Thanksgiving Lessons from the Farm

I love my grandpa's stories.  Some I've heard five or six times (they get embellished a little more each time) and I get a little impatient for him to just get to the punch line... but on this Thanksgiving break, I heard a few new ones...

We were on our way up to "The Ol' Saw Mill" a working mill that my Grandpa bought 30 years ago for about $3,000.  The story goes that back before he had his mill, when one of the trees on his property would fall (due to rot or lightning or age) he would haul it to the local sawyer for him to cut it up into useful boards of lumber.  Well, when Hurricane Hugo came 'round this sawyer had so much work that Grandpa's logs just sat there at his shop.  Grandpa Harry would call every now and then and this Sawyer said, "I'll get to it when I can."  Two years later, Grandpa drove to the shop himself and the logs were still sitting there, only now they were unusable due to old age.  That's when my Grandpa decided to get his own.  He found a spot out on his property that was mostly level and he built a shelter and then customized the mill to fit his needs (tractor driven, not diesel engine driven).

[The long-haired gentleman is my Uncle John, the dude with the beanie is my cousin, Joe]

That's the Morris way.  When we come up against something that's too expensive or too much trouble, we start thinking and plotting to do it "on our own."  Grandpa chuckled and said, "there isn't much a Morris is afraid to tackle."  

After making some repairs to the sawdust excavating mechanism, we fired her up and sliced up a 2 ton log into 2x4's that my uncle John will use in his next project.  It was so much fun, and I worked up quite a sweat trying to keep up with how fast my Grandpa was cutting them.

"You know, my daddy was a sawyer," he said.  We had shut off the mill and were sitting there, enjoying the crisp air and sunshine.  "He owned 3 mills, and had 7 teams of lumberjacks working for him."  I sensed some pride and perhaps a little sadness in my Grandpa's voice.  "He also owned a general store, a cafe, and a handful of other shops in town."  He paused.  His eyes twinkled.  "But I don't know what he did in his spare time."

"I visited the town I grew up in (a small town in Alabama) not too long ago, just to see if it was just as I remembered it," he said.  "After walking around for a bit, memories flooding back, I stopped at a malt shop for a cold drink.  A man walked up to me who I had never seen before, and looked me deep in the eyes and said, 'are you little Henry?'  (aside)  Henry was my Daddy's name.  I told the man that yes, Henry was my father, and he sat right down next to me and said, "That's what I thought!  Son, my name is _____, and I've been the town mayor for 20 years now.  Let me tell you a story about yer daddy."

"I came to this town 30 years ago, hungry, broken, separated from my wife and child, and with not a dollar to my name.  I couldn't find a job or even a drop of kindness to help me get back on my feet.  Then I met yer daddy.  He heard my story and felt pity.  He gave me a steady job, a warm meal, and even let me stay at his place until I could afford to move out on my own.  After a little while, I could afford to go get my wife and kid and move them here with me.  I ran for mayor and have always been active in helping this community that helped me so long ago.  Son, yer daddy saved my life, and I just thought you should know what a great man he was."

Now, at this point in the story, I have to offer a little bit of background.  You see, my Grandpa never really knew his father personally.  It's a little fuzzy, but I think it's because he passed away before my Grandpa was old enough to know him.  From what I can recall from my dad's stories, my Grandpa had to assume the role of Father for his family when he was still just a boy.  Hearing these words from the Mayor of his old town must have really meant a lot to him.

There are times when I have felt disconnected from my father.  Times when he has seemed too stubborn or too private or too perfect to approach.  I know I have felt bitterness, even anger at him for not being understandable or accessible to me.  But this trip with my Grandpa has taught me that even when you don't fully understand your father, you have his blood running in you- and you have the people around you that have been affected by him.  There's often more going on in his life than you know- there's more at stake than what makes sense to a boy- and to cut him some slack is the right thing to do.  The parts in me that I am proud of- the "entrepreneur spirit," a sense of determination, physical strength, a respect for the divine-- these things are in my dad and in my Grandfather and in my Great-Grandfather.  

These things will not easily fade.  They make us who we are.

The Fourth Leg

Some good friends of mine have been playfully arguing over a leg.

