoyed. If I was an @#!*% , what did that make him? I was the good guy, the nice guy. He was the slacker thief, the unaccomplished womanizer. I was the one who had it all together - a good family, a good career, a good woman. In truth my motives weren't that dissimilar from his. But I was a good year away from understanding that.

"No, I am." I said slowly, nonchalantly, resigned to my fate. "I'm doing whatever I can @#!*% her off and make her be the one to break up with me, so I don't have to do it. She loves me, and I'm a coward @#!*% ."

The relationship lingered, but not that long. It wasn't as painful as I thought it should be.

------

All in!
as the poker legends say.
the "A" basket it is.
I never liked matched socks anyway.

-------

Graduate school entrance essays require originality - especially for a design profession. I was still writing rough drafts on onion skin back then, letting the words flow free-form - making connections on the page, all arrows and exclamation points, delicately threading concept to concept and finding the hidden connections of word and symbol.

"Describe the significance of architecture, and why you feel called to pursue a career in design."

"Simple enough," I thought. "Architecture is my life! My one! My All! The superstitious and the weak put their trust in all sorts of things - and they do it out of fear. No social or existential crutch for me! Who needs an external prop when you can CREATE! Nothing is beyond me in this sphere. I am Master of the Universe - if I have religion, architecture is it."

-------

"So? What do you think?" I smiled proudly after reading them my first draft. I thought to myself smugly, "I've penned one of the great manifestos! Howard Roark would be proud! It's a rallying war cry for all that we've sought to become."

They sat there silent around the cafeteria table, my compatriots from the graduating class of '96, some of them slack jawed. Of course, I knew some weren't up to the call, but surely Dave - surely Shelley. They knew the instinct, the intuition, the feeling. Push! Work! Destroy! Rework... They knew. They would understand.

And then, slowly at first, words came out of their mouths. It seemed each of them gathered around this table had something to say. Strange words, almost blasphemous to my ears, unheard of words - a cripple's feeble set of words...
"What about God?"

God?!? Who says there is such a being? Surely not you. INCREDULOUS! A force? A higher power? Maybe. But a personal God?!?

"And Jesus Christ?"

Are you serious? What could a man who lived two thousand years ago possibly have to do with me?!?! SHOCKED!

"And Faith!"

FAITH? FAITH! Why would I entrust myself to some unknown and unknowable thing? I have faith in ME! I believe in my ability to take things apart, put them back together, find congruency, orchestrate beauty, discover truth!

"Who ARE you people?" Bewildered disbelief ricocheted inside my head, but my face likely didn't telegraph my dismay. I had studied alongside these men and women for three years. I knew them, so I thought. We had shared so much as we learned from the great masters of our craft, and now they come out - closet religiosos? Worse than that Christians! It was a serious blow.

Sure Dave's dad was a minister... and I was baptized Catholic! The nominal past came up on the first day of school in passing year's earlier, and never again. According to my parents the baptism was "just in case." I never attended church, save the few occasions during my early childhood when visiting Grandma. I had no interest in the goings on. But I can recall the organ! The oak and steel tubes wonderfully arranged held my attention even when not in use. I was transfixed on them through all the stand up sit down. I remember thumping the tan leather wrapped kneelers on the grey terrazzo while being repeatedly shushed and handed breath mints. We always left the service right after the Eucharist while the organ fired into closing crescendos and everyone stood. She would stream out ahead of the rush holding my little hand in her's, into the grey skied world outside, her hair held manageable against Michigan's somehow humid winter wind by a plastic babushka.

-----

Shelley walked out of the cafeteria with me that day and extended a challenge. We were crossing the quad toward architecture from the harsh brutalism of the management building. "Erik, you are downing on Christianity, but you don't know anything about it."

"Fair enough," I thought.

"We may not have been able to answer your questions, but there are answers. If you think you can take things apart, put them back together again and find truth, you should look into Christianity before you decide what it is. There is this book called Mere Christianity by C.S. Lewis. You should read it."

OK, challenge accepted.

My Story (Part Two)

"Dave, I'm going to the library. Want to come?"

He sat there hunching over the keyboard. His 6'-5" stature made the dorm room's little desk chair seem all the more tiny. A quick series of keystrokes, then he bounded up and with his distinctive loping gate headed for the door, "Let's Roll."

There were two copies of Mere Christianity at the Southfield Public Library. Both were old. of the 1960's hard cover, yellowed pages starting to fall out variety. One was twice as thick as the other. Dave didn't say much during our trip after I told him what I was up to. He browsed the tech manuals or maybe went looking for a good collection of sci-fi short stories. Anything by Asimov or Orson Scott Card. I'm not sure whether I took the shorter or longer version home, but I set right to reading it.

Years later I picked up a copy of Mere Christianity to own. As I read it through again I marked all the significant passages that impacted me that first time through. Each question that pierced me, each explanation that somehow put my upside down world back in order. I even made note of the section where I am fairly certain I came to believe. A month after I marked up my copy my laptop bag was stolen, along with my Bible and this well glossed edition of Mere Christianity. I wonder to this day if those notes led to somebody else coming to faith. I'll find out some day!

