Noli Me Tangere

Ruminations on Worship, Vol. 3

There are two things that happen to me when I go through times of great stress: 1) I jiggle my leg incessantly and 2) my guts complain about every little thing.

I won't comment further on the latter (you're welcome), but regarding the former, my classmates must think I'm a coffee addict with a micro-bladder. I have been unable to relax since spring break, and in the process I've also proven myself to be an accomplished whiner. I'm not sure exactly the source of my discontent, but most of it centers around dissatisfaction with my work for the church. I didn't mind the poor pay and limited resources as long as I had the time and felt appreciated. But give me a little conflict and clamp down on my schedule and the whole endeavor becomes a chore. As we all know, long-term frustration leads to burnout and so I'm beginning to think and work through these dynamics. Sometime between now and summer, we'll probably have a conversation about how to remedy some of these things, but here's what I'm thinking:

Having such limited time and resources means I can't do as good a job as I'd like to. Pragmatically speaking, things need to be dialed back but frankly, I have too much pride to do that. Partly, I don't want to let people down, but perhaps moreso, I don't want to be known as the one who did.

Being so pressed for time also reduces my life—of which worship prep is a part—to an endless series of frantic deadlines (the lone exception being from 2-4pm on Sundays). This is okay by itself, but in this kind of rat race, my work for the church becomes something I do, rather than something I own, am, or experience. I realize this sounds vague or esoteric, but for better or worse we carry around a certain assumption of authenticity, that our worship is organically conjured up from a real place, someplace deeper than where we grow, say, TPS reports. People expect that authentic connection, I want that authentic connection, and I think that connection is vital. But lately I don't have it, and this mostly makes me angry. I'm not sure at who.

Lately I've been impatient and feel like "volunteer work" is a waste of time at this stage of my life. Shouldn't I be compensated? Shouldn't I buy a house? Shouldn't I be getting on with my life by now?

Julia Goolia: Yeah, but you don't wanna be just another Yuppie idiot.

Robbie Hart: Why? What's wrong with that ? Don't wanna live in my sister's basement anymore. I wanna get a big house, have some security. Can't do that doing favors for people all the time, getting paid in meatballs.

Maybe I don't live with my sister. But sometimes Kathy pays me in meatballs. And Marijane gives me leftovers when we meet at her house.

All this bitching aside, I can still say with honesty that I love the substance of my work. There are few things I love more than providing a soundtrack for the expression of the faith of my friends, and I still believe on some level that I was created for this. But I may shoot my roommates if I don’t get an office soon.

The last few days, the storm has receded and I have some breathing room. (Funny, that. I think with the buildup to Easter, most things that will get done are done weeks, not days, before.) But I'm still jiggling my leg, this time in tingling anticipation of the Easter service, because I expect it to be a leg-shaking affair.

The big dates on the church calendar are like babies to me. The birthing process is messy and painful, but it’s worth it, both for the anticipation and exhilaration of the end result. The gestation period goes like this:

2-6 months out – worry. put off any decisions or action. worry. repeat.
50 days out – get an idea, a unifying spiritual or artistic theme which greases the whole creative process. the service then comes together in the next 48 hours.
2 weeks out – pull hair out.
7 days out – shop for a new easter dress.

This year, we’re raiding the shapenote songbook. I picked up American Angels by the Anonymous 4 and found several stunning old hymns that really work for Easter. In our enlightened times, we tend to gloss over death and live like it doesn’t happen, but there’s a great tradition of stark, gothic death hymns in traditional Appalachian music. One gets the impression these writers were more adept--probably by necessity--at wrestling with death in their writing. I also like these songs because I can connect them with what I know historically of my ancestors, or at least the ancestors of people from these parts. There’s a spookiness in those historical connections that really lends itself to facing mortality. After all, the writers are dead now.

And they weren’t afraid to celebrate, either. Those that bury their own will have a perspective on resurrection that I simply do not. But it’s nice to tap into that when I need to be reminded of death’s impermanence.

So, it's a few days out, and I’m ready to shake a leg. About 11:30 on Sunday, after hearing how Christ healed a crippled woman, and after celebrating his death, Bill will start that freight-train bluegrass shuffle, and Matt will launch into that crazy banjo solo on I’ll Fly Away, and I won’t be bitching anymore. I’ll be alive and jiggling, and thinking about Home.

The Great Palm Caper of '05

Let's just suppose, for the sake of discussion, that you were employed by a certain church, and that it was your responsibility to procure some palms for Palm Sunday. In the past, people (including yourself) have dropped the ball and forgotten or failed to reserve any palms in time, drawing the ire of your boss and grumblings from the congregation.

This year, you made sure to order them early enough and you paid for your order with a credit card to ensure your palms were reserved for you only. You only need pick them up later in the week.

But then, due to the general craziness of your life and of pre-Easter season in particular, you don't think about the palms again until, say, 5:45 on Saturday. "Whew," you think to yourself. "Good thing they stay open until 6pm."

A quick phone call to let them know you are coming:

"Actually, sir, we closed at 5:00 today."
"What?! Okay, well you're obviously still there. Can I still come by? They're paid for and everything, so I just need to pick them up."
"I'm just the answering service. I'm not actually at the shop."
"What?!"
"But you can go by and see if there's still anyone lingering around."