My Anglican friend says that the solid foundation of a Christian is like a 3 legged stool:
1.  Scripture
2.  Reason
3.  Tradition
Neither the Bible, nor the authority or the Church, nor the reasoning intellect can claim the last word, but together they offer a balanced way to discern the will of God.  This metaphor was created in the 16th century by Richard Hooker.


My other friend says that these three legs are great, but are unbalanced until you add the 4th leg: Experience.


The 1st friend replies, "Yes, experience is important, but only as they fit into the long line of Tradition."


So.


I am musing on the importance or unimportance of my own experiences with God.  This issue is also made poignant to me based on how my life has been greatly affected by Christians who have placed a HUGE emphasis on their own experience of God to make decisions regarding me.  (For those who don't know, I was kicked out of church leadership because they "felt" I was leading in a different direction than they wanted to go, not based on Scripture, Reason, or Tradition.)


First question: Does my experience of God matter?  YES.  I am certain that I am not just a speck in the universe, nor a drop of water in a bottomless ocean-- I am convinced that my God loves ME, specifically, and cares so much that he knows the number of hairs on my head.  


Second question: Is my experience of God ever misleading?  Hm.  Yeah, I guess it is.  I have sometimes felt convinced that God hated me or was just punishing me for the hell of it, or that He stopped caring-- and to this day I know that although those feelings were very strong in me, they were lies.  Perhaps also in times when I have been blissfully in the arms of a loving God, prancing in the clouds and raising my hands in worship and critiquing others who were not "feeling it" like I was-- perhaps then I was being misled as to whether or not that really was a "God moment" or me just in love with feeling in love.  Perhaps when times are tough we think that must be God's sign to kick someone out of our community.


Third question: How does God want me to interact with (or worship) Him?  Shit.  I wrestle with this constantly.  I see in scripture His emphasis on ACTION: taking care of the poor, being good stewards of money, loving His creation, etc... and then I see His disregard of OVERACTING: the famous "Martha, Martha" passage in which he tells the sister who is serving everyone so diligently to just sit down like her sibling and enjoy His presence.  There's a tough balance here.  


Fourth question: Maybe the metaphor of the three-or-four legged stool breaks down?


There's nothing in scripture that says to create the perfect metaphor to discern the will of God.  There are times when God is "gently whispering" and other times God has just blatantly said, "Ah hell, I'm just gonna come out and say it out loud so you don't get confused!"  Sometimes it lines up neatly with Scripture, Tradition, and Reason, and sometimes it DOESN'T.  (Side note: any time someone says, "I'd like to see you back that up with scripture" I laugh because of how many weird-ass things you can "back up" with scripture.  I.e.- God approves of the brutal mauling of kids who tease their elders about being bald, God approves of having multiple wives, God insists on women having their heads covered in church, etc.)


Although we've seen how the metaphor breaks down, I still believe there is truth in honoring scripture, reason, and tradition in deciphering God's will for us.  And with that, there is danger in adding a 4th element: MY experience.  So, I guess I am going with the Anglicans on this one.  Although I AM important to God, if He wants to give me individual direction and instruction I must LEAVE THAT UP TO HIM (like a burning bush or a soaked fleece).  If God has not come down in a blinding vision (or other miracle), then I have no right to say, "I believe God is telling me to do such and such."  My role within the Church universal is never to raise my own experiences above all others.

Words I didn't write: Teddy Said it Best

Words from Sarah Cunningham.  They spoke to my soul.  Enjoy:

I hope I‘m not the only person whose life circles back to different versions of the same question:

Should I sink my energy into tackling new ambitious projects? Into chasing some noble goal?

Or … should my ambition be to relax off the hero button for a while; to settle into a more natural, less-stressful life rhythm? Could the simple acts of living and loving somehow be just as noble?

To top it all off, I face this question without the infamously Christian “life verse”. (I have a life Bible, does that count?)

I don’t even have a life mission statement tacked to my mirror or refrigerator or car dashboard.

What I do have is a little visual that’s all my own. It doesn’t feel commercial or gimmicky or demanded of me by some charismatic leadership figure. The visual is inspired by a quote that I ran across a long time ago and it stuck in my soul like a dart to a bullseye.

The quote is from Teddy Roosevelt.

It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.

