The lure of Christ’s gracious presence invites us onto a wandering path of discipleship that leads into forgotten places—the margins of highways and the wilderness of slums. As the title of Ernst Käsemann’s landmark book on Hebrews puts it, we become The Wandering People of God. We are nomads who set up our tents where others don’t want to live. We wander into relationships where we share burdens and hope to encounter the living presence of Jesus among the disfigured, disordered and disheveled. “Can we see Jesus?” The answer depends on where we go and with whom we await Christ’s presence.

It was one of the most incredible events of my 28 years and hanging out with him these past 8 days has been better than the anticipation.  Anyhow, for those interested, below is a video of the day, and I have a slideshow up on flickr.

At one moment I may declare concerning a nation or a kingdom, that I will pluck up and break down and destroy it, but if that nation, concerning which I have spoken, turns from its evil, I will change my mind about the disaster that I intended to bring on it.  And at another moment I may declare concerning a nation or a kingdom that I will build and plant it, but if it does evil in my sight, not listening to my voice, then I will change my mind about the good that I had intended to do to it.

According to these verses man is constant in his wicked inconstancy. This is just what God is not. God is consistently one and the same. but again His consistency is not as it were mathematical. It is not the consistency of a supreme natural law or mechanism. the fact that He is one and the same does not mean that He is bound to be and say and do only one and the same thing, so that all the distinctions of His being, speaking and acting are only a semblance, only the various refractions of a beam of light which are eternally the same. This was  and is the way that every form of Platonism conceives God. It is impossible to overemphasise the fact that here, too, God is described as basically without life, word or act. Biblical thinking about God would rather submit to confusion with the grossest anthropomorphism than to confusion with this the primary denial of God. In biblical thinking God is certainly the immutable, but as the immutable He is the living God and He possesses a mobility and elasticity which is no less divine than his perseverance no less than its own divinity naturally requires confirmation by His divine perseverance. (496)... Yet it would not be a glorifying, but a blaspheming and finally a denial of God, to conceive of the being and essence of this self-consistent God as one which is, so to speak, self-limited to an inflexible immobility, thus depriving God of the capacity to alter His attitudes and actions… He is not prevented from advancing and retreating, rejoicing and mourning, laughing and complaining, being well pleased and causing His wrath to kindle, hiding or revealing Himself. (498)

God’s high freedom in Jesus Christ is His freedom for love. The divine capacity which operates and exhibits itself in that superiority and subordination is manifestly also God’s capacity to bend downwards, to attach Himself to another and this other to Himself, to be together with him… God’s deity is thus no prison in which He can exist only in and for Himself… It is when we look at Jesus Christ that we know decisively that God’s deity does not exclude, but includes His humanity. (48-49)

In this divinely free volition and election, in this sovereign decision (the ancients said, in His decree), God is human. His free affirmation of man, His free concern for him, His free subsitution for him—this is God’s humanity… In the mirror of this humanity of Jesus Christ the humanity of God enclosed in His deity reveals himself. (51)

Ask me not where I live
or what I like to eat….
Ask me what I am living for
and what do I think is keeping me
from living fully for that
—Thomas Merton

What do I hope to live for this next year? What kind of person am I hoping to become? Here is one new mantra: “failure is an option!” My fear of failure has kept me awake too many nights worrying about some project or another. Fear of failure makes me less apt to take chances, take a risk, try something new. Heck, it took me six months of worrying just to decide if I wanted to try out a move to a new city.

Another hope is that I’ll become a more compassionate person this year. That’s a virtue I didn’t hear much about growing up, but it jumped out all over the place when I was reading Luke’s gospel (“You must be compassionate, just as your Father is compassionate.” [Luke 6:36], Jesus felt compassion for the widow of Nain [Luke 7:13], etc.).  Of course compassion seems like such a nebulous idea.  I plan to read Nowen’s book, Compassion, but if others have recommendations I’d like to hear them.

I’m sure I’ll live for other things as well this next year, but if make some progress in the two things above 2007 will be a  good year.

I don’t count myself as atypical. I’ve put in my time spreading love and good cheer to the down-and-out this Christmas season. I’ve thrown some change in the empty cups and collection plates I pass by as I walk the sidewalks on my way to buy the perfect gift for a friend. I’ve even given a few dollar bills to a beggar who asked for some cash to buy lunch, and received his thankful “merry Christmas” with a smile. Yesterday I gave a few hours to a homeless shelter to help in their food kitchen. But all this seems like par for the course of Christmas charity. Maybe we should all pat ourselves on the back as we sit around our Christmas trees, with the smell of chestnuts roasting on an open fire, feasting on food, fellowship, and gifts. I can now enjoy my Christmas dinner in peace, knowing that I did what I could to those folks out there on streets.

But I am haunted this Christmas season by two spirits from the dead—two voices from the past: Ralph Waldo Emerson and Karl Barth. It’s an unlikely convergence.

