Recently, I joined with three other adults and we took a trip. One of the things that become apparent right away was that stopping for a meal was not as easy as it used to be.
One is a vegetarian.
Two are gluten-intolerant.
We just couldn't pull up to the rest stop Mickey D's and order whatever sounded tempting. Did you know that McDonald's adds gluten to their fries? Did you know that many restaurants add pancake batter to their omelets?
And since the reason for the trip was a wedding, there was the reception. And the rehearsal dinner. Three of us don't drink alcohol. I've known for a long time that I would probably handle certain social situations better if I did drink. Doing life sober when you are an introvert should get me some extra points, don't you think?
Which brings me to my point.
There once was a time when certain folks understood holiness to be primarily about what folks didn't do. "No, I don't do that."
"No, I don't go there."
"No, I won't be having any of that."
(When I was in college and being introduced to this way of thinking, a girl turned me down for a date by informing me that good Christian girls don't go to the Ringling Bros./Barnum & Bailey Circus. It wasn't the first nor the last time I was turned down, but it certainly was the most unusual.)
The folks that believed holiness was primarily about what you didn't do also believed that this lifestyle would be attractive to those who did those things. That abstinence would encourage folks to ask about the Jesus who was supposedly behind all of this. (Yeah, I know -Jesus went to a wedding and turned water into wine. That requires some of the most creative biblical exegesis imaginable.)
Well, I don't drink. and I still think it is a pretty good choice. I don't consider myself better than those who do drink, but doing life sober - apart from the awkward social situations - is the best choice for me. However, I would suggest that what we don't do is not near as attractive as what we do: things like loving our neighbor as ourself, showing compassion, and turning the other cheek.
You know - like Jesus did.
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
Thursday, June 27, 2013
Remembering a Bad Time
On this week, 35 years ago, as a 22 year old, I traveled from my parents' home in the suburbs of Baltimore to Columbus, OH. A month earlier I graduated from college, and was now about to pursue my first graduate degree - a M.A. in counseling at The Ohio State University.
It was the worst year of my life.
While I had experienced anxiety in the past, and had even tried - and failed - at talking to a therapist, everything just got worse once I arrived in Columbus. I experienced panic attacks, followed by anticipatory anxiety. then free-floating anxiety. For a number of reasons, I lost connection with my college friends, and failed to develop new relationships. I was fairly competent in my coursework, but pretty much failed at the normal logistics of everyday life. I was okay at work (cataloging and shelving books in the OSU law library and working with junior high kids of divorced parents), but otherwise could not figure out how to do life.
You would think that, as the year drew to a close, I would have been excited to finish up and get out of that place. However, the anxiety just got worse. I was afraid to be alone, yet did not know how to relate to others. On one occasion, out of desperation, I asked some people I knew if I could just sleep on their couch. I needed to know that I was not losing my mind. They saw my heightened state of anxiety and stayed up with me. We sat up, talked philosophy (even though I was the only one interested in the subject), and played cards. And we prayed. They saw I needed the human contact, even though I seemed to have forgotten how to respond to it. Their ministry of presence was a saving grace to me that night.
Looking back, remembering that year, I am thankful for it.
I learned that I experience life differently from other people. I learned that I know little about the normal human interaction that most folks take for granted, and is the core of their relational life.I learned that I may never be very good at the daily, normal activities of life. However, I also learned that I have an acute awareness of the existential pain that is just under the surface for many of my fellow humans, and I can often see it in their eyes, and hear it in their voice.
Mostly, I learned that there is such a thing as a ministry of presence, and it is often the most helpful way to offer grace in the world. I can let others know that they are seen and heard, that they are not alone. I can let them know that they are not being judged, categorized or critiqued. I can let them know that I was once where they are, and am not there now. But I remember.
It was the worst year of my life.
While I had experienced anxiety in the past, and had even tried - and failed - at talking to a therapist, everything just got worse once I arrived in Columbus. I experienced panic attacks, followed by anticipatory anxiety. then free-floating anxiety. For a number of reasons, I lost connection with my college friends, and failed to develop new relationships. I was fairly competent in my coursework, but pretty much failed at the normal logistics of everyday life. I was okay at work (cataloging and shelving books in the OSU law library and working with junior high kids of divorced parents), but otherwise could not figure out how to do life.