The visual in my mind when I read it is a mix of all the epic arena scenes—a little bit Ben Hur, a little bit Gladiator, maybe even a little bit Rudy.

All of those arenas boil down to a visual, something I could sketch for you on one of those old school transparencies that people used to lay on projectors. In the scene, there are two main spaces—the playing field where champions do battle and the platformed seats where spectators sit.

The obvious thing to say here is that I want to be the man in the arena, right?

And I do. I would rather be criticized for attempting something valiant, than to never know what it tastes like to do so. I want to spend as much time on the field as I possibly can. I want to always believe there is one more fight to be had. To thirst for my Rocky 5, 6, and 7.

BUT … the older I get, the more I believe that although I want to spend the majority of life in the arena, it’s not healthy to live one’s whole life there.

People who try to fight every day, day after day, often become unnaturally exhausted. Their leadership starts to come from a desperate place; they start to develop ruthless qualities that subtract from their humanity.

Some days, its right to pour it out on the playing field—to bleed and be wounded with the best of them. But on a few reserved days or stretches of life, it might be just as right to sit on the sidelines; to recoup, to learn, and to believe in someone else’s battle.

That’s not less courage or nobility talking, it’s the wisdom life beats into me.

Because here’s the thing: I want to spend the majority of life in the arena, not just now—not just for this year, not just for this decade, but for the long haul. Forty years from now, if you check in on me, I want you to see me armoring up my frail, elderly body and leading a new charge.

To love the arena life that long requires a balance, I think. It means loving the many days where I grit my teeth and fight, but to equally love the life stages when it’s my turn to experience renewal and invest in or celebrate someone else advancing.

Sunday

The morning light creeps in like a silent lion in the grass

One eye opens, then another

I know what day it is.

I can sense my longing

I can sense my trepidation

You see, I have begun to attend a service

Yes, me, the cynic, in a small sacred space

Next to a dentist's office.

Why have I come?

No easy answer here

Do they "get it right"?

Is their music powerful and excellent?

Does the pastor preach dynamite sermons?

Do they pour into the community?

Is there a sense of deep respect for tradition, participation, and The Other?

No to the first 3.

Yes on the fourth and fifth.

I am not judged.

Though I do feel the Lord's gaze

He may wonder where I've been

And how long since my last confession

But

I am welcomed to the Table

With all my shit behind me

I kneel, on a cushy pad

next to those who have given me peace

And I accept the gift of Christ

And I fear Him but I love Him

And I remember His death and life

And when I cross myself after I have sipped the wine

After the priest has leaned down and whispered

And I have smelled his sweet breath

And seen his furrowed brow

Under robes of white

I know that I have died again

I know that I will live

And that Christ has provided and sustained

So I may live

and believe

And I do

The Coffee Post

Here it is: my philosophy on coffee in America.  I know you've all been waiting for it.

Coffee is a fantastic thing.  Like wine, from a single sip you can taste the soil and climate of the region in which it is grown... and unlike wine, you can drink it in the morning without feeling guilty!  Within just one small cup a discerning tongue can experience the softBut there's a catch.  Just because you CAN taste the true quality of the bean and the integrity of the farmers and the soil where it was grown doesn't mean that you actually will.  And why won't you?

1. Most Americans only see coffee as they see gasoline for their cars.  They need it to keep going, but they don't really notice a difference in quality but they complain constantly about the price.  So what happens?  Companies like Folgers capitalize on offering the cheapest coffee out there.  They don't need quality--they just need quantity.  So they dangle the carrot of granting them business with the farmer who can get the most coffee with the least amount of money.  Who needs integrity/quality when your paycheck is determined by how fast you work for the least amount of money?  And right now, there's a surplus of coffee in the world-- there's heavy competition out there for these poor farmers that are just trying to feed their families.

2. Your barista has NO IDEA what he is doing.  Most baristas out there (and I've seen my share of them) get trained like this: "Put this and this in that cup and put a lid on it and call it a 'Double-tall nonfat wet cappuccino.'"  They don't know WHY.  They don't understand what a good shot is supposed to taste like, or worse, THEY DON'T EVEN LIKE COFFEE.  Sigh.  This is probably the most frustrating thing for me.  Why can't these people work for Verizon or Dairy Queen (products they use) so they can practice what they preach?