That night I lay in my bunk and read right up to the part where Lewis makes his case that Christ was either a liar, a lunatic, or the Lord. I remember the narrative pausing for an aside... "You should really make up your mind on this before continuing. The rest of the book won't do much good to you unless you decide." For the record... that aside wasn't in the edition I bought years later. I put the book down and went to sleep pondering: Lord, Liar, or Lunatic? Hmmm. Good and likely irrelevant teacher wasn't an option anymore.

The next day I saw Shelley in Technical Writing. She had a copy of Mere Christianity for me. "I don't need it," I said. I remember the confused look on her face, followed by surprise when she found out I took the initiative to go get the book myself. "I am half way though, I'll talk to you about it tomorrow after I finish." That statement was made to impress. "Yes, Shelley, I am the kind of person who takes challenges seriously. Just wait and I will give you my verdict." I had decided I would keep reading even though I hadn't made up my mind on the Lord, Liar, Lunatic thing.

The image from the second half of the book that resides in my soul to this day is that of a fleet of ships sailing in formation. It seems God rights our miserable un-seaworthy tubs, and even creates a system whereby he can keep us from crashing into each other. I remember how heavily my failure and incapacity in relationships weighed on me. My parents couldn't make a marriage work. I couldn't even be a decent guy to my now ex girlfriend. I knew I wasn't capable of making a relationship run smooth - in formation. Somehow God could make that work.

Sprawled on my grandmother's couch in my dorm room, with Dave asleep in his bunk in the next room, late on that November evening, somehow I knew he WAS Lord! And he deserved more status and prominence in my life.

(Man, those last two sentences are bland. They simply do not convey what had just occurred in my heart. Quickening - palpitations! Somethings just don't have words. Jesus went from being a 2000 year old teacher to the Son of God, and Lord of my life. What are the words to convey that? Shock - amazement! Somethings just don't have words.)

The next day, flush from the news of my confession that Jesus Is Lord, a giddy Shelley reached into her backpack and pulled out a slightly worn Bible. "Here. I want you to have this. Start reading in John, or Romans." I didn't even know what those instructions meant.

(to be continued) Teaser: The next three days were REALLY FUN!

My Story (Part 3)

Five of us filled one of the corner booths at Denny's. It was 1:00 or 2:00 in the morning, easy. This bunch of friends, hungry after a night of role playing, were regulars for the graveyard shift enjoying grand slam breakfasts or club sandwiches with ranch dressing.

"It's real," I said. "Jesus is God. Look at my hands. They've been shaking like this for three days now."

I held them up displaying the slight Parkinson's like shake which revealed the inward transformation that was beyond remarkable to me.

"Really?" Norm's face was a mix of wonder and excitement. His eyes were big, and he had a subtle knowing smile under his sparse late teen mustache. "That's the Holy Spirit man! He's come to live inside you!"

"Wow!" I thought.

Mike slurped his runny eggs, dabbing at them with wheat toast and silently shaking his head. Mike practiced Wicca, but there was something in the sincerity of my story that he couldn't refute. Norm was the resident charismatic. He beamed, and instructed me in the ways of the Spirit - telling us all stories from Acts about Pentecost and the Apostle Paul. To my knowledge at the time Mark and Tom were unaffiliated. They stayed pretty quiet for the most part - revealing some nominal Catholic background which I took to be similar to my own.

Years later I was walking through a park in Maracay, Venezuela getting ready for some street evangelism - telling my story in somewhat broken Spanish to some believers from a sister church down there. They misconstrued the shaking to be a full out knocked down convulsions for three days. They thought it akin to Paul's Damascus road blindness. I laughed and set them straight. "Solomente los manos." It was subtle, but still a cherished indication of God's presence with me.

Nothing quite compares to the zeal of the newly converted. I wanted everyone to know the truth I had discovered. I told my mom. My sister. My friends from high school. Everyone either welcomed me to the family, or looked at me with wide eyed disbelief. But that is only one side of the story. My inner life was going through plate tectonic like shifts, and aftershocks continued to rattle my understanding of everything.

I had built my world around being an architect because every other center I tried to find for my world was lacking. My family was broken - divorce, alcohol, dysfunction. Looking back, work was our family's false hope of choice. "Why pretend?" I thought to myself. "Find your purpose in your work. Don't even waste any effort on the rest of life."

I was intensely prideful and self assured... and empty. But now, I knew what was supposed to be the center of my life. My world no longer revolved around me. God had taken his rightful place at the center. This shift of center was just as radical to my way of living as the Copernican heliocentric discovery was to science. I quickly developed the conviction that as I allowed God to be central in my life, everything else would find it's proper order, orbit and significance. Looking back, it is interesting to see how this truth continues to work itself out. I am repeatedly uncovering and relocating the things that my heart places before my God.