You would think that, as the year drew to a close, I would have been excited to finish up and get out of that place. However, the anxiety just got worse. I was afraid to be alone, yet did not know how to relate to others. On one occasion, out of desperation, I asked some people I knew if I could just sleep on their couch. I needed to know that I was not losing my mind. They saw my heightened state of anxiety and stayed up with me. We sat up, talked philosophy (even though I was the only one interested in the subject), and played cards. And we prayed. They saw I needed the human contact, even though I seemed to have forgotten how to respond to it. Their ministry of presence was a saving grace to me that night.
Looking back, remembering that year, I am thankful for it.
I learned that I experience life differently from other people. I learned that I know little about the normal human interaction that most folks take for granted, and is the core of their relational life.I learned that I may never be very good at the daily, normal activities of life. However, I also learned that I have an acute awareness of the existential pain that is just under the surface for many of my fellow humans, and I can often see it in their eyes, and hear it in their voice.
Mostly, I learned that there is such a thing as a ministry of presence, and it is often the most helpful way to offer grace in the world. I can let others know that they are seen and heard, that they are not alone. I can let them know that they are not being judged, categorized or critiqued. I can let them know that I was once where they are, and am not there now. But I remember.
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
Hope
This is another post from Odist Abettor, a singer/songwriter living in Nashville. He always gives me something profound to think about. And he reminds me that hope is seldom comfortable.
Why I Write Angry Songs About Hope
And that's why we speak of hope like a
spark.
It ignites.
It begins.
It can, at times, be so visibly different from its environment that the contrast--which may one day be quite illuminating--is in the moment glaringly offensive.
Hope isn't the butter on your popcorn when you sit down to watch a movie about the good ol' days.
Hope isn't the cool glass of lemonade you sip, sweet and crisp, at the end of a long, hard day.
Nah, hope...
if it comes in any liquid form besides an infinitely corrosive and foul-smelling acid...
if it's any sort of refreshingly cold water...
it's the kind they chuck at runners as they pass.
if it's water at all...
maybe it's the violent rushing stream from the hose...
pushing you down
and back
and letting you know that you got someone up there angry enough to slip up
because hope is the spark
and Eden is burning.
It ignites.
It begins.
It can, at times, be so visibly different from its environment that the contrast--which may one day be quite illuminating--is in the moment glaringly offensive.
Hope isn't the butter on your popcorn when you sit down to watch a movie about the good ol' days.
Hope isn't the cool glass of lemonade you sip, sweet and crisp, at the end of a long, hard day.
Nah, hope...
if it comes in any liquid form besides an infinitely corrosive and foul-smelling acid...
if it's any sort of refreshingly cold water...
it's the kind they chuck at runners as they pass.
if it's water at all...
maybe it's the violent rushing stream from the hose...
pushing you down
and back
and letting you know that you got someone up there angry enough to slip up
because hope is the spark
and Eden is burning.
Monday, June 10, 2013
Guest Post - New Shoes
Today, my guest blogger is Odist Abettor. Actually, it is my son Luke Schutz, who is a poet, singer and songwriter living in Nashville. I appreciate his journey and the honesty he shares in his poems, songs and blogs. If you do not follow him, check him out at http://odistabettormusic.blogspot.com and
means walking down their street in their shoes
hearing the jeers and the cat calls
as you speed up in their shoes
getting stopped by the police
for wearing their shoes
having to listen to the ignorant disregard
of those who still wear your shoes
because you wear their shoes
letting your shoes become their shoes
and their shoes become your shoes
while still knowing they can never be our shoes
because each have their own
in which we all must walk
our own shoes for our own roads
yours, theirs, mine
sure
but what matters is what happens
when you put back on your shoes
knowing all along you never really took them off
and let your time in their shoes
affect where and how and why you walk
in your own
Saturday, June 8, 2013
Guest Post- Uncomfortable
Today, my guest blogger is Odist Abettor. Actually, it is my son Luke Schutz, who is a poet, singer and songwriter living in Nashville. I appreciate his journey and the honesty he shares in his poems, songs and blogs. If you do not follow him, check him out at http://odistabettormusic.blogspot.com and
In continuing my thoughts on actual utopia (remember not the
silly individualistic kind but the real better world), I’d like to say
something about equality.