So, where do you fit in to all this?

YOU, my friend, have more power over these coffee farmer's lives and communities than you think.  While I was with Starbucks (snicker snicker, yeah yeah, I know) they showed me that some of the farmers that they had partnerships with really had the chance to build a better life for themselves and their families, while others changed their entire city.  Starbucks (and other coffee purveyors like Peets and Counter Culture and Stumptown) invest in their coffee farmers, giving them personal loans and contracts that say "we will be with you through the storm" that allow farmers the freedom to not wonder if they should sell out to the bigger chains, but rather to strive for excellence and environmentally friendly practices and reinvesting in their own communities by building schools, hospitals, and the like.  All it costs YOU is to do a little research (read Starbucks' RESPONSIBILITY PAGE), refine your palate, go to a coffee shop that CARES and pay a teensy bit more for a damn good cup of coffee.

The problem of the bad barista is tricky.  One school of thought is just keep trying different places until you find one that gets it right.  The other school of thought is zero in on a business that has all the other things in place (ethically sourcing, proper freshness standards, etc.) and keep encouraging them to get better.  Get to know your barista and say things like, "I love the way you guys do espresso drinks- I think my foam gets better every day.  You can tell how much you guys care."  And please tip.  :)

"Write me a blog!"

Okay, okay, Jeff.  This one's for you.

What is a man's role in a heterosexual marriage relationship?  (Easy topic, eh?)

I find myself being asked this in so many words by many of Julie's comrades at school.  Most MTS (Master's of Theological Studies) students are men, with lovely wives who more or less don't really "get into" theology.  Often professors tell their students to "Go home and have your spouse read this so that you can get a layperson's perspective."  With us, however, Julie will often pose a theological question and if she asks my opinion I will start babbling on and on and really reflect on the truths and paradoxes she reveals...

"...but you don't ever feel... competitive with her?" Julie's classmates ask me.

Why should I?  The most gorgeous woman chose me over every other eligible bachelor in the world...   I'm thrilled when she includes me, but frankly, Julie "wears the pants" when it comes to academia.  I love a good book and I do get excited about theology (specifically how it pertains to ethics) but I don't need to prove that I can "run with the big boys" by competing with her or arguing with her when I disagree.

I guess that wasn't always the case with me.  I have a little bit of my father in me...  I can be real stubborn and insist on my way and my logic...  But I also have a bit of my mother in me.  I can be real sensitive and yield to those who will never yield to me in order to preserve the relationship.

Julie and I have a semi-egalitarian relationship.  I say semi because we kinda sorta fit the bill for a stereo-typical "man is the head of the household" relationship.  I work, she studies; I pay the bills, she cooks.  But all it takes is a second glance to see what's really going on.  When we got married, we started with a fresh slate.  I didn't say, "Honey, since I am the head of the household, I will decide what tasks you should do and what role you shall play."  We took it one day at a time, slowly figuring out what our relationship dynamic was like when we split up the chores, or took them on individually.  We were honest with each other, and if there was something that one of us just REALLY didn't like to do, the other person would pick up that task.

As an example, we tried to tackle finances together for the first year or so- we had separate accounts, we took turns looking at bills, budgets, etc, and ultimately it was extremely frustrating for us.  We discovered that we were both feeling unsatisfied and frankly, angry when we would "have our finances talk."  I discovered that, like driving, even though I'm not the best at being in the driver seat, I'm MUCH WORSE at being in the passenger seat!

In contrast to this, when it comes to academia and pursuing a "real career" Julie is currently in the driver's seat and I love sitting beside her and watching her go.  Sometimes people ask me if it was hard to abandon my job and friends in Sacramento just so Julie could go to school at Duke.  "Not really."  She is so alive when she is learning- how could anyone love their spouse and not encourage them to do what they live for?

To wrap up, I guess when I hear couples ask the question, "What should a man's role be in the relationship" I think they have missed the point of marriage.  Your role, man, should be the result of loving your spouse, not the framework for how to love your spouse.  Loving her uncontrollably and listening to everything she says and doesn't say might leave you as the breadwinner, the stay-at-home dad, the cook, the cleaner, or the candlestick maker.  (Anyone ever come across an actual candlestick maker?)

Mark Driscoll can take a hike.  ;)