There’s an infamous passage from Emerson’s essay called “Self-Reliance.” It’s a passage that offends liberal concern and conservative piety at the same time.

Do not tell me, as a good man did today, of my obligation to put all poor men in good situations. Are they my poor? I tell thee, thou foolish philanthropist, that I grudge the dollar, the dime, the cent, I give to such men as do not belong to me and to whom I do not belong. There is a class of persons to whom by all spiritual affinity I am bought and sold; for them I will go to prison, if need be; but your miscellaneous popular charities; the education at college of fools; the building of meeting-houses to the vain end to which many now stand; alms to sots; the thousandfold Relief Societies;—though I confess with shame I sometimes succumb and give the dollar, it is a wicked dollar, which by and by I shall have the manhood to withhold.

“Are they my poor?” Do they know my name? Do I know theirs? Will they remain the generalized poor, an abstract class that we can keep at the distance of anonymity? Did you invite him or her over for Christmas dinner? Or, better, did he invite you to his table?

Karl Barth comes down just as hard on philanthropic charity:

There is indeed a love which is mere philanthropy, a sympathetic and benevolent concern and assistance which we can exercise with zeal and devotion without taking even a single step away from the safe stronghold of being without our fellow-man, but in a deeper withdrawal into our shell. There is a form of love—mere charity—in which we do not love at all; in which we do not see or have in mind the other man to whom it is directed; in which we do not and will not notice his weal or woe; in which we merely imagine him as the object of the love which we have to exercise, and in this way master and use him… There is thus a form of love in which, however sacrificially it is practised, the other is not seized by a human hand but by a cold instrument, or even by a paw with sheathed talons, and therefore genuinely isolated and frozen and estranged and oppressed and humiliated, so that he feels that he is trampled under the feet of the one who is supposed to love him, and cannot react with gratitude” (Church Dogmatics IV:2, p. 440).

Without one’s fellow-man, God is an illusion, a myth. He may be the God of Holy Scripture, and we may call upon Him as the Yahweh of Israel and the Father of Jesus Christ, but He is an idol in whom we certainly cannot believe.

At church about 6 months ago I stood in the center of thirty or forty people. From every possible direction they reached towards my body. My friends, my brothers and sisters, every part of Christ’s body converging on me for a moment.

With heads bowed, all eyes shut, and my body weighed down with hands, a deacon prayed:

Holy God, your love for us was so great that Christ emptied himself of his equality with you, taking on the form of a slave. Grant Isaac the mind of Christ; grant him a share in Christ’s ministry. Pour out your Holy Spirit on Isaac so that he might be given all the gifts needed to be a faithful minister.

I can’t say that I ever anticipated this moment. I can’t say that I had reoccurring dreams of vocational ministry. While my fellow kindergarteners talked of the glories of Fire-fighting, I can’t say that I reveled in the glories of the pastorate. But the Lord works in mysterious ways; the Spirit moves like the unpredictable wind. And that Sunday evening, God’s life-giving breath flowed from the mouths of Christ’s manifold body as they said “Amen” in one voice, and I was re-created as a pastor.

I can’t say that I have what it takes to be a minister, to care for Christ’s flock. I’m too young, for one thing. There’s nothing about my appearance that displays my calling. Nor is there anything about my speaking (in)abilities. I’m merely willing to serve the church—to give my life to a community that took a risk with me. And, I have a blessing to remember—a blessing spoken over me by that man with the gardening hands, resting on my head:

Now, may the God of peace who brought from the dead our Lord Jesus, the great shepherd of the sheep, by the blood of the eternal covenant, make you complete in everything good, so that you may do God’s will, working among us that which is pleasing in God’s sight, through Jesus Christ, to whom be the glory forever and ever. Amen.

I’m now getting the slightest hint of what it’s like to be incomeless (I won’t pretend I’m poor), and I’m revising some of my college views of the subject. First off, it’s not near so care-free as I imagined one would be if freed from the entrapment of caring about my possessions and how to get more of them.  Instead I find myself constantly worrying about how I’m going to come up with rent for the month, so much so that I find it hard to concentrate on much else (i.e. blogging). Second, being incomeless in no way guarantees that one doesn’t still idolize Lincoln’s mug shot. In fact, I’ve probably thought more about money and how I spend it (or don’t as the case may be) more than ever in the past couple of weeks. My wife and I have gotten in more arguments over the stuff than ever before. And not because we so much disagree on how to live, but because I obsess over every penny that slinks out of our dwindling savings account.

Nevertheless, even if having no income does not de-throne the money idol, it at leasts highlights my desperate dependence on it for comfort and stability. Of course I’ve thought much about the rich young ruler and how dismayed I would be with Jesus’ answer if he asked me to sell it all away. Only I would not walk away from Jesus sad, as the ruler did, but terrified because living with nothing, completely reliant upon the mercy of others, seems too precarious, too vulnerable. It seems I have some work to do if I’m going to get out from under the tyrannical thumb of Mr. Mammon. Perhaps I’ll begin by obsessing less and blogging more!