I think it shouldn’t surprise me as much as it often does when the words of those critiquing inequality in society make me uncomfortable. When a world exists where a significant shift has occurred toward racial, sexual, ethnic, and/or class equality, my upbringing and current existence within a culture of inequality will make living in such a new society very uncomfortable for me. No matter how good my intentions or how open-minded, tolerant, and loving I can try to be, I must accept that this is all so new to me.
It’s okay to be uncomfortable, confused, even scared. Change feels like that. Even good change is hard to come by. The fires of revolution line a road of glass and coals not soft grass.
This not only means that I need to grow toward bravery in terms of speaking the hard truths I know need to be said but also in the humility of being able to listen to the hard truths that others have to say and I desperately need to hear.
It’s okay to be uncomfortable.
In fact, it’s necessary.
I think it shouldn’t surprise me as much as it often does when the words of those critiquing inequality in society make me uncomfortable. When a world exists where a significant shift has occurred toward racial, sexual, ethnic, and/or class equality, my upbringing and current existence within a culture of inequality will make living in such a new society very uncomfortable for me. No matter how good my intentions or how open-minded, tolerant, and loving I can try to be, I must accept that this is all so new to me.
It’s okay to be uncomfortable, confused, even scared. Change feels like that. Even good change is hard to come by. The fires of revolution line a road of glass and coals not soft grass.
This not only means that I need to grow toward bravery in terms of speaking the hard truths I know need to be said but also in the humility of being able to listen to the hard truths that others have to say and I desperately need to hear.
It’s okay to be uncomfortable.
In fact, it’s necessary.
Monday, May 13, 2013
Launching Butterflies
Monday mornings are fairly structured for me. I arrive at church around 7:30am, check correspondence, and then listen to the sermon from the previous weekend. I spend a few moments beating myself up for missed points, poor transitions, muttering, stuttering and other problems of delivery - but then I move on. I go into the sanctuary, onto the platform, and stand at the pulpit. Bible in hand, I read the Scripture passage for the coming week's sermon. I pray, and then I begin expanding my initial outline. This is a process I have followed rather compulsively most Monday mornings for a decade.
This Monday I was in the middle of it, standing in the pulpit, when I received a phone call from Kathy, our Academy director. It is unusual for her to call me, as she usually texts me with any normal situations or prayer requests, so I quickly answered the phone.
Kathy: Hi Mike. Are you busy?
Me: What's up?
Kathy: We are launching butterflies, and it is really special.
Me: You are launching fireflies?
Kathy: No, we are launching butterflies that we have in the classroom as cocoons. You will want to see this.
So, I put down my books, set aside my iPad, and left the sanctuary. I walked across the parking lot to the front of the Academy building. There were several preschool classes standing on the front lawn, watching the kindergarten class carefully removing butterflies from a netted cage. The children cheered as each butterfly took flight.
One boy came over to me, told me how much fun this is, and showed me where some of the butterflies had landed in a flower patch. Other children giggled, smiled and laughed.
Kathy was right. This was special.
So, the next time someone invites you to launch butterflies, I encourage you to put down your books, turn off your computer, and go watch. And, if you ever have the opportunity to launch butterflies, make sure to invite someone to join you.
This Monday I was in the middle of it, standing in the pulpit, when I received a phone call from Kathy, our Academy director. It is unusual for her to call me, as she usually texts me with any normal situations or prayer requests, so I quickly answered the phone.
Kathy: Hi Mike. Are you busy?
Me: What's up?
Kathy: We are launching butterflies, and it is really special.
Me: You are launching fireflies?
Kathy: No, we are launching butterflies that we have in the classroom as cocoons. You will want to see this.