I decided to read Shelly's Bible from the beginning. Starting a book in the middle didn't make much sense. I had ZERO knowledge of the structure of Scripture. I made it to the second or third genealogy in Genesis before I decided to take Shelly's suggestion to heart, and began reading the Gospels. Over and over I encountered her copious margin notes and mark ups. They called out key verses, and sometimes the events that rendered them special. I could see the handwriting evolve, and the concerns deepen. Some written as early as Junior High. This book was clearly important to her. How remarkable that she would so willingly hand it over to me. How vulnerable of her to let me into this sacred world of her encounter with God through His word!

After finals that December I went to St. Andrew's Catholic Church with my dad and step mom. The service that had been so dead and lifeless to me every time before now SCREAMED with new life, and tears flowed uncontrollably down my face. Where I used to look around and wonder who else was here unwillingly and found the whole thing pointless, that Sunday I looked around and marveled at the multitude, many of whom surely new this truth that had made me new! Unconfirmed, I went forward and shared in communion for the first time. Physical symbols of the sacrificial giving of one for the sake of all. Broken body, shed blood. "Gloria in excelsis Deo" resounded with trumpeters in the balcony and incense coming down the aisle. The shape of the sanctuary a veritable chimney of praise - with a large central skylight, supported by concave curved heavy timber rafters - like a standing rack of lamb. Every prayer, every reading from scripture was flush with new life. Together we recited the creed and I feI was overwhelmed. I worship with tears to this day just at the memory. I had found home. I had found the center and purpose of life. I had found my Lord and Savior, my redeemer and father, my Abba.

A forever prodigal had found his way home.

Dave would come back to our apartment to find me reading the Bible. With a sigh he would retire to the bedroom. Norm and I would have long discussions about faith and God and Scripture. Will pulled me aside and wanted to compere the NIV I was reading with his KJV... Verse by verse he took me though their differences. To me it seemed they were saying the same thing, I didn't understand the significance. Shelly and I would meet for lunch and discuss the people she was praying for.

Turns out my conversion was a collateral answer to her prayer for another man's salvation. Shelly had been talking to our mutual friend Alex about faith in Christ for nearly three years by that point. He wasn't having any of it. One night Shelley was home - discouraged - praying that God would show her what she was doing wrong. She so desperately wanted to have some indication that she was witnessing the right way - that God was moving around and through her. She was yearning for her efforts to bear fruit. The next day I shared my essay around that cafeteria table. The day after that I was a new creation because Shelly asked God for some fruit. Within the year Alex joined the family too. He was a groomsman in my wedding, and our families spend time together to this day.

Months later after reading the whole new testament and most of the old in Shelly's Bible I gave it back to her. She was so grateful - acknowledging that it was hard for her to find anything in her new Bible. I bought one for myself just like hers.

I was baptised catholic just in case - converted by the writings of an Anglican - instructed by charismatic - discipled as a baptist. I cherish the diversity of the bride of Christ. We are one in Him. He is manifold in us.

That is the story of my conversion - The End of the beginning. :)

Artistry - Excelence - and Worship

Today was a "yee-haw" roaring good time of worship at Bear Valley Church. I am consistently moved by both the heart and skill of those who lead us into worship each Sunday. The rhythm and and pace varies drastically from week to week, but the heart and skill of those who draw my heart to sing praises to my God never seem to wane. This week was straight up bluegrass! - with a mandolin, flying fiddle, upright bass and everything. We didn't just offer up old timey spirituals like "I saw the light," and "I'll fly away." (We did sing those, and they were AWESOME!) But, there were bluegrass arrangements of more contemporary works as well.

I found myslef lifting my hands in voiceless praise as the musicians picked and fiddled extravagant bridges between the choruses. Thank you God for your gifts. Thank you God for allowing us to fellowship with you and with one another through offerings of artistry and excelence. You love diversity - I know it is true just looking at your creation. You have created us diversely as well. And we offer up to you a diversity of praise!

Be glorified! Yee Haw!

My Best Work

Maybe its just because it is 1am and I've been staring at the monitor post processing for the last 2 hours... But I just had a moment of complete shock that this beautiful family is mine.

What do we want?

The dialects of creativity are authenticity and hope. Authenticity communicates the distance between brokenness and beauty. It's not that much. Hope communicates the distance between the already and the not yet. It too is not that much.

The poets and mythologies know all about it. We do not want merely to see beauty, though, God knows, even that is bounty enough. We want something else which can hardly be put into words — to be united with the beauty we see, to pass into it, to receive it into ourselves, to bathe in it, to become part of it.

That is why the poets tell us such lovely falsehoods. They talk as if the west wind could really sweep into a human soul; but it can't. They tell us that "beauty born of murmuring sound" will pass into human face; but it won't. Or not yet.

We cannot mingle with the splendours we see. But all the leaves of the New Testament are rustling with the rumour that it will not always be so. Some day, God willing, we shall get in.