The clouds were low and grey, but not too heavy. It was drizzling, but I was still intent on carrying through with my plan of mountain biking some of Whistler’s incredible trails. To that end I had Nance drop me off about five klics (as they say in Canadian) outside of Whistler at a trail I had seen others riding the day before. I started off with gusto, pumping my legs furiously to get up the hill, but I quickly slowed and then petered to a halt when a softball-sized rock blocked my tire.

My dreams of charging the hill over I started hiking my bike further up the trail. My initial enthusiasm for the great outdoors waned a bit as the stillness and heavy silence of the forest crept in on me. The thick layer of old pine needles and the green moss that covered just about everything on the ground muffled any sound. The trees were tall, the trail skinny, and my lonesome bike and I even skinnier. Unbidden, I started thinking of the many signs I had seen in town warning of bears and the factoid I had read in the guide book: “British Columbia has a quarter of all the black bears and half the Grizzlies in Canada.” Great. And I had forgotten my bear bell. So I did the only thing I could: I sang, and sang, and sang. One bumpy song after the next.

As I was nearing my fiftieth rendition of “Do Lord” (one of my favorite spirituals) I rounded a bend and found myself peering out through the trees to a small lake. I stopped singing and halted to enjoy the view. As Murphy’s law would have predicted thirty seconds into my respite I saw a black, behemoth-sized bear barelling through the forest in my direction. My heart quickly began marching at salsa tempo and a good gallon of adrenaline was sent coursing through my veins. I dropped my bike and was about to run and jump in the lake (A fabulous plan, I know. I suppose I figured the freezing water would numb the pain of being eaten) when my brain registered an odd fact about this bear. It had a tail. Sure enough, a second later a great black dog bounded past me and charged into the lake.

I thanked the owner (who came up shortly with what I swear was a bit of a grin) for the roller-coaster sized scare and he in turn mentioned a rope swing on the far side of the lake. (I should note here that i really like rope swings; every time I’m by a river or lake I dream of what it would be lake if only there were a rope swing.) Turns out this particular rope swing was primo. One that, if done right, would fling me out at least 30 feet above the lake. It even had a sort of gang-plank that had been built into the side of the hill off of which to lauch. I debated for a few seconds if I should take the plunge; it was cold, lightly raining, I had no towel, and I still had several klics to ride. But it was also the best rope swing I had ever seen.

I quickly threw off all hindrances (i.e. clothes) and walked the plank. I stood there a while feeling my heart beat (slower now that the “bear” was happily paddling after a stick) and wondering just how cold the water would be. I tensed up, curled my toes over the edge, debated a bit more with myself, and finally…launched. Letting out a whoop as my moon-white bottom half zipped just above the bushes I ascended high out over the green water. At the peak of the arch I let go, plumetted into the water, and then floundered quickly back to shore. I scrambled up the hill and did two more magnificent swing-outs before getting back on my bike and starting up another round of “Do Lord.”

All that is basically a warmup to solicit for information.  Our current plan is to drop off our stuff in Seattle and do a two and a half week camping trip with us and the dog through British Columbia.  So, if you have must-sees, must-dos, great restaurants, out-of-the-way campsites, good churches, or general advice about Seattle or Canada camping it would be great to hear it.

I slip in bed when you’re asleep
To hold you close and feel your breath on me
Tomorrow there’ll be so much to do
So tonight I’ll drift in a dream with you

Dixie Chicks, Lullaby

Isaac wrote a while back about looking for “a soundtrack for our lives.” Today I heard the Dixie Chick’s song above and knew after the first stanza that I’d be adding it to my life soundtrack. It captured perfectly this morning—a morning I want to remember. I drifted out of sleep just enough to realize how comfortable I was. The dawn was cool enough that our grandma bedspread (you know, white with cottage-cheese-feeling patterns all over it and tassled edges) was keeping me just warm enough. I sunk a little deeper into the mattress and fell back asleep reveling in the warmth of my wife using my shoulder for a pillow and the peace of nothing to worry about for the next four days. Meanwhile, Toby, our dog, sighed—a bit miffed perhaps that he’d be waiting a bit longer for breakfast.

As good as the waking hours are I often find sleep just as enjoyable. It hasn’t always been this way. As a kid I went through a period (when I moved my room down into the basement) of being terrified of going to sleep. In college I just saw it as an intrusion on the important business of the day. After September 11th sleep was fretful, depressing, and fear-filled. Not to mention the many nights in the last few years where anxiety woke me up well before dawn. So now when a morning comes along where I feel in my bones, fingertips, and breath that, in the words of Julian of Norwich, “all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well” I’m thankful. And when a song comes along that same day that recalls and vivifies the moment, all the better.