So, I put down my books, set aside my iPad, and left the sanctuary. I walked across the parking lot to the front of the Academy building. There were several preschool classes standing on the front lawn, watching the kindergarten class carefully removing butterflies from a netted cage. The children cheered as each butterfly took flight.
One boy came over to me, told me how much fun this is, and showed me where some of the butterflies had landed in a flower patch. Other children giggled, smiled and laughed.
Kathy was right. This was special.
So, the next time someone invites you to launch butterflies, I encourage you to put down your books, turn off your computer, and go watch. And, if you ever have the opportunity to launch butterflies, make sure to invite someone to join you.
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
Holy Week with Kathryn and Bill *
I met Kathryn and Bill* during the week between Palm Sunday and Easter - the week Christians often call Holy Week.
Kathryn came by on Good Friday to get some food from our compassionate ministry program called The Bridge. This is not the first time I have met Kathryn, but she thinks it is. All of us at The Bridge have known her since we started the ministry in 2003, but she doesn't remember. It's not that she is cognitively unable to remember. Kathryn is fairly intelligent. It's just that she has trouble keeping track of all the churches and ministries she has visited over the years. Kathryn is one of those folks who visit the hodgepodge of programs, ministries, and volunteers to get what they believe they need. And she is fairly good at it. And she is very good at wearing down those who try to help her. She will let you know if she is unhappy with your offer of a box of food or clothing. "I really need gift cards. Don't you have some supermarket gift cards? This food is just not good enough. You people really don't care about my family." Kathryn is the type of person folks who work in these ministries know all too well - the folks that make it hard to believe that the story you are hearing is the truth. You always feel like you are being duped - kind of like how you feel when you talk to a car salesman.
When I received a call from my friend at another church, saying Kathryn had been in touch ("Mike, do you know anything about her?" "Oh, yes, we all know Kathryn.") and needed food for her family for Easter, I told him to have her come by. He said she wanted gift cards, and we don't have them, but I would give her a box of food. I knew she wouldn't come during our normal hours on Tuesday evening, as she doesn't like to stand in line, or sit in a room with others, waiting.
Kathryn came at 6:45pm on Good Friday, just a half hour before our area ministerium's Good Friday worship service, which we hosted this year. I was just showing the speaker for the evening where he could wait for the other ministers, when word came from the foyer that someone was here needing food. This is not unusual on a Sunday morning, and we usually have folks at that time to help, but our regular greeters and ushers were not here, so I went to the foyer and saw Kathryn and a young teenager. It was Cindy,* who I remember as just a toddler when we first met her mom. I took them downstairs to sit while I prepared a box of food. As I brought out the box Kathryn asked if we had any sheets, so I invited her into the room where we have such things. I tried not to rush them, but all the while I was aware that I was supposed to be upstairs, being a good host to the ministers and guests who were arriving for the worship service. Kathryn and Cindy spent about 10 minutes looking through and choosing several things. I gave them two bags to carry the sheets, pillow cases, blankets, a teddy bear and a vase. I then carried the food box to her car. A man whom I did not recognize was driving, and we smiled at each other. I placed the box in the car and, as I walked away I heard Kathryn say, "They gave us crap. I was promised an Easter dinner and they gave us crap."
I thought a lot about what she said. And I realized that I'm a lot like Kathryn.
An hour or so later I met Bill. It was after the Good Friday service ended and folks were leaving the sanctuary. I looked over and saw a young adult man praying, sitting with head bowed in a pew. Just then Ray, a tall, friendly man with dreadlocks who owns a barber shop and sends his daughters to our preschool, came up to tell me that his wife is pregnant with their fourth child - and we can expect this child in our school in 2016. He saw me look over toward the man who was praying and said, "That's Bill. He was in the shop. He just has a scooter and it was starting to get dark, so I offered him a ride. He said, 'I'm going to the Nazarene,' and I told him I was coming here too, for the service. Don't know much about him, but he's a good guy." Ray thinks everyone's a good guy.
I walked over and sat next to Bill. We talked for 20 minutes or so, easily moving between conversation and praying. He told me he had sensed a peace during the service, and it was just what he needed. He also said, "My life is pretty much a disaster. But I feel good here, right now." We prayed again, and I told him how he can reach me, and that I hoped to see him on Sunday - and maybe he'd like to come back on Tuesday night to get some food and maybe help out.