~C. S. Lewis
The Weight of Glory (1949)

Summer Projects

I didn't blog all that much this summer. I was doing to many other projects, things that required not a little time. Here is a sampling:

The Prayer Closet

This last Sunday night my wife and I dropped our kids off at Children's Choir and went for a walk around the lake next to our church. Before the "date night" was over we ended up praying together in one of the newly remodeled prayer rooms at our church. The rooms are used by prayer teams/ministers on Sunday mornings with those who are in need.

My call to ministry is in Spiritual Direction with and through art.

I was contemplating the bare walls of the little room, and wondering about what it would be like for these walls to be adorned with ebenezers. My first thought was that such objects might be intimidating to the uninitiated - when their focus should be on encountering God through prayer in the moment. Then I saw a vision of this little prayer closet opening onto a huge rotund gallery of paintings and sculptures and objects commemorating encounters with God. I was overwhelmed. To make a long story short - I feel this vision is a calling to be involved in the prayer ministry of our church - engaging others in their journey, offering Spiritual Direction, creating and helping others to create their own ebenezers. What FUN!

In many ways this is an outward call that includes the inward practices of quiet, reflection, surrender, and prayer. It is both humbling and exciting to think that the ministry before me exists in a little unadorned windowless closet.

Our Prayer

Like cold steel shackles chafe and burn the skin, rubbing raw and scaring. I watch despair and incapacitating obligation bite viciously through to their bones.

Then a flash of bright springtime green with little yellow flowers dotting the field and cotton wisps floating in the air. In slow motion stretching, yearning eyes heavenward, leaving the earth she leaps, a pirouette of joyous vibrant color, the icy black chains falling broken back to the ground.

and back again to black eyed doubt and duty. Peeling wallpaper, rust and must make their home in bewildered blinded hearts, becoming embittered - cracked and peeling just like the walls of this cell. Like late fall leaves caught up in a thorny juniper, dry and crackling, so fragile after a season with no rain.

How to remove them without crushing them to dust?

The enemy watches too. Giggling with glee at his priceless catch of princes and queens.

Oh tears! Sweet gift of tears! Flow like sacred waters of baptism. Immerse these drying souls and soften them - be a salve for their affliction. Holy tears from our savior.

Look up and feel the life giving summer rain as it kicks up coronas of dead and dying dust all around you with each weighty plop.

Plop

Plop

Stand up from the spiritual squalor and humbly stretch your needy arms upward in the downpour of his compassion and care.

Lord hear our prayer.

a dream - The Visitor

Hovering above me as I slept in my bed he scratched out, "You don't want to forget this." The somehow familiar hoarse whisper. He set a small box on my nightstand. I woke up slowly, without fear and with too slight an annoyance. In hindsight I wonder how this could be. A looming figure in our bedroom in the middle of the night, three children asleep just across the hall.

Lean and disheveled, his unkempt greying beard disguised leathery sunken cheeks under deep set dark eyes. Well worn khakis two sizes too big were heavily cinched at his waist. His soiled t-shirt fell over them smelling of stale cigarettes, sweat and beer. The faint blue moon illuminated the silence through sheer shades gently wafting. I glanced at my unstiring wife, and scanned his hands for weapons. A gaunt yet imposing visage belying a wiry strength, I knew he didn't need any. So I rolled out of bed gently sliding his clandestine delivery off the nightstand and holding it protectively to my gut.

We stood together in my grandfather's pristine garage with plastic flowery curtains hiding the clean work bench and well sharpened gardening tools. All around was the comforting warm sweet aroma of lubricating oil mixed with grass clippings. Our only illumination from the half light side door spilled askew across the space. His half lit disturbing presence juxtaposed against the light in stark angular vertically. He turned to face me.

"I don't want this," I said, holding the box out to him. I felt like a ghost outside of myself, like I should be fearing for my life, but I am beyond fear of pain or injury. No! Like I should be fearing for my soul, and a nauseating tingle rose up my spine.

"That's fine," he offered slowly through a pursed frown, shaking his head and casually swinging his sinewy arms in a wide gesture that he really couldn't care less. He took a step away from me, his gaze sweeping across the painted concrete floor.

"Then take it back," I thought to myself.

In the driveway now, his dark junker of a work truck, bent and rusting, overflowed with debris and filthy tools. The driver side door was open and an empty beer can fell out, bounced twice and then rolled with a hollow tinkle out toward the street. He stood there pacing in the glow of the orange sodium street lamp where the well trimmed lawn met the sidewalk.

I watched empty handed next to the house as he unzipped and took a leak on my grandfather's roses. "You're going to want it back," he intoned, hostile.

"I don't think so," I offered calmly confidently, controlling a wired alertness ready to react - to run or to fight. He stared right through me, throwing all of his energy into that piercing gaze, penetrating my soul. There he met an outside strength that bolstered me and allowed me to stand despite my fear. A strength that assured me the battle was uneven in my favor.

"Oh, You're going to regret that," he threatened as he undid his belt and let down those two sizes too big khakis and began to defecate on my driveway.

I turned and went inside.

Play House Follow up

Here are a few pictures of the different playhouses from the gala. The night of the gala was overcast and rainy. A shame, because there was low turn out. All told they raised around $20,000 for their non-profit.