At this point, you realize that you might have managed to spend church money on palms that won't actually be available until Palm Monday. You slap yourself on the forehead and curse under your breath. You envision trying to explain this the next morning. The palms you do have begin to sweat. Your driving becomes frantic and unsafe.

There is no car in the front lot, but through the window, you can see some lights on in the back of the building. A few loud raps on the door prompts no signs of life. In despair, you look around and contemplate hurling your sorry self in front of a speeding MARTA bus.

You figure you'll check around back. Can't hurt. There is a car. You knock on the back door, but still nobody answers and you can see that the only lit room is empty. Peering through window, you want in so badly that your hand instinctively grabs and rotates the doorknob.

To your surprise, it opens right up.

Uh-oh.

Now you've got a dilemma. "Hello?" Nobody answers. You step inside. "Helloooo?" You see a security unit on the wall which is active, but apparently not armed. You quickly locate a single stash of palms in the freezer. They are not labeled, but they appear to be your order. You stand still in the hallway, heart pounding, clutching the palms trying to do the math on which would be more embarrassing: forgetting the palms or missing the service altogether because you were incarcerated for breaking and entering. You imagine how you will explain your behavior to police. "No, no, see, technically these are my palms..."

Minutes later, you still have not moved, and no police have arrived. You have to make a decision and live with it. Do you play it safe, put the palms back, and take the bullet honorably? Or do you go with the assumption that they are your order, cover your failure and avert a probable Palm Sunday disaster?

What would you do?

Surprise

I'm thinking about a couple real posts, but until I have a chance to write them, I give you this picture I found in the news. I'm not sure what to say about this picture, other than the obvious: Michael Jackson has really had a little too much work done.

This, as well as those monkeys with the bulbous red buttocks, is the sort of thing that makes me think God must really have a sense of humor. It kind of makes you wonder what a Tarsier looks like when he's surprised.

Do you have a caption for this photo?

80% chance of rain (and other lies)

Late Saturday night we were sitting around the campfire sipping "vanilla vibe" faux instant coffee when we heard a voice from the darkness.

"Howdy. Po-leece."

I could just make out a very large male moving towards us. He was marching right into our campsite. Because this stranger walked with such purpose, and fact that this was the site where Deliverance was filmed, I was alarmed.

"What's that?"

"Po-leece. Just checkin' on y'all."

The forest is just black at this hour so we couldn't make out his uniform or the bulge of weapons around his waist. He was almost upon us before we realized he was a bonafide law enforcement officer.

He began to ask us a few friendly questions, probably to get a feel for whether we were the kind of campers he needed to keep an eye on or not. When we told him we were from Atlanta, he drawled something about "the big ol' mess down there". Now, it's quite common for someone from Rabun County refer to Atlanta in general as a "big ol' mess", but he went on to tell us about a series of shootings that we, having been in the woods for a couple days, knew nothing about. I wouldn't find out until I got home that the shooter used the MARTA station a couple blocks from my house and killed a man in the adjoining neighborhood.

So it was a good time to be in the woods. Not only did we manage to miss a big ol' mess of a shooting spree, but the weather was picture perfect, even on Saturday, when the forecast was for rain and cold. This really could not have been a better trip, unless it were just longer. I can't fully explain the restorative powers of a weekend under the stars, in the woods, by the river, but I almost feel like another person when I return. I also can't explain the study that Jane referenced, but I believe in the bonding power of camping. And a good fire just may be a more powerful social lubricant than a couple cold ones.

I also can't recommend the area around Clayton, GA enough. It's situated (as the locals say) a "mite" under 2 hours from Atlanta. In the hills East of Clayton, the Chatooga River, Warwoman Creek, Bartram Trail, and Chatooga River Trail, and Sandy Ford Bike Trail all pass within a couple miles of each other, which means in two days you can bike, hike, camp, fish and kayak, all without getting back into your car. And it's public land, so there are no fees.

On Saturday afternoon, some local teenagers showed up in pickup trucks, PBRs in hand, but they merely wrestled, pissed, and left. Otherwise, we pretty much had the area to ourselves.

So here are some images. If you look carefully, you'll see ChristinaG peeling the perfect orange and AmyS rescuing ChadN from certain death at Dick's Creek Falls.

Camping Forecast

They're also predicting an 85% chance of miserable...

Jhori Kids

In the Himilayan foothills of north India, Manoj runs a school for the kids from the surrounding villages. He has a poorly paid staff of teachers and now about 60 kids that are learning how to read and write and sing songs like "Deep and Wide". The school represents a peculiar educational opportunity for these kids and a chance to hear the Gospel.

A couple of years ago I visited Jhori with some other folks to help lay the foundation for the new school building. The greatest obstacle they've faced is funding, and to be frank, a few dollars goes a long way there, so your gifts are more valuable than you imagine.

three of the teachers in the mud house they share

the staff and their families

goin' to work with the sling blade. some folks call it a kaiser blade; i call it a sling blade.

laying the foundation

the students in their classroom

Manoj shows abe a few licks, while nasreen looks on

the dinner table