Bill came back on Sunday morning, and we got to talk again. He hung around for fellowship time afterwards, ate a cupcake and some fruit, and made conversation with several folks. He said he'd be back.
* of course, not their real names
Kathryn came by on Good Friday to get some food from our compassionate ministry program called The Bridge. This is not the first time I have met Kathryn, but she thinks it is. All of us at The Bridge have known her since we started the ministry in 2003, but she doesn't remember. It's not that she is cognitively unable to remember. Kathryn is fairly intelligent. It's just that she has trouble keeping track of all the churches and ministries she has visited over the years. Kathryn is one of those folks who visit the hodgepodge of programs, ministries, and volunteers to get what they believe they need. And she is fairly good at it. And she is very good at wearing down those who try to help her. She will let you know if she is unhappy with your offer of a box of food or clothing. "I really need gift cards. Don't you have some supermarket gift cards? This food is just not good enough. You people really don't care about my family." Kathryn is the type of person folks who work in these ministries know all too well - the folks that make it hard to believe that the story you are hearing is the truth. You always feel like you are being duped - kind of like how you feel when you talk to a car salesman.
When I received a call from my friend at another church, saying Kathryn had been in touch ("Mike, do you know anything about her?" "Oh, yes, we all know Kathryn.") and needed food for her family for Easter, I told him to have her come by. He said she wanted gift cards, and we don't have them, but I would give her a box of food. I knew she wouldn't come during our normal hours on Tuesday evening, as she doesn't like to stand in line, or sit in a room with others, waiting.
Kathryn came at 6:45pm on Good Friday, just a half hour before our area ministerium's Good Friday worship service, which we hosted this year. I was just showing the speaker for the evening where he could wait for the other ministers, when word came from the foyer that someone was here needing food. This is not unusual on a Sunday morning, and we usually have folks at that time to help, but our regular greeters and ushers were not here, so I went to the foyer and saw Kathryn and a young teenager. It was Cindy,* who I remember as just a toddler when we first met her mom. I took them downstairs to sit while I prepared a box of food. As I brought out the box Kathryn asked if we had any sheets, so I invited her into the room where we have such things. I tried not to rush them, but all the while I was aware that I was supposed to be upstairs, being a good host to the ministers and guests who were arriving for the worship service. Kathryn and Cindy spent about 10 minutes looking through and choosing several things. I gave them two bags to carry the sheets, pillow cases, blankets, a teddy bear and a vase. I then carried the food box to her car. A man whom I did not recognize was driving, and we smiled at each other. I placed the box in the car and, as I walked away I heard Kathryn say, "They gave us crap. I was promised an Easter dinner and they gave us crap."
I thought a lot about what she said. And I realized that I'm a lot like Kathryn.
An hour or so later I met Bill. It was after the Good Friday service ended and folks were leaving the sanctuary. I looked over and saw a young adult man praying, sitting with head bowed in a pew. Just then Ray, a tall, friendly man with dreadlocks who owns a barber shop and sends his daughters to our preschool, came up to tell me that his wife is pregnant with their fourth child - and we can expect this child in our school in 2016. He saw me look over toward the man who was praying and said, "That's Bill. He was in the shop. He just has a scooter and it was starting to get dark, so I offered him a ride. He said, 'I'm going to the Nazarene,' and I told him I was coming here too, for the service. Don't know much about him, but he's a good guy." Ray thinks everyone's a good guy.
I walked over and sat next to Bill. We talked for 20 minutes or so, easily moving between conversation and praying. He told me he had sensed a peace during the service, and it was just what he needed. He also said, "My life is pretty much a disaster. But I feel good here, right now." We prayed again, and I told him how he can reach me, and that I hoped to see him on Sunday - and maybe he'd like to come back on Tuesday night to get some food and maybe help out.
Bill came back on Sunday morning, and we got to talk again. He hung around for fellowship time afterwards, ate a cupcake and some fruit, and made conversation with several folks. He said he'd be back.
* of course, not their real names
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