The week of wear and tear from being on display at the children's museum did minor harm to most of the houses. The only thing we couldn't touch up: They had removed the bell cord, and try as we might we couldn't get it re-threaded inside.


Our steering wheel survived though!


I got a lot of compliments for SPOT. In the end our firehouse was the biggest dollar bringer at auction, though in my opinion, it wasn't best of show...

This beauty was dubbed an "artist's studio," and had a chalk board inside. The week at the museum left it completely covered with chalk tags and names. It looked fantastic. I thought it was a shame they hosed it down for the gala. If I were to buy one of these playhouses, this would be the one. It now has a home in the backyard of a posh 1920's mansion near Cheeseman Park in Denver.


"Chia House" photographs better than it looks in person. Construction wise I doubt it will make it through a winter.

Act now and your child could have the COOLEST lemonade stand on the block...


This "space station" was completely covered in zinc panels! We are speculating that the price it fetched at auction wouldn't even cover the cost of the siding.

All in all, working on the playhouse competition was a fun experience. I think we can do a much better job, much more efficiently next year.

Three Fires

This economy is getting the best of me

I wish I could say the sweet scented smears of sunscreen and the whistling slightly over-seared dogs being snatched from certain fiery death by my tongs just in time for dinner has been occupying my carefree mind this summer, keeping me content if not slightly too full and a wee bit sticky. But truth be told, I've been sinking. sinking... sinking...

Going under. Glancing up far too calmly at the swirling immense complexity of it all clicking and whirring away without me. "Isn't that interesting?" I think to myself. Down. down... down...

Here I sit, Monday through Thursday, earning what feels like too much pay for this... this... sitting.

Grateful to be employed, but with lack of good meaningful work to do a curious little battle for my self worth is being waged. As if I was a genteel spectator at a civil war battle, I watch the flying darts and arrows of occupational malaise pierce my own soul. Lethargic - almost disinterested. Their seeping poison making me sleepy.

One more lap around the empty office? Another cup of coffee? What am I doing here? Isn't there something more important I could be doing? Is this pay check worth it?

How did work get all tied up with money anyway? Work is good for the soul. But money without work has me caught like a greedy monkey with his clenched fist in a jar.

Hey! I would listen if You told me to let go. I thought you should know.

Playhouse Design

Well times are slow for us architects right now. In our lull we contributed some time for a fun fund raiser for a local affordable housing developer, Rocky Mountain Communities. They are on display at the Children's museum for the next week and a half. If you are in Denver on July 25th consider attending the gala and bidding on one of the five playhouses designed by local architects for your backyard.

We designed a firehouse complete with a fire engine to drive, a bell to ring, a ladder to climb, and a real brass pole to slide down! The engine house mascot "Spot" even has his own doggy door!

I have a couple of quick shots from set up this morning. The signage was installed later. I'll get a few more shots at the gala. Some of the other entries are pretty cool too!

Good Friends, Summer, Special Days, and Lost Shoes

Good Friends

3 days this week we spent some good quality time hanging out and talking with friends. I love watching my wife light up and engage in conversation - loving on and enjoying the people who are important to her - to us. We are not extroverts, but company brings out the best in both of us, I think.

Summer

Our backyard has a large box elder tree with a swing, and an even taller European linden tree that flowers with these strange light green wisps giving it a great rich two tone hue this time of year. Tonight around twilight the lawn was freshly mowed and the garden was weeded and most of the toys were picked up. The sprinkler was running. I plugged in the strands of white Christmas lights that run through our patio awning, and just soaked in the crisp summer air, feeling the misted grass between my toes. I love summer in Colorado. I love our backyard.

Special Days

Amanda and I have been married 10 years. She asked me, over dinner as we celebrated, what some of my favorite memories were from these ten years. I had a few significant ones to share. But right now the only thing that occupies my mind are glimpses of her joy finding expression in sparkling laughing eyes, - her nurture metered out to an infant asleep on her chest, - her contentment seated beside me holding hands on the couch. Truly, it is all the little insignificant memories of these last 10 years of blessings that make me long for more.

To the next 10 and beyond sweetie!

Lost Shoes

I found two navy blue crocs in the bathroom tonight. They are beloved, well worn, and sized perfectly for a 5 year old boy. The house was dark, and everyone else was asleep. I looked at them and remembered all the frustration that ensued hours before when these shoes could not be found.

"They're not in the shoe basket, not in your room, not in the backyard buried in the sand, not in the playroom, not in the basement, not in the car, not in the living room, not in the kitchen , not in the dining room. None of the normal places you lose them. Maybe you need to go barefoot to remember to put your shoes away!"

*sigh*

They are really small shoes, sized perfectly for a 5 year old boy, sitting there on the bath mat next to the tub with foam cutouts to stick on the glass during bath time. I love the little feet that fill those shoes. He deserves better than my aggravated impatience. I'm going to miss those really small crocs when they are replaced with size 15 sneakers. And even more when they won't be found on my floor anymore.

