Reading The Bible by Barth

Reading Barth, I learn again: How to read the Bible.

It's advice I've given to others when it comes to reading about marriage and life: 

Never read for the sake of other, to find out who or what they may be, and then to say, or at least to think, "Ah ha, that's you, for sure!"

Rather to read about me, to find out who I am, and maybe even why.

Because, as Barth notes in his sermon, from Proverbs, "In our own eyes, we're always righteous," and I would add, "Maybe not always so righteous, but a heck of a lot more than the slob down the street."

With that in mind, the Psalm of the Daily Lectionary (36) caught my attention powerfully: with several "moves" - first, my transgressions and things related ... sure, I'd be happy to note such things regarding others, but if Scripture is going to be transformative, it's me that it's reading, first off.

Then, the second move: God's steadfast love, which does the weighing of my spirit, and finds me wanting, which is the truth, but in that steadfast love, there is hope, peace and even redemption. Even as God says "No" to me, as God must and God will, it's only to stop me in my tracks, put a halt to my self-righteous ruin, that I might hear God's "Yes."

Then, gratitude and praise. God is good.

With a move within that move: Such goodness is precious, and within that, a move about God's provisioning ... God supplies what's needed ... as a fountain of life ... and then another small move: "in your light, we see light," which really isn't so small after all.

And, finally, a plea for preservation and perseverance ... though there be dangers all around (including the danger of my own self-righteousness) in circumstance and persons, God will see me through.

And, you, too!

The very young Karl Barth!

My Heart Is Troubled

My heart is troubled, and why shouldn’t it be?
It’s a heart that feels deeply, with longing for right and good.
And when, what my heart sees, is madness and malady.
Should not my heart be troubled?

Yes, I desire.
And some would suggest that desire alone is the ill.
And, I suppose, desire, without restraint, is surely an ill.
A desire without hope, without wisdom, is death.

But desire is energy.
The energy to see something better than what presents itself.
The energy to open wide my eyes to see a world in sorrow.
The energy to direct my ears to the cries of a child in distress.

And, so I’m troubled.
And I wouldn’t want it any other way.
Because a troubled heart can sense and smell the holy.
A troubled heart knows the weight of the cross.

Joy and Melancholy

Amid the chirps of happy birds, or, so it seems to me, and around here, they're happy all the time ... even at night, some of them chirp away ... when do they sleep? In the nature of such a bird, some irrepressible power has to sing. Perhaps I'm too complex a critter to sing like that, though my heart can overflow with heaps of gratitude when I stop to look around and see the stuff at hand. Not everyone can do that, I know. Turn on the news and watch the children of Syria weep, and the anguished faces of mothers at the border cradling their children. No child should have to cry like that, or any mother look like that. When I sing, I know how unusual be my lot in life, compared to the millions who hide in the corners of broken buildings and yet dare to dream of something good for their children, even as they wrap loved ones for burial and cry out against the sky.

A pale blue sky right now, a huge flowering tree, white and pink against that paleness, green trees close by, a flowering plant twisting its arms around and through the deck railing and it's lattice work ... sturdy, rugged, green leaves, and softly bright pink flowers ... shaped like a royal trumpet of some sort, blaring forth a silent song - ta rah, too tottle, or something like that. I wish I could hear the song they trumpet.

And high above, unseen, the drone of a single-engine plane, engine revs rising and falling, and then into a steady beat for awhile ... and now the revs cut low ... gliding, I guess. And who's the pilot? Someone out for the pure joy of it? An instructor with a student? A family headed out to Riverside, or Palm Springs? Maybe even Phoenix? Fly away the heart says. Get up and get going. Some even leave the ground.

And, more down to earth, I fear, the wail of a siren ... an ambulance, a fire engine, a police car? Someone hurt, something gone wrong, "Help!" someone cried out.

Looking to the floor of the deck, by the railing, some of those remarkable pink flowers quietly lay, starting to wilt. I might wax eloquent about job well done, and all that, but it's not so simple, as I see it. There is something sad, harsh and hard, in the fall of a flower. In this big universe of fire and ice, life expended quickly.

Joy and melancholy ... and then my wife sits at her piano and plays, "Have I Told You Lately that I love You?" ... and my eyes leak a wee bit ... and then, "As Times Goes By," and my throat clenches ... the composer writes, and her fingers dance along the keys, and now here's a sound I can hear, music that touches deep and sweet.

A beautiful day here on our deck in the late morning of a Tuesday in May.

Staying the Course in the Face of Humiliation

The young pianist began with a flourish and played with gusto, when, of a sudden, she stopped, her hands poised over the keys. Was this a dramatic pause, I wondered. But the seconds piled up, and it was soon evident that the young pianist had lost her place.

What a frightening, harrowing moment, for one so young, I could only imagine.

But she kept her composure, focused herself, and I could see her mentally rehearsing the music, "Where am I? and how shall I continue?"

And, then she did.

She finished the piece with confidence, but when it was done, she stood to face the audience, did a very quick bow, her face distressed, and hurried off stage.

No doubt humiliated.

Before those of importance: her instructor was there, as was the girl's mother and grandmother, themselves pianists, with the mother both MC and accompanist, at a concert sponsored by the Pasadena Opera Guild, offering young singers and musicians and opportunity to perform, in honor of Grandmothers and Mothers.

She'll live with the humiliation for a few days, maybe even a week or two, but in time, it'll fade, but not the memory. We tend to recall moments of humiliation - it's a terrible feeling, with disappointment in ourselves, perhaps having let others down, and just the feeling, the ugly feeling of shame.

But in the moment, she didn't quit, she didn't flee ... she held her place and regained the music. She proved her mettle after all.

I hope she continues to play the piano. With mother and grandmother encouraging her, and her instructor to bolster her skills, I suspect she will.

Uneasy with Easy Answers

For me, these days:
Being a Christian, is a
Challenge.

Not that my faith wavers.
But that my faith takes me to strange places.

To read the Bible with a critical eye.
Because parts of it were written by the winners.
Those who trounced others.
Who believed that some lives didn't matter.

To follow Christ into the world.
And Paul, too.
Both lived and died for the sake of freedom.
Truth and justice.
The qualities and goodness of love.

Jesus cared about people.
All of them.
So did Paul.
Paul understood Jesus:
A barrier-breaker.
No wall builder.

Paul understood that power is weakness.
A strange notion.
Power in the cross.
Power in self-emptying ...

Even as I write these phrases, they seem strange.
Because power as in Christ.
Is not how we we define it.
So, a challenge, for sure.

Day by day.
To live in Christ.
To ponder and to think.
Uneasy with the easy answers.
Troubled by harsh rhetoric.
Wary of those who too easily wear the Christian moniker.

Eager to learn.
To give heed to the news, for there, too, is God's hand.
To think justice, with the Prophets.
To care for water, air and earth.
The primal gifts of God.
To see all the Pharaohs for what they are.
To think globally.
To learn from others.
Creeds, traditions and faiths.

So, every day.
A challenge.
To be faithful.

To God.
To God's earth.
To God's history.
To the people.