Lord Jesus, hear mr prayers, petitions, and thanksgiving for good friends, Summer, special days, and especially for lost shoes!

I Will Rise

"I'm on fire when you're near me. I'm on fire when you speak."

Sunday worship has been moving me to speechless silence and tears. The experience is a potent visceral oomph like my chest is opened and waves of joy and praise are lapping my soul as I raise my hands to heaven. There is NOTHING that compares to my invitation into His life. There is no sensation as tremendous as pure worship. Not sex. Not Drugs. Not Alcohol. Nothing compares...

Nothing.

"Yes, I will rise when he calls my name!"

Dads Rock

I got a quick little graphic art assignment from church last Tuesday.  "Can we get it by Thursday."  OK.  Sounds fun.

Chrysalis Christianity

I sit across from people and help identify their present: Right now, Who are you? Who is God? How are you living? Sometimes I see the incongruities between the answers to those three questions. Their faith penetrates the soil of their lives, often quite deeply, like roots - twisting, turning, burrowing, making room, fracturing the hard pan and clay. But so many (all) have rocks and even boulders where that faith does not seem to penetrate. Sometimes those boulders are so obvious, so incongruant, so much an obstacle that I feel this impatient need to pull out the jackhammer.

I know it hurts, SIT STILL! It's for your own good don't you know! 

For the record, God is not this way.

I was talking with a mentor the other day, and she confirmed that this festering impatience is in her too.  "But you can't squeeze a butterfly out of its chrysalis."  That's the picture I left with that day.

God lets wheat and tares grow up together. He explains, "because while you are pulling the weeds, you may root up the wheat with them. Let both grow together until the harvest."

Clearly we are to tend the garden of our souls, but don't let impatience or guilt cloud the underlying truth.  We the elect are already planted as true good seed right down to the DNA, but not yet fulfilled. He is faithful to complete what he has started!

"I know he is faithful" they say, "in my head anyway..."

That is a great place to start.  Lets talk about what you know of His faithfulness!

Rabbit Heart

Rabbit heart danced in perpetual jerky fitfull loops

"Never stopping means always safe," she gasped,
bloodshot eyes scanning the horizon.

Rock heart watched with persisting calm and curious wonder

Rabbit's burning circuit.

This way, that
This way, that
Going, going

nowhere fast

With determined measure and a slow certainty 

Rock placed his hand as an obstacle to her circuit.

from the corner of the eye, 

a stationary blur, 

Ahead unmoving... Shock. 

Stumble or stand? 

Stumble or Stand!?!

skidding on her chin to a gritty halt.

Listen... he intoned.

*silence*

Can you hear ?

*silence*

Listen...

Three Questions

Are two words copyrightable?  If so, see here.  Put your dime in that cup.

Who am I?

Who is God?

How am I living?

It ALL comes back to this:  Know yourself.  Know God.  Move forward.  

Peripateo is a Greek word that translates as a beautiful mix of walking and living.  To LIVE means to MOVE.  

These three simple questions open a door to discernment and growth in the Spirit that astounds me time after time after time.  

Today:

I am peaceful, though there is trouble.

He is in control, my firm foundation.

One blind step at a time.

Going to Print

Nothing like a deadline to bring a work to completion.  I am finally pleased with it.  I am taking it to print in the morning.   Now it needs a title.  the working title is "sacrifice," but it has spoken so much more than that to me over these last few weeks.  I've got a few days to decide on the title.  I am submitting this painting and Co-Heir in the Bear Valley Visual Arts Show, which will run through the 26th.  I'll let you know how it is received.  

I've was invited to speak at Cherry Hills Community Church.  This image will likely be the centerpiece of that engagement.  We haven't finalized the date yet.  It will be sometime this summer after I am through with finals.

Both And

Have you noticed,

Almost every psalm turns back to God.

Art is an abiding language.  

You can't be in its presence and stray for long.  

It takes you into itself.  

It doesn't just scream truth into the aether.

It always invites you in.

Feel it

Experience it

Know it intimately

abide

This quality makes art profoundly apologetic,

connecting heart and mind.

Didactic teaching cannot be 

the Gospel without words.

Cracking the Nut

In a past life I found a mathematical metaphor for everything I loved about Architectural Design. It was the Leplace transform. Take calculus and turn it into algebra. You could write an infomercial about this thing.

"It slices , it dices, it makes mounds and mounds of coleslaw!"

What I loved about Architectural Design was solving a complex problem through the means of an artificial conceptual framework. All of the difficulties came together easily once the concept was discerned. Once the nut is cracked in that conceptual world, you can "transform" it back into our world as built form. And it didn't really matter to me if anyone inhabiting the built form ever knew the concept. I knew it. I let it take up residence in my built form. It peaked at you from every corner, because each detail was informed by the concept holding the space together. With great assurance and even pride I knew the built form reverberated with a deep truth, a central kernel that made it beautiful, and right, and maybe even perfect! At least that was the goal.

Jesus Christ was the transform in my life. I let Him take up residence in me. He peaks out at you from every corner because each detail is being informed by the God Man who holds this space together.

Now I am trying to discern the "nut" that needs to be cracked in this painting. This painting is a detail of my life that needs to be informed by Christ. Yet, it isn't for me. I am designing a work of art that every person will possess and assess differently. Truly this is the beauty of art. As each person abides with the work, it somehow unlocks the truths that are within them. I need to see that the painting is more like the transform than the complex puzzle to be solved. We are the complex puzzle to be solved.

She asked me, "Have you asked God what the nut is?"

"Hmmm, No. Let's do that!"

As I drove up Santa Fe yesterday I asked Him. Do you know what He said?

I love you, I love you, I love you.

Work In Progress

I am attempting to "complete the process" this semester - cross the finish line - persevere - diligently cross my t's and dot my i's. To bring it past the inspiration to the fulfillment of purpose. And I mean that for all of life really, not just this painting. But this yet unfinished painting is a signpost at a fork in the road. What do I do now to complete it? What do you see here?


Which is the likeness of Christ? Which is the likeness I want for myself? Which do I want for you, brother? For you, Sister? For you, son? For you, daughter?

I see the dissonance between the sacrificial servant savior bloodied and beaten, ready to die, extending his hand of blessing to one pristine and polished with good posture.

At once I feel grateful for His sacrificial blessing, and yet see the ways I am far from His likeness. What is this good news transforming us into?

Cast off the distancing mask of perfection.
Embrace the melody of brokenness and the melody of grace.
He has shown the way.

The Sacrifice

How do you know when you have given enough?

When can you say, "I need?"

I might die before you right now,

But I will do so for you.

This is Sacrifice

And I give all

Edward Knippers

http://www.edknippers.com/

For those who may not be familiar, I would love to hear your feedback on Edward Knippers paintings. His Pieta brings me to tears every time.

Two Vignettes

I feel it...
like some sort of inward creep
THICK & SOLID

not pushed by desire
just habit

numbing
deadening
clouding

STOP!
_________________

Oh gentle ache
Tell me your name
Oh tender pain
All mine
All mine
Lost loved one
still heart break
to the rim
Rising
Rising
But it won't overflow

Numinous

"I have come to view human psychology as the efficiency of one's functioning, and human spirituality as the dynamic process of love in one's life."

(May, Care of mind -Care of Spirit, XVI)

God isn't efficient in terms of economy or expediency, much preferring the costly and circuitous path. Yet God is efficient in terms of being effective - performing and functioning in the best possible manner. I like May's phrase, the dynamic process of love. It describes the Holy Spirit's actions in our lives. Not expedient by any means - but entirely effective!

I've stumbled on a new word. Numinous. As in, "pay attention to the numinous - that which surpasses comprehension - the supernaturally mysterious presence and activity of God." I used to describe my way of thinking on nearly all topics as nebulous. I don't work with a hard and fast grid that I fact check everything against. My knowledge and understanding hangs low and thick like a fog, full of sensation, but hard to nail down. At any moment the answer is within grasp. I've become adept at navigating this mental humidity, where it would drive others I know quite crazy.

In terms of faith and theology I was comfortable dwelling in the nebulous-ness of God and His truth, not being a dogmatic sort of fellow. But numinous is so much more appropriate word than nebulous for describing God, isn't it? It's not the nebulous fluff, the fuzzy, undefined-ness of God that I like; it is the mind stretching transcendent-ness of God that refuses to be pinned down or contained by particulars, and yet is actively working all things in each of us who are called according to His purpose. It is that part of Him that you know deep down is true and present and loving and active, but if someone asks you how you know, you can't quite give it adequate words.

Until now - NUMINOUS!

Much of Paul's "pray without ceasing" can be seen as dwelling with attention to the numinous. Much of spiritual direction can be seen as helping others pay attention to the numinous. Our inefficient numinous God so often goes unrecognized because we keep our eyes down, three feet ahead on the path so as not to stumble. We miss him entirely like we miss that brilliant sunset during the congested commute home after a particularly hard day.

Pay attention to the numinous!

Confession

Art is public confession, but it is speaking in tongues. So the communal act is in search of an interpreter. I've been looking through the journal for the last few weeks, and I ~confess~ a bit of aprehension at posting. What do you see/hear here?

Coming down to the ground
Grit under nails
Hoarse cries and the limits of flesh
Not shallow
Deep full and rich life
Something to ponder
Something to marvel at
To keep you up late at night
Scratching your temple

Live of die
Survive or thrive
It rests on the Lord
As do I
No intermediary
But the wagon is full
We'll pick more up along the way
Set course, hoist sail, on the way
Not naive or proud
But with strange assurance
Hope
Trust
Fear
Awe
And rapid sobs bulge my eyes under clenched lids

I'm not good enough
I'm not up to this
I'm not holy enough
I'm not entirely his
I need to be
I want to be
I want to be
I need to be
And He says I am
So I am
Please
Please
Please
Have mercy?
Empower?
Sanctify?
Give Wisdom?
Don't Leave
That's it really

God, Don't Leave.
I'm lost without you and I can't be lost
They need me not to be lost
They deserve me not to be lost

Here Lord, Have my faith.

Unapologetic Visibility

I have been sitting on an article I read for months now. I've shared it with a few friends at seminary. Another friend had the magazine for several weeks. I've been anticipating sharing it here. Waiting for a time that seemed right. Wondering what I would write.

It's about 11:14 pm right now and the magazine is on my bed stand upstairs next to my sleeping wife. I'm not going to go get it. But I want to share the feeling it gave me.

Months ago I was lying in bed reading this article and felt a strange sensation. A tingle of recognition and anticipation. A sort of tension in the chest, coupled with the hint of smile and a glisten in the eye. A sense that something profound was just said, that some truth was just lit by a subtle but unmistakable flash of brilliance. It's a feeling I love and it is all to rare, nearly unique to this article, save one book. It happens all the time when I read the Word.

I make no claims of inspiration for this article. I think that sensation was more about the Holy Spirit within me than anything. God can speak to you anywhere if you listen. And that night Artur Grabowski spoke deeply into my heart of hearts. His insight resonated with my own, though his life experience was entirely different. It made me want to know him. To find him. To talk to him more about this truth he could so eloquently expound! To find out how these insights have shaped his walk of faith. To ask him to tell me more!

I've read the article at least three times through, and I underlined at least 20% of it. Here is one line (Do I risk it from memory?) that stood out, shared here completely out of context.

We only have room in our faith based intellectual salons for clean shaven mystics in designer suits. I fear this kind of apophatic faith is like a government job - secure and undemanding.

The article was published in Image Journal, issue 59. It was titled Unapologetic Visibility. It was regarding our loss of individual ability and even the communal spiritual value of imagining God. His picture of practicing faith was full of risk and mess and sublime encounter as the church together shared vividly their insights experiences and speculations into the person of God. In the face of the risk he offered that God imagined poorly in the community of God and context of faith is better than a God not thought of at all, left to the experts.

I think He's right. We can't let fear of getting it wrong, of hitting the wrong notes, stop of from hearing, playing, and enjoying the music of grace.

So I challenge you. Imagine Him. Show me Christ in a photograph. Imagine him with a brush. Let the words flow from your pen. Capture the exuberance of regeneration with a pirouette. Bake sacrificial love into a pie. Give voice to that place inside that is transformed by His very presence, and share it with those around you.

Maybe they will get a strange sensation and ask you to tell them more.

Up Down All Around

This last Sunday was our last at our church home for the last six years. Amanda and I have been processing the departure together, and it has a strange mix of relief, sadness, excitement, and anxiousness. This is going to be a season of activity requiring some discipline. For the first time in a... well... maybe for the first time ever, I feel the entirety of the "head of household" responsibility for the spiritual well being of our family. God is good, and faithful, and present. But the local church as a conduit of His grace and care for our souls is now less present, less constant - removed to the outlying status of distant relatives rather than the tight knit nuclear family it has been.

There is a more pressing urgency to be acting on past discernment, and to be bringing all attentiveness to His still small voice. Seminary starts again on Monday. I am grateful to be rekindling time spent before the Lord with attentive Mentors and Spiritual Directors!

I have to decide whether my Character Formation Learning Contract this semester will be specifically related to artistic growth and expression, or a more traditionally central discipline. To do artistry would be to have the T/M process at seminary end in a clean arc with a common thread. To do the other is to hold the discovery and growth I have had integrating my creativity with my faith in its proper position. My identity is still in Christ. My focus is still submitted humble obedience to his will and call. Artistry is simply a gift and evidence of His imparted image. It is who I am in Him, but it is not all that I am in Him. I am leaning toward a focus on body prayer. Integrating my physical awareness and activity into the surrendered life of faith hangs out there as untested, unattained.

Finding Galilee

Memories dance vaguely out of reach
of laughter, acceptance, peace, and inspiration...
But now a heaviness weights her chest
and it seems connected somehow to her eyes,
Because it is drawing long heavy drops down her face.

Searching frantic and confused
trembling and bewildered
in this dead and empty place
made for dry bones and linen
Dark all around
An unvoiceable cry burns in her throat
as her eyes dart back and forth
hands clutching her face for fear it might escape
and end her

Where was that place in memory sweet?
I can't seem to remember anymore.
How did I ever walk out the door?

You are looking for Jesus the Nazarene who was crucified. He is not here. He is risen! He is going ahead of you into Galilee. There you will see Him. Just as he told you.

So she is finding Galilee
A forgotten land, lost somehow, taken away
She is finding Galilee
The home of promise and beginnings
She is finding Galilee
Where He held her close and called her His own
She is finding Galilee
Where she prays He waits for her still

---

I show the way home through tears of my own
Offer wide embrace wipe tears from her face
I do not wait in a distant lands
No hell or torment keeps me from your hand.

Woman, why are you crying? Who is it you are looking for?

Rabboni!

I am with you always to the